wake of the funeral

Recent events had driven home to Animus that no one in the city was safe. Even elders had little protection from the sniper's bullet. He couldn't help the dead, nor could he help anyone else if he joined them, but he could shift the odds, honing his body to a toughness sleepers could only imagine. Wild coincidence had saved his life once -- once too often. His life was in his own hands now.

Animus sits on the floor of his sanctum, chanting in the Atlantean tongue. The Imago in his mind slowly builds momentum, until finally, in a flash of white light, he releases it into his own pattern.

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