"What a glorious Age this is. Think on it: The Turning has plunged the broken World into chaos and war, but at the same time robbed us real death. Now, men of steel have become like unto actors, thespians upon a stage without walls. They can fight, and can die, gasping out their final eloquence with pathos aplenty, and return the very next night to play their parts again. Death's meaning is lost, but the experience of it remains - there is still blood, and bone, and entrails for the audience to see. There in lies the thrill of it, after all."

Treygen speaks with a tone to his voice, darkened, melancholic. He remains seated in his black leather chair, a hand fisted and placed under his chin. He is quite good looking, well mannered, but honest on his opinion. Moss green/grey eyes seem to penetrate you as he speaks, his lips letting the conversation fall with well chosen words. His hair is shortly trimmed against his head, the black hair falling victim to sandy greyish hairs on the sides. He seems to be in his late 40's, a masculine man, golden tanned skin. A scar falls on the side of his arm, the overlapping of his black shirt concealing the way it runs towards his back.

He begins to speak again, his tone carried out the same way it had been before, " The crowd loves to watch: to see the red blood fountain from a sliced jugular, or to hear the exquisite crunch as bones break, or a limb comes loose. They'll pay for the chance to see men gasp their last breaths, and I provide it to them. You, my friend, will do the fighting. And the dying. Think of it - a crowd of hundreds, chanting your name, staring at your every move, holding their breaths in anticipation of that fatal stroke. Choose your weapon well...for this may be your last battle."