[align=center][div style="width: 51%; text-align: justify; font-size: 10pt; letter-spacing: -1px; font-family: verdana;"]There is nothing here that draws his interest. He scented a colony in this region; he followed its trail until it led him to these marked borders. Nothing more, nothing less. He wills not to travel further, therefore for this group he will adapt his needs.
Samuel Mikhailov is an adaptable fellow, he knows. He does little to push his needs over the will of others. He perceives emotions easily, and reacts appropriately. At his worst, he is cunning and vengeful; at his best he buzzes with a strange passion that runs through him like electricity, an overwhelmingly rapturous shock. But in times like this, standing only half-interested on the border of Sunhaven, he is temperate, and he is without expression. He is a background figure in a crowd of want-to-bes, future leaders and eager socialites. He is the backup, the support in their ventures.
Samuel is perfectly fine with this. Samuel has rarely had the opportunity in the past to do much more with himself than provide a crutch to lean upon. This overshadowing leaves him adjacent to satisfied - there is more beyond quiet acceptance of his fate, he knows, but when the opportunity arrives he firmly believes that it will make itself clear to him. He believes not in a god above but thinks that signs, little prophetic notions, are still a possibility and he will see them when he is ready. Now is not that time.
"Mikhailov, Samuel." Name, last and first. Business comes later. It's the general farce all joiners go through - he refuses to make light of it, for he feels there ought to be some kind of record to keep track of members but he assumes that the process serves little purpose than to avoid enemy infiltration. Still, he is politely firm, and he considers speaking to the leader of this place later on about a log book of sorts, some kind of secretarial work. (Then again, he doubts these little clan animals think that hard about streamlining their traditions.) The serval smooths the fur of his chest, rolls his shoulders back with a comfortably calm sigh. "Joining you all."
Samuel Mikhailov is an adaptable fellow, he knows. He does little to push his needs over the will of others. He perceives emotions easily, and reacts appropriately. At his worst, he is cunning and vengeful; at his best he buzzes with a strange passion that runs through him like electricity, an overwhelmingly rapturous shock. But in times like this, standing only half-interested on the border of Sunhaven, he is temperate, and he is without expression. He is a background figure in a crowd of want-to-bes, future leaders and eager socialites. He is the backup, the support in their ventures.
Samuel is perfectly fine with this. Samuel has rarely had the opportunity in the past to do much more with himself than provide a crutch to lean upon. This overshadowing leaves him adjacent to satisfied - there is more beyond quiet acceptance of his fate, he knows, but when the opportunity arrives he firmly believes that it will make itself clear to him. He believes not in a god above but thinks that signs, little prophetic notions, are still a possibility and he will see them when he is ready. Now is not that time.
"Mikhailov, Samuel." Name, last and first. Business comes later. It's the general farce all joiners go through - he refuses to make light of it, for he feels there ought to be some kind of record to keep track of members but he assumes that the process serves little purpose than to avoid enemy infiltration. Still, he is politely firm, and he considers speaking to the leader of this place later on about a log book of sorts, some kind of secretarial work. (Then again, he doubts these little clan animals think that hard about streamlining their traditions.) The serval smooths the fur of his chest, rolls his shoulders back with a comfortably calm sigh. "Joining you all."
[align=center]
[i]DON'T [color=#800000]LOOK HERE, TOO GRAPHIC
LIKE PEOPLE, LIKE PLASTIC
LIKE PEOPLE, LIKE PLASTIC