For himself, he quietly added. "We should all be so lucky," in just the smallest murmur, with his eyes pointed to the ground, betraying the regret that he felt, beyond the mask of Ingolsol.
That same mask was beginning to waver, and Claudia returned to herself, and the balance came with it. The energy that Oliver felt in his poetic declarations began to slip, and he found himself speaking far too frantically. "We are at war, gentlemen," he said tiredly. "A man that ought not to have fallen into any of this has been assassinated. Our rage can lie dormant for no longer. Whether we will it or not, justice forces us forward, and our hands are no longer our own."
