From the moment he had gained awareness of himself as an entity separate from his family and clan, Mmur had been taught to follow orders. It was as if his superiors had recognized that spark of autonomy as soon as it had sprung to life and had worked to suppress it as subtly as possible. He had never been chastised for his interest in crafting, no matter how useless it might have been in his line of work. Behind closed doors, he had been encouraged to speak his mind about their heir, the other clans, everything. He had been given just enough freedom of choice to forge a personality of his own, but nothing more. Outside of his family's tent, he was just another cog in the machine. A perfect little soldier. Formations. Spars. Patience. He had never thought to question for more than a moment, never wondered what it would be like to truly take a stand and fight for a different set of beliefs. Not until now.

Or... then.

A month ago he had been very close to breaking away from that subservient mentality completely, but then Medea had put an end to Death. While he might have secretly appreciated their new home and all of its amenities, Mmur didn't agree with how all of this power had been regained. He recalled their foiled apocalypse, how blindly he had served, following their queen like the drone he had been. Like the drone he was, at least as far as appearances were concerned. He felt trapped, unwilling to further the clans' agenda as it had been laid out, but too afraid to strike out on his own.

At the very least he took comfort in the fact that he had hesitated to purify his crystal. He hadn't been the last to do so by any means, but he had been far from the first. Following his weak, ineffectual show of rebellion, Mmur hadn't stuck around for the tour. As much as he might have wanted to explore their new home, he refused to do so under the head priestess's watchful eye.

He hurried through the portal back to Halloween, making his way to his tent on unconscious memory alone. His foxfires were present for a change, confused by the sanctuary's uncharacteristic silence, and the soldier gathered them up, as well as his old helm. He pondered bringing the whole of his wardrobe as well, but eventually he only chose a number of the fancier items he'd worn to various Amityville functions, items he didn't want to part with. He stuffed them into a gathered scrap of fabric and slung them over his shoulder. His rather obvious lack of possessions worried him slightly. If he did eventually leave the tower, what would he do? How would he make money? Short of becoming a bodyguard, Mmur wasn't quite certain how his skills might translate.

He was still pondering possible career paths as he stepped through the portal and reentered the tower. The red crystal that dominated the main floor called to him, and he felt a mild warmth behind his ear where Medea's swirling mark marred his skin. He knew it wanted FEAR. He was also certain there were other ways to placate it than killing and torturing humans.

Yes. There were better ways. Mmur realized he was smirking and smoothed the expression before anyone could see. Surely he could keep up appearances long enough to show them that.

One of his foxfires barked and wiggled impatiently, prompting the horseman to lower it to the floor. He straightened slowly, all the while continuing to stare at the crystal, a gleam of mischief in his eye. He was going to stay. There was little doubt now. He would learn and grow stronger alongside his brethren as he had before the isles had fallen. He would support their cause openly while plotting behind closed doors. It was a game. He might even be able to afford to lose, if it meant things would change. He wouldn't know until he tried. So he would. He would try.

The foxfire looked back at him before skittering off up the stairs. Mmur followed, the tiniest of springs in his perfect soldier's march.