[Suzerain of Sheol]

Still leaning against the wall in the shade, Shealtiel notes the sudden death, the man's soul fleeing from its lifeless house. He is weak, too petty and pitiful to linger or return. A slow eternity of wasting darkness awaits him. He will not be missed.

He, of course, betrays no hint of what he has noticed, keeping his face an impassive mask. Death is hardly an oddity in these times; often one like this will not even result in an investigation. And yet... something strikes him as unusual about this death, likely no more than baseless suspicion. Still, though, when no one is looking, he surreptitiously slides back his voluminous sleeve and activates the MID on his wrist, scanning for psychic signatures. He picks up the familiar wisps of the city's resident talents, barely worth the radar's notice, but there is also another presence, much stronger, and near to where the death just occurred.

Shutting it off and letting his sleeve fall, Shealtiel leans back once more, and closes his eyes.