"We're not so unalike, you know...", his raspy voice uttered. "You fight an enemy that always changes, to fit your own glaringly-evolving personality. And I wage an unceasing war against expectation, a trait of humanity that's as sporadic almost as much as it is incorrect." The man snickers in disgust.

Cyren is not amused.

"Spare me the cynical misanthropic bullshit," the red-haired Devil replies. "I practically re-invented it, perfected it, and then deconstructed it. I know the world sucks, it always has. It's a veritable cess pool of cosmic feces realigned into primative form. Sad, but true... so I don't need to hear it from you. Things I know, things I think... that's not what I've been led here for, and I think the both of us know so..."

Quirking an eyebrow, Cyren nods to the man, who still crouches against the encroached padding, a safe and purely reliable source of strength to the man, a person Cyren can't decide who's more insane then mystical. Perhaps madness is a side-effect of divinity.

"Aye, there is a reason, yes....", the the man's voice lilts away, his eyes full of mirth. "However, it's vastly important for me to know something about you, before you learn something from me... " The man's grin is facetious and child-like, terrifying to Cyren for a brief moment, before settling into a quiet sort of absurdity.

Rolling his shoulders a bit, Cyren tries to alleviate some of the tension that slowly builds into his neck. Twisting and contorting his body at a mild pace, he hopes to wring his spine free of some of the painful tremors it is always innudated by. He turns briefly to look at the walls, pastoral and white-washed, devoid of abrasive color. Introspection in a place like this, is promoted as a symptomatic ailment of an illness.

"Admiring the decor? A bit drab, if I may say so...." The madman looks around the room, shaking his head in regal disgust.

Cyren rocks back on his haunches. "Well, it takes some getting used to..." Cyren mentions briefly. "The whole, 'I'm not fit to make rational decisions for myself' label, starts to not really have an effect on you, when you realize all you want out of life is the ability to sleep. Stick around in one of these rooms for about 3 years, it'll lose some of the clamoring uncomfortability. It's the curse of inprisonment, to find what should be a constraint, a support after a long enough time..." His eyes glaze over, as he trails off, lost in thought.

The Liaison glances at the red-haired warrior, in earnest. A cursory look at the man who was the essence of...

"Often, revelation is misconceived as delusion, excellence as deficiency, greatness as meakness... it's a rather ironic hypocrisy of evaluation. Oh, how infinite is the meager capacity of the human spirit?" The man breathes out in a weary tone. Bringing a hand to his eyes, he brushes away lazily a tiredness. Cyren notices.

"Just how long have you been here?" Cyren asks the ruffled man, as he tries to stand up.

"Long enough, to understand that I've out-grown the place. 'Twas a good place to visit, but now I humbily feel the need to submit my resignation as a resident in the land of insanity. I, feel it essential, to return to the land of everyday chaos." He says as he tries to walk, an activity he must not have done recently from his haggard, weak appearence. He stumbles and falls into Cyren, upheld easily by the strong arms.

"Perhaps, you haven't been here long enough. That chaos is more then a vibration, friend. It's a hum, a song of discordance that runs along the vein of the human condition. Positive, that you want to return?" He says, his eyes full of sympathy as he stares the man, as he leans him against the wall.

Breathing heavily, The Liaison smiles, a lop-sided grin that gives away all his tension.

"No, no... you've arrived. That's one of the signs... and I can't simply ignore it. I have a duty to upholde." He says, as he stands upright lazily, and straightens his uniform collar. His head is held high, and his chest barrel-like, as he stands proud.

Cyren doesn't let it go to heap.

"And what, pray tell... is my arrival a sign of?"

The Liaison's eyes close, his breath slowing to minute, barely-there rasps.

"A War."

Cyren raises his eyebrows. "Oh, yes... that's clear. And what exactly does an unknown war have to do with me?"

Gently giggling, the Liaison replies.

"The war is known to all, but only few see it. You, though... are the embodiment of battle-cry. You are Achilles, you are York, you are... the warrior-King for the bleak."

As the man slumps against the wall and innocuously slides down along it's path swiping at an invisible enemy, Cyren shrugs his shoulders.

"It's been said that powerful people attract intriguing companions. Thus, taking into consideration how eccentric you are, I find myself stupendously complimented."