Wriothesley sighs, cracking his neck, and lets his form go, returning to his natural sixteen year old body, looking up at Neuvillette with the resentment back in his eyes. His voice is raw and scraped, like the still-healing scars along the front of his neck. "And you sit on that stage and let those failures fall out of your mouth anyway. Maybe there's no perfect solution, but there has to be something better than 'throw a kid in the Fortress of Meropide and forget he exists for fifteen years'. Is it any wonder I took the first hand I was offered?"

He crosses his arms and shrugs, the gesture almost comical with the now over-sized coat almost falling off his shoulders. "Well, I don't think I've gotten that far yet. The Primordial Sea is still bubbling away under the Fortress - the pressure's rising, but nothing's exploded yet."