Throne van Bright was a feminine, nearly-female young man, leaning on the rails of an apartment balcony, smoking a cigarette. On a chair behind him sat an emaciated, blue-fleshed giant with a stag's antlers for eyes. His face was narrow, and his skull was like a deer's. A jewel-less diadem was on his head, and though he wore the bottom-half of a priest gown, his starving, concave chest was bare.
A long drag and Throne blew smoke to the street over the balcony rails. The last gold was slipping from the Japan sky. "This is a vibe."
"What does that mean," replied the lich. Though he came from a time with no cigarettes, he talked as dark and husky as any smoker.
Throne flicked his exhausted cig to the street below. He hung that wrist limp, looking at the two Command Seals on his knuckle. "Right."
And they quietly watched night come, smoking a pack and a half until the lich said, "It's time."