Speakers. There are so many in one area that even groups of two or three seem like clusters. Everywhere he turns there's another Speaker, and maybe it's his imagination but it sure does feel like they're staring right back at him; which in essence shouldn't be surprising since he stands out like a sore thumb, yet the knowledge does nothing to prevent Trevor from feeling like there are spiders crawling down his back. He scratches his beard, frown settled deep in his brows, and tries to mask his displeasure with disinterest. A quick glance into a puddle of rain water tells him that his expression hasn't changed a bit.

On the other hand, Jericho appears all too welcomed with how a few passing men and women greet him enthusiastically. The sergeant gives his share of 'hellos' without slowing their stride, which Trevor is grateful for, and then claps Trevor on the back when the group is a good distance away.

"What's got you down, Trevor? We finally get out of the truck and you're the grumpiest I've seen," Jericho says cheerily. His mood doesn't even change when Trevor wrenches away and gives him a side-eye glare.

"Considering that we've only been together for about six hours," Trevor sighs. He's really not in the mood for this. Ahead of them, two small boys are sprinting across a well and one of them slips on the water. He's laughing, but a woman, possibly his mom, runs over to him and starts searching for any injuries. Trevor makes it a point to angle himself left of the well to avoid the family. "Why are we even here?"

Jericho follows Trevor's lead and tsks. "This is the place I was told to deliver you to."

"Any specific reasons as to why?"

"Honestly, I thought you would know," Jericho says, to which Trevor groans an "Oh, great," and pulls his coat a little tighter.

Although the torches around the town center are plentiful and lit, they serve no purpose other than to simply provide light. The air holds a natural sort of cold, one that does not rely on wind to carry its chill, meaning that this cool is persistent and sits like a blanket over the area. Fortunately though his coat is thick enough to keep the air out and body heat in, so when a wave of icy wind causes a shiver to run down his spine he quickly bundles himself between the furs and ties the collar closed.

Maybe this is why the Speakers are always wearing those bulky robes, he thinks, and that sounds plausible enough if not for the fact that they wear the robes regardless of temperature or weather. Goddamn it.

And he's almost too concerned with figuring out the idiosyncrasies of the people to catch Jericho abruptly stopping and raising a hand. Trevor figures that it's a signal for him to stop, too, but when he backpedals to stand beside Jericho he spots a man in the doorway of a ruined house returning the sign and nodding.

"You must be the one we've been waiting for," the Speaker says and drops his hand to fold over his lap. He's young, especially so in the torch's glow, with angular features and a cowlick over his forehead.

Jericho chuckles and steps aside, gesturing to Trevor. "I'm just the chauffer. He's actually the one you've been expecting."

"Nevertheless, please come inside. The Elder is waiting." Bowing his head, the Speaker holds the splintered door open and beckons the two inside. Jericho takes the lead without question, and Trevor lags behind with the intention of scoping out the place.

The house is no less destroyed or larger than any of the other homes and the only noticeable difference between them is the four torches lighting its entrance instead of the usual one. While the house isn't the last in town, it is the furthest back from the town's center and if the man welcoming them in is calling someone 'Elder,' then this must be the Head House.

Trevor is stopped at the doorway with a courteous, "Ahem."

"Yes?"

"In respect for the Elder and our people's vision, I have to ask you to leave that," he gives a pointed look to Trevor's carbine, "outside. No one will touch it, and I will remain near the door for surveillance."

The Speaker holds out his hand for the gun, but Trevor only holds it closer. Flashing an apologetic smile, he shrugs, saying, "Ah, I mean no offense, but I can't do that. My rifle goes wherever I go, and wherever I go, it goes. You know?"

The way the man's face falls into annoyance reminds Trevor of an old cartoon. Like Eustace, from Courage the Cowardly Dog.

"I refuse to let you inside the same room as The Elder with a live firearm, no matter what your importance is-"

Trevor snaps, pausing here for dramatic effect before clicking something out of place on his rifle. He holds the metal container out for the Speaker to take. "Already thought of a solution: I'll keep my gun and you can hold on to the magazine, okay? Permanent safety for everyone in there."

He grins as the man stares at the clip in his hand suspiciously, a deep scowl in place. The Speaker doesn't even try to hide his blatant distrust, but soon enough he takes the magazine from Trevor and shifts to the side. The opening is just wide enough for Trevor - whose grin has only widened - to shimmy through, and as he goes the Belmont winks and claps the man on the back. Over his shoulder he hears a disgruntled humph and a curse in Latin that covers the sound of him putting a new magazine in.

When he finally shifts his attention to the house, Trevor is immediately taken aback.

In this case, outside appearances are most definitely deceiving, for whoever designed the interior of the Head House was neither negligent nor boastful. Every resource was put to well use inside the home: cracks in the floorboards were boarded with slabs of local wood, holes in the wall were paned with glass to create asymmetrically shaped windows, and stray pieces of brick from the walls were sculpted to build benches and sinks. Small canisters of oil hang from the ceiling on interloping lines of thread to disperse light throughout the house. It shines brightest in the center of the room, and the four corners are also well lit. The powerful aroma of Jasmine is subtle yet persistent, and combined with the quiet whispers of a handful of working Speakers and the reverent atmosphere one could easily mistake this place as some variation of a temple.

"Trevor Belmont, last heir to the Belmont family," the voice comes from his left and Trevor turns to find an elderly man adorned in the ubiquitous blue robe. He tilts his head and smiles kindly. "Welcome."

Something ticks in the background.

Nodding, Trevor can't help but to correct the introduction. "Last son of the family, if you will," he says as politely as he can muster and approaches the podium that the man — the Elder — is standing behind. Jericho has already situated himself a couple feet away from them; it's a respectful distance that allows him to listen in without seeming nosey. How clever.

Trevor glances at the documents and manila folder stacked on the podium quickly before raising his gaze. Behind the old man he sees a pair of eyes staring from the sinks, and further back a Speaker sitting at a table twists his neck to look, too. Trevor brings his focus back to the Elder. "Am I correct in assuming that you are the leader of this clan?" he asks.

"We no longer refer to our organization as a clan, but yes, I am this sect's Elder," the man nods and looks around the room, as if including everyone there. "I'm sure you already know this, but we Speakers are usually more nomadic."

Trevor scratches his beard. "Yeah, I actually wanted to ask about that. What are you doing setting up camp in the middle of nowhere? I'd understand if we were closer to some endangered city, but…we're not, and from the lack of anything outside of dirt I'm fairly certain that we're close to a fallout zone."

"You're right," the Elder says. "And do you know where we are, or what this region used to be?"

"…No?" He can't think of anything, and there weren't any landmarks on the ride there to bring any geographical significance to mind. All he saw was the gradual degradation of wildlife and homes, and with a fallen area being so close…

That's it, isn't it? Calmly, the Elder straightens the documents on the podium into one neat stack before sliding them into the folder. He puts it under his arm and starts to head towards the center of the room.

"It may seem like we're out of the way, but from a bird's eye you would see that we are at the direct center of Wallachia," the Elder says once they're standing in front of a desk. It's positioned at an angle to avoid being directly beneath an oil canister, and on top of it is a similar manila folder (but with an unbroken seal) and two pairs of headsets and handheld receivers.

The Elder touches the sealed file gingerly. "It was agreed upon among the sects of Speakers that a station, or rather a safe haven, needed to be set up for traveling groups to rest and recover at. The location had to be both convenient and away from the populace."

"Center of Wallachia?" Trevor shakes his head in disbelief. It couldn't be, but the air, the environment, and the people all point to the contrary. His words are more of a statement than a question when he says, "There was no ground warfare here."

"None."

"Because Bucharest was designated first to be hit with missiles," he continues and instinctively tightens his hold on his rifle. "After they were satisfied destroying Rumania's capital the war moved on to other parts of the country, to the rest of Wallachia."

"Wallachia, my son, was fortunate enough to be targeted before nuclear power was fully developed into their missiles," the Elder's shoulders slump and his face scrunches in what can only be explained as anguish. He's staring out one of the windows now, but his hands are placing the first folder on to the table.

"I remember hearing about Transylvania and Moldavia. Those regions felt the full impact of the war, which meant that our borders became just as irradiated as theirs."

"So Bucharest became a headquarters to protect the Speakers from radiation and warfare?"

The Elder blinks slowly, absently, and Trevor wonders if he's replaying the events of the war in his mind. "This place wasn't just a shelter for us Speakers, but for anyone in need. Since this area was deserted after the capital's fall we were sure that no one would interrupt our work, so we took to providing food and medical care to wounded soldiers and refugees. We thought that we were going to have to retreat and allow the common people to rebuild this small town, but then the…rumors started, and no one wanted to stay. We've had this town to ourselves since then, and now it acts more as a trade post than anything else."

"That explains the healthy cattle and barely used wagons out front," Trevor comments, to which the Elder smiles.

"Speakers come and go regularly, so we always try to gift them with some food and transportation for their trip."

"For a fee, of course?" he asks.

"They sacrifice enough to simply travel here. We do not ask for more," is the Elder's response, and despite himself Trevor hums in agreement. If only he could have stumbled across more towns like this; he could have gotten a better night's sleep.

There's another tick followed by a clink of metal, and Trevor feels something brush his shoulder. Coming to stand beside him is Jericho, who eyes the headsets warily. The former sergeant addresses the Elder with respectful bravado.

"Please pardon me, Elder, but I assume you were briefed by an agent on why this Belmont was to be brought to you?"

The Elder's eyes widen for a split second and then he laughs. "Ah, yes. I did tell you that I was waiting, didn't I,' he says and folds his arms into his sleeves, moving his gaze from Jericho to Trevor. "Your file paints you as a rebellious one, son."

"My file…" Trevor blinks, and then remembers the stacked folders on the table and snatches the one on top. "They gave you a file about me?"

He had a feeling that the documents were suspicious, and sure enough when he opens the folder the first thing he sees is a mugshot of himself and a not-so-brief biography, with the name 'Belmont' underlined in black marker every damn time it appears. Trevor's eye twitches. "Why wasn't I given one of these?"

The way the Elder is looking at him is a little too fond for comfort, but Trevor holds his tongue and instead focuses his annoyance on the nine pages of data on him. He walks around the table for better lighting, and behind him he hears the Elder say, "There's another folder on the table that's supposed to explain the details of your mission. I was handed those items and told not to open the latter file. Perhaps the church didn't want you to know anything until you had reached the rendezvous point."

"That would explain why I was only told his name and destination," Jericho agrees. He stands there in silence for a second, watching Trevor flip through the pages and progressively become more exasperated, and then fixes his attention to the table. The last folder is untouched, as promised, but there is still something peculiar about the other contents. Jericho carefully picks up a headset and holds it in his palm.

"Elder?" he calls and the older man, along with Trevor, quirks an eyebrow. Jericho lowers his hand for everyone to see. "Why are there two pairs?"

There's another sound of metal clinking.

"And why did they make this town a rendezvous point anyway?" Trevor pipes up while stuffing the files back into the folder. He places it on the table and crosses his arms, now standing in front of the Elder. "I'm not a Speaker."

The clinking begins to grow louder until it's resounding through the room like the tick of a clock. In his peripheral, Trevor sees a small, metallic mallet being lifted into the air. Its luster reflects in the candlelight.

"You may not be one," the Elder says, slowly, "but you will be working with one."

The mallet's slam ripples through the air like thunder, the abruptness of it drawing everyone's attention to the table in the back of the room.

There, a young Speaker stands and pulls down the hood of his cloak, revealing short, blonde curls like remind Trevor of ruffles. He is too far away and the lighting is too dim for him to make out the Speaker's face, so Trevor just watches as the boy approaches with what looks like a metallic ball in his hand, held out in a giving gesture until he's only a few paces away from the group. Here, the boy lifts his head and offers the ball.

"My task is completed, Elder."

"Trevor Belmont, Sergeant Jericho, I am proud to introduce you to my underling: Sypha Belnades."

Wait - "You cannot be serious right now."

Trevor can see it now: the soft features, curve of the Speaker's jawline, insinuation in sapphire eyes, buoyant wisps of sandy hair, all conveying feminism beyond what's capable of a man. He unconsciously takes a step back, eyes going wide, and looks between the female Speaker and the Elder. "Are you…?" He raises an eyebrow, retreating back to the Elder's side and leaning into the woman's personal space. "You're a girl."

"And you're rude," the lady huffs, glare creasing the space between her brows as if that were their natural state. He starts to retort but the Elder's chuckle silences the protest.

"Be kind, Sypha. This must come as shocking information for an outsider."

Trevor snorts. "Yeah right, shocking. How about fucking contradictory?" He looks to Jericho for agreement and finds neither a nod nor frown, but instead a knowing smile. He mouths a quick 'You knew?' before facing the speakers again. After a moment to gather his thoughts, Trevor says, "Alright, so, I just assumed that the women outside were the wives and mothers. Sure they're apart of the clan, so they wear the robes, but when did it become standard for women to work within the House?"

"It is not," Sypha answers, glancing at the Elder for confirmation, and when he nods she continues.

"You were right in assuming that the women outside do not hold positions in the House. We are still generally seen as caretakers and teachers despite the need for any and all Speakers in the aftermath of the war, but," she looks down at the metal ball in her hand, gripping it tightly. An exhale, and then she is holding it in the light before Trevor. "My talents are for other uses, per se."

He hadn't taken too much note of the ball before then, having only glimpses of it in the dim candlelight where detail is obscured by shifting shadows. Yet up close, each minute line of work is etched into the ball's surface. Silver lines carve a path towards the center, some jagged while others are smooth and curvy, creating shapes as if the lines themselves are an unknown language. And at the center, where the engravings collide, a two-leaf pendent shines a dull blue.

"What is this?" he asks, but when he looks past the ball to Sypha he finds her eyes closed and lips slightly parted. She is focused despite the hollow expression on her face, eyes flickering behind her eyelids as if viewing a film. Her grip on the ball loosens, and then suddenly tightens into a firm grasp, the blue of the pendant growing brighter by the second until it lights the device in an aura of cobalt.

His arm is the first to feel it. Goosebumps rise in time with the feeling of ice being dragged along his skin, crawling from his wrist to shoulder in a matter of seconds. The chill grips his shoulder tightly, digging into bone while simultaneously stretching to his collar. He jerks back, pulling his arm out of the air's icy grasp but he can already feel it pushing forward, ready to lunge and take him whole, radiating from Sypha's hand, and he is reaching for his whip when the cold abruptly dissipates and the glow of the pendant reverts back to dullness.

He struggles to not smack the damn contraption out of her hand and smash it to bits when she flashes him a smug smirk.

"It's a capsule that I can concentrate my magic into, like a grenade. I designed it myself."

"And that's the reason why the Elder decided to keep you around his personal lodge?" Trevor says, not really caring how his voice seethes with venom. Aside from the bitterness resonating from the chill in his arm and shoulder, he has to hand it to Sypha: a user of this caliber, to be able to concentrate a specific amount of magic within a small space and sustain it, and for her to reach this level while being a Speaker – where use of magic isn't a normality – is no small feat. He'd commend her if it wasn't for their current situation.

Sypha shrugs and mutters a dismissive, "More or less," before flipping the ice grenade twice and then shoving it inside her robe.

The short silence is broken by the Elder clearing his throat. "Now that that is settled, we have more important matters to discuss."

"Oi, I still have plenty of-"

Jericho lifts his hand and gives Trevor a slow shake of his head. "You can ask your questions later, Trevor. We need to focus on the mission at hand, or rather, figure out what we're even doing since the church decided to keep everything under lock and key."

"Have you read your file yet?" Sypha pipes with mocking enthusiasm and laughs when he practically growls at her.

"Yeah, yeah I have and it's complete bullshit."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." She snatches the file from where Trevor left it and sifts through the first two sheets. "See, look here. 'While the Belmont may be useful in combat and holds an affinity for leadership higher than the standard, his behavior and attitude falls far below his aptitude. Remain aware of his waning patience, or aggressive excitement, for it may be difficult to assess his mood swings.'" Sypha smacks the papers. "I think that describes you perfectly."

"Miss Belnades' file is not as lengthy as yours," Jericho chimes, now holding her two pages out to Trevor, who glares at it fiercely for a couple seconds. He doesn't make a move to take them until Jericho basically shoves them into his hands. And while Sypha's data may not be as lengthy as his, the detailing remains consistent, with at least three paragraphs documenting her family's recorded travels alone.

Trevor skims over the contents: an anomaly and taboo within the Speaker community; varied knowledge of combat, human geography, and magic; has weaponized her abilities; no criminal record; taught under the 7th Elder in the Bucharest Haven sect; granddaughter of the Elder; he stops reading there. Carefully, Trevor looks between Sypha and the Elder.

They don't look too much alike, but if he squints and focuses on smaller features then… Yeah, sure, he can see it.

Storing the knowledge for future questioning, he drops Sypha's file on to the table and eyes the unopened one now in the Elder's hands. Gnarled fingers prod at the corners of the folder until the right side gives; its tear is loud, sounding through the House like a crescendo. Each tear grows louder than the last, seemingly building alongside their anticipation, and by the time the envelope is open Trevor is balling his hands into fists at his side. Too damn slow, especially when none of them have any clue as to what exactly they're doing.

Difficult as it is to stand by and watch as the Elder takes the first glance at their future, he isn't entirely sure if he even wants to know what orders are held within the text. A command, a lie, the truth, a mission destined for failure: which one is it? Which will claim his life?

The Elder clears his throat and motions for Jericho to approach the desk. He whispers something, to which Jericho pauses and then nods, and the next thing Trevor knows both he and Sypha are being handed a headset and receiver.

"Turn the frequency dial to five," Jericho says, not waiting for them to comprehend the abrupt command before taking the file from the Elder. While they – albeit reluctantly – turn over the items, he reads over the top half of the document. A grim expression crosses his face, but it is gone in an instant.

Trevor snaps his attention to him when the older man calls his name. "Yes?"

"When you're ready, hold the button at the bottom of the receiver until you hear static."

Trevor raises an eyebrow. "And then what?" he asks, but Jericho chooses to go back to reading instead of replying. Not taking kindly to being ignored, Trevor tsks and rolls his eyes. Whatever is in the file has put both Jericho and the Elder into some kind of mood, and he doesn't like it one bit. Yet despite his strong desire to say 'fuck it' and walk out of the House, he can't; so he swallows what little pride is in his throat and loops the earpiece around his ear. Sypha tugs down her receiver at the same time as him, and then she meets his gaze with a determined glint in her eye.

She nods, and he finds himself twisting the dial until a scarlet 5 appears on the receiver's small screen. He holds the button for one, two, three, four seconds and then a burst of static fills his head.

It doesn't last long, perhaps five seconds, short enough for Trevor to almost flinch when he hears a voice fill the air.

"Come in, Demons Echo. Looks like we're finally connected."