Victor instantly regretted that bourbon. Nothing made him snarl as bad as that.

"Sorry about that, not a bourbon man," Victor moved the glass away from his seat.

It was up until this moment that Victor had a tempest in his mind. He certainly did not think so much doubt would once again be shot in his direction. The deaths of comrades was no easy thing, and seeing the wounded earlier did nothing to help his worries. People would always kill each other, always fight and die. But nothing Victor could do here and now could change that.

"These skirmishes of yours aren't my business," Victor kicked his feet up, letting them rest on Westmont's desk. The red-eyed man remembered why he had left the war. He knew once again that there were things out there he did not wish to lose, and he knew who's example he wanted to follow. He thought again of Rose, the woman who raised him and taught him all he knows. He remembered the orphanage she ran; where he and Peter met and grew up. He remembered that for all her wisdom and skill with a blade, she chose to refrain from war and bloodshed. She chose to stay behind and protect those things that were most important to her.

"I'm going to do what I've always done. . ." Victor shrugged, dropping his feet and turning for the door.

"Wait now, we could use you! How can you turn on your cause like this?" Westmont half-stood, attempting to rally Victor's patriotism.

But that well had dried long ago.

"It's not my cause. . . Never was. . ." Victor sighed, cleaning his ears with a pinky. "Petey, Lucius; best of luck." And with a short bow and a nod, Victor walked out.

"Wait, Victor, you'll get lost in the halls," Peter called out, "they are warded!"

"I'll be fine," Victor's voice echoed, "'lost in the woods is the only place I see a clear path,' remember?"

And with that, only three remained in the smoky room. Westmont and Peter could do little but shrug, changing the topic to the owner of those words, Commander Edward Valerian. While 'Duffy's' thoughts were his own.