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Aleksy hadn't been feeling well lately. Actually, he'd been violently ill more than once. That was why he was out and about: his prickly pride wouldn't allow him to ask for help, so he'd gone down to the convenience store to acquire a bottle of ginger ale and a sleeve of saltines. He'd passed the deadline for his gallery show, so at least he could rest on the couch with Finn's Netflix password and just... sleep... for a while. If he stopped puking long enough, he'd just sleep.

This whole plan was thrown off by the sudden appearance of a thing with more arms than Aleksy could count on a single glance. It wielded a stop sign in one of its many-fingered hands, the metal already twisted and blood-stained. He cussed, and tried to concentrate: he'd have to be Camlann to outrun this.

Oh, how excellent, there was a civilian. In the immortal words of Kanye West, Aleksy really didn't feel like being responsible for this water bottle; oh, no, someone else could collect their garbage, just because Aleksy happened to share a seat didn't mean he accepted that societal encumbrance--

That metaphor was going nowhere, fast.

The civilian, however, was. He'd henshined up into some kind of knight Aleksy had never seen before, or--wait. Celsus. From the Transcendence meeting. They both bore the same symbols. That tugged another memory to the forefront: his near-death at the hands of a slimy, disgusting, smelly tentacle monster. Aleksy's hands vised around the handles of his ethically-sourced reusable grocery bag so tight his palms felt like to bruise. That provided the focus he needed to pull his glamour up, sacrificing his mortal form (and his groceries, apparently) for that of Camlann Knight of Saturn.

Instead of running, Aleksy--he never thought of himself as Camlann anymore--stepped in towards the monstrous thing, fingers clawed out in an open-palmed strike. There had to be a heart in there somewhere.

Apparently the other knight was talkative. That was alright. Camlann was going to throw up and then find a nice quiet place to wait for the vomit to dry before he transformed back into himself, because he'd learned hte hard way that if you glamour'd out while it was wet it would just stay. Which was disgusting, by the way, and highly unrecommended. First, though...

Ignoring the churning in his stomach and the weakness in his knees, he shoved the sharp tips of his gauntlet into the squishy bits of the monster. There was a fair-sized fountain of goopy black crap. Camlann was not pleased by this and gave a shout of disgust, which was bad, because the crap got in his mouth. "If you would kindly kick it in the face," he called, stumbling back and falling right on his a**, "I'd be obliged!"

Meanwhile, the damn thing squawked out its pain, like Camlann had blinded it, or something. Oh wait, maybe he had. Who knew? Fountaining monster blood was slightly distracting.

After getting d***o'd in the face, the thing burst into dust. Camlann scrunched up his face to try and get the crap out of his eyes. It was an unsuccessful attempt.

"Why is your weapon a d***o," asked Camlann, hoarse from the effort of keeping his stomach inside his torso. "********. Nevermind. I have realized, I don't want to know. ******** knights."

"You have youma s**t on your face," said Camlann, helpfully.

Then he half-rolled onto his side and puked, so, hey, that was probably also adding to the s**t sundae of this new kid's life. Camlann gagged, and wished for his grocery bag, and was generally miserable. "Whatever the ******** you want to call it," said Camlann. "I will not ever understand English, and this I just have to accept."

He unclipped his stupid cape and threw it over the vomit. Then he got to his feet. "Chronos. That's the... the..." he gestured vaguely. "I don't remember. Celsus one. I am Camlann. You may have heard of me, as I have an unfortunate propensity towards murdering people." He did not sound like he thought it was unfortunate. Nor was he particularly in a mood to repeat the feat.

Camlann laughed, though he felt decidedly queasy still. "Saturn. Study your planetary symbols." His hand was covered in goop. It was likely he'd puke again, and soon, if he didn't somehow miraculously... not.

"It's all over your face now," said Camlann. "Very fetching. The new look... for spring-summer 2016." He laughed again, short and a little deranged, maybe. "Go home and wash your face. You'll get spots if you don't."

There was also gooey black stuff on Camlann's face. He was trying very hard not to think about it.

"I am never okay," said Camlann, sobering. He let his glamour drop, leaving him looking small and sickly in an unreasonable number of sweater layers. His shopping bag reappeared in hand. "But I appreciate that you took the time to ask."

He pushed a slime-coated lock of hair back out of his face. The walk wouldn't be long, but he was so tired. "Do walk safely. Dying without a pretty corpse to leave behind is not a good fate."