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Vamprah did not like crowds.
They made for excellent places to navigate, sightless though he was; the brush of so many minds helping him map his surroundings, letting him hear the distance between him and them, who was going where, the most natural paths through an area. And most importantly, how well he had achieved going unseen, or, better yet, unnoticed.
All that did not mean he had to like them. The sheer noise of them, both aloud and mental, grated on nerves most did not realize he had. He tolerated it, he had to, he would not allow the skill his fallen Sister had helped him hone go to waste, but by the Great Spirit he preferred his solitude. He preferred the silence and stillness of the world when he was alone, the simple urging of Rahi minds. Their hungers, fatigues and strange organic base breeding instinct held no risk to the careful blankness of his own heart.
What was worse was being around groups like this one. He would much rather have handled the Karda-Nui mission by himself, but he alone could not wage open war like they needed to. So he had to tolerate the other six, keeping the touch of his mind light so the paranoia thick in the air had no reason to latch onto him; and yet even just their surface thoughts were so insufferably loud.
Bitil might have been the worst, simply because his neurosis was so painfully pointless. Bravado writ large across humming insecurity, all because of the whiff of charred metal, the only of their number who knew he would one day die, for his Mask had once summoned his own corpse for all the Brotherhood to see. As if any of their survival was guaranteed; Fateless things all, Makuta.
He was still powerful and trusted enough to be given this, their most crucial mission, the constant buzzing irritant of his self-doubt had no true purpose.
Not that the rest were much different.
Chirox’ every passing fancy oozed so much bitterness it made Vamprah wish he still possessed a throat to gag with, the foul stench of him suffusing the entire group like he was trying to dominate the space. Which he was, the preening fool, comparing himself to every member of their group and finding them all wanting, especially his long-time rival, Mutran. Vamprah supposed he would never know which of them had been invited to this mission, and which had thrown enough of a fit at the other’s inclusion to be slapped on regardless. They both claimed the problem was the other.
Mutran’s mind was a flitting, manic tangle. Most considered the mad wildcards, but in Vamprah’s experience they were quite predictable, and Mutran was no exception. The unfocused energy of him an attempt at distraction from the feeling that truly dominated his thoughts, a nameless, dripping, twisting terror; one that made him as paranoid as he was excitable, one whose tendrils reeked of powerful outside influence. That made Vamprah quite glad for his practice in keeping his touch light, if he applied even a hint more pressure, the outsider might notice him and switch targets.
Even the barest touch of Gorast’s thoughts itched, and listening any closer hurt like staring into the suns. She was a pyre of rage, hate, and desperate fanaticism that would annihilate anything that got too close, scanning everything and everyone around her for hints of treachery or weakness to pounce on, an aggressive, ironclad shell wrapped around something dark, cold and yawning. An unpleasant reflection of himself, determined to scream down the world where Vamprah had chosen silence. They even shared the thrumming need to hunt so their minds would not wander to places they would prefer stay buried.
Part of Vamprah wished they had found each other before Teridax did. Perhaps they could have balanced each other, Gorast made an excellent hunting partner in the few missions they’d shared over the years.
Krika gave off a confusing quagmire of shame and sickly sweet voyeuristic satisfaction. The last Makuta to leave Miserix’ side had been yanked along by the shavings off his mask into a good enough position to be trusted with this mission, and still seemed to obsess over casting aside their old vows. He projected ignominy with such intense insistence that it was almost enough to hide his self-satisfied sense of superiority over the rest of them, somehow convinced that claiming he was a monster made him a more presentable one than the rest of the Brotherhood, that somehow they could reclaim their dignity by insisting they were slaves to their baser instincts.
Vamprah hated Krika rather intensely. If he allowed himself to be ruled by his instincts, Vamprah would have found a corner somewhere and become a trap plant long ago.
The only safe haven was Antroz, whose keen, practical focus and quietly humming calculation were like a cool balm over the aching forgeburn that was exposure to the rest of their ‘team.’ Antroz’s mind was tempered claws poking away at the puzzle of the world, ever seeking the places everything fit to best effect. Every word spoken by another was added to the puzzle, slotted into place and set aside for later use, every action taken was a simple tool, one that either advanced his designs or hindered them. He met their mission with the patient calm of yet another piece falling into place towards a larger picture.
Some questioned Antroz’ loyalty, as all others had spilled blood for the Brotherhood’s cause. Few bothered to remember he had been denied the only life he’d ever wanted to take, and was quietly on the hunt for it; for him, all of this was just the next step on the trail.
If he’d asked, Vamprah would have followed Antroz to the ends of the universe just to see the simmering revenge hiding beneath his sturdy machinations unleashed on that destined first murder.
So he anchored himself to the rock of Antroz’ mind to weather the storm of the others, and let his silence keep them from noticing his influence spread far beyond them, mapping the bright minds of Karda-Nui’s Av-Matoran to better hunt them when the time came.
As soon as the others had their plan of attack, he would take his place on Antroz’ board.