Clemente
Despite being awkwardly taller than all of them, Clem feels like he's staring up into the light of a fierce, dying star when Wessex turns her gaze to him. The Wraith. Clemente had not experienced a proper upbringing, but certain lessons had been inscribed in his marrow. One had been kinship, loyalty, devotion. There was always a pinnacle, a leader, a point to a needle on a compass that would always guide you home. Few were granted that status on the streets, but they had existed. And whether it's his own childish idolization, or some deeper understanding that he is hers much in the way he will come to understand he is the Voice's, Clem doesn't think to question it.Already, as she speaks and teases Amun just as he had, Clem can't withhold his strained excited whisper; "Cool." She certainly looks like she's capable of kicking Amun's ass. That's already enough to make him giddy before she confirms that she willingly would. Her exaggerated whisper gets a little giggle from him that's a bit too young, and he tries to choke it down but his eyes remain bright with mirth at the ongoing teasing.
Then Amun is speaking, and Clem feels his hackles smooth, smiling tentatively at the man, fangs poking awkwardly at his lips. Forgiveness for rough words and annoyances is just habit at this point. Soft words didn't have a place in his upbringing, holding a grudge against any who pissed him off would have starved him out of connections years ago.
"Don't hurt yourself comin' up with one," he teases, but his lopsided smile doesn't shift. A tiny olive branch, if the man cares to take it from the teenager. But then Wessex is asking for his name and Clem turns to her like nobody and nothing else exists in the world. "Clemente, but uh. Y'can call me Clem." He tries to force himself still, pulled up proud instead of shuffling his feet shyly. Bites back on the gushing he wants to do and forces himself not to immediately speak when she accepts his help. He's gotta make himself look cool.
"I'm a quick learner, what d'ya need?" Green eyes go flinty and sharp, lips twisting just as dangerously. A ghost that speaks to his terrible youth, the things he'd done to survive, the talents he'd accumulated that he now lay at Wessex's feet for her to wield at her leisure. Because she is his Queen, in more ways than political, and Clem has never wanted anything more than to belong.
