When their comrades who had secured their morning rations advanced to the table allocated for them and commenced their repast, Mel sat at the extremity, solitary, his eyes sealed. Though he projected zero semblance of intimacy with the others under mundane circumstances, the aura radiating from him this morn was of such sheer ferocity that the twenty disciples were compelled to pile atop one another to consume their sustenance just to maintain their distance from his vessel.
Had Mel been inquired of whether he had ever found himself ensnared in such a predicament prior, even he would have lacked the rejoinder. The crucible of forging a verdict—which might have elapsed with ease for an alternate soul—was as agonizing for him as having his flesh flayed whilst he still drew breath.
