"To carry on without them," Wesker replied. "Though one supposes I would find a way, taxing though it would be, if only for my tributes sake."

A mint-julep sat on the low, small table before him. Untouched, sweaty lightly in the faux humidity. The toe of one polished shoe lifted to miss it as he crossed his legs elegantly, one over the other, and shifted to see Quintus better.

He recognized the voice of course, but he'd seen little of the actual man himself. (Which was at once intriguing, as frustrating. He prided himself on details.)

"Mr. Falxvale, I presume?"