Bran hadn't been there for the first transformation, and now a part of him wished he hadn't been there for any of the others either. Why the hell had he moved into Bellum anyway? There was really nothing that made it unique, aside from the muttered rumors; had it been some weird magic thing? Had he been forced there by some unseen power? The thought that he hadn't moved in of his own free will made him scowl. This is all because of you, Erik. Couldn't you have picked some other guy to burden with your presence? "We should all just move when this is over," he muttered. "Who knows where it'll send us next time?" If they even made it out of this alive, that is.
You are not dying here, Bran. Erik's voice was sharp, almost demanding, and it made him roll his eyes. The stench of the dead didn't bother him, nor did the corpses themselves - it was too easy to disassociate himself - and at least searching them was a distraction. He took sharp turns down alleys and around corners, trying to avoid the distant shouts. Her question made him sigh inwardly, but he knew he couldn't just ignore it as much as he wanted to. "When I moved in," he said flatly, pulling a bloodstained knife from a corpse's pocket. It was small, but it would do for know. "Before I knew you or anyone else, for that matter. I was checking out the building and I heard you singing. It wasn't meant to... scare you. I've heard all sorts of voice types over the years, some with more talent than others. There was just something about yours that made me listen." Now he knew it was probably because of their tales, but he hadn't known then.