John bristles as though Daemon has asked something personally offensive. He draws himself up to match, arms still crossed over his chest. There is something wrong with his left pinky: the flesh gives way to dark wood like blackened bone.

"John Doe." He delivers the name with the cool pride of a sovereign. There is a mocking edge to it: the name means an unclaimed human, and he takes resentful pleasure in that. "I serve no one."