Should he put a face to the concept of the Games, none of those before Zrum would be it. Still, one had to ascribe a layer of reverence to those he faced, as arbiters of the Games. Souls light enough to weigh those drenched in sins and not be touched.
Creators of an arena to test the residual rebellion to stomp out those wishing ill, and currently keeping a heavy boot on Zrum's trachea with their impassive stare. He had nothing to hide. He had nothing to hide, yet his body would not respond to his own reassurances. Taking a deep breath, he mumbled to himself, meaningless murmured words, a low chant, a call to an old forgotten goddess, a plea to the seraphim of his current god standing right in front of him. He could look them in their eyes.

     He could look each of them directly in their eyes, absorb their judgment and radiate competence.
    "I am here to show you my prowess in direct relation to key skills in the Games," he spoke to the clinical room, drawling voice barely cutting tension. His tooth cut into his bottom lip as he stared in their generality, attempting to discern if he should await an answer. When the silence firmly settled again, he decided against it taking a rope and wishing he could take a long swig of some burning liquid.

    The hands of fate lay there, resting chins in their hands. Zrum glanced up from his project of impressing the impassive to see them mill between themselves, echelons above his scarred soul. Still he could.

    Still he could hold their gaze, still he could impress.

    Should he have to, he would prostrate himself before the Gamemakers. Before, functionally, his Maker. Rolling his shoulders and setting his gaze, Zrum tuned out the niggling whispers of dissatisfaction lurking in the corners of his mind and set out, unburdened, to impress.