There's a wide-eyed blink in response to the question of a 'number'. He has a number, but there is no way for those on board to ever know it. Although at this point there hardly seems any point to keep it to himself.

"I was once gifted the number 'Three', as I was the Third Seat on our Convocation of Fourteen." It's a simple answer, no additional elaboration outside of a quietly wistful look.

"That was long ago. Let us focus on the present." He motions to the elevator around them. "Presently, I think is it time for us to quit this place. I am in no mood to deal with this chicanery any longer." So without warning, he stretches out a hand and summons wisps of dark magic to fill the glass elevator - the makings of a teleportation spell. The threads of black and purple soon dissipate as soon as they appear, however, leaving the spell very oddly... ineffectual. Emet-Selch blinks in spite of himself.

Pardon?