Two weeks after The Cure was discovered, the repercussions were beginning to fully sink in. Already, manufacturing facilities were mass-producing it, and at first its creators could not have been happier. Finally, the disease that had long plagued the poorest of citizens had an affordable remedy, and in tandem with the new air filtration systems in place, it seemed that those in Delta might actually draw breath without fear of contracting an incurable malady.

Unfortunately, that promise was to be most egregiously delayed in its fulfillment. Under the orders of some of the most influential members of Parliament, shipments of the Cure to Delta were stopped, stockpiled instead on the private estates of anonymous individuals with enough money to buy all the goods produced. Only a few nobles and the odd wealthy merchant were able to obtain vials of The Cure for their own malady, and to these it was administered almost immediately, side effects be damned.

By the time Prometheus Vanderbilt came to understand why the delay was occurring, it was out of his hands. Everything on his end had been as perfect as science could make it: the formula balanced, the ingredients painstakingly catalogued, the proper tests run, symptoms categorized and mapped with precision, and all for what? That it might be used for an incidental purpose he came to wish he had never discovered.

-From the Journals of Amon Gregory

---

“This is terrible, simply terrible!” Prometheus Vanderbilt covered the length of his laboratory in shuffling, hurried strides over and over again. Pacing was a nervous habit of his, actually, and a frequent one when he was trying to work his way through a problem for which the answer was not yet clear. He wrung his bony, wrinkled hands, popping each of the joints in succession with the timing of his footfalls.

Joshua Blackwood, his senior lab assistant, stood against one wall, following the old man’s frantic pacing with brilliant violet eyes but otherwise not showing much of anything in the way of response. That was fine; it was clear that Dr. Vanderbilt was mostly talking to himself. Atalanza was there, too, of course; the three of them were those primarily responsible for the development of The Cure, after all, and the latter two did most of their work with the aging genius besides.

“We invent a cure, we’re poised to rid the city of a foul disease, and all Parliament wants is to neutralize mages!” The hunched man’s muttering had become increasingly more shrill, and it was obvious to those that knew him that for all his pretensions to gruff bluster on most occasions, he was now truly angered. Though his eyesight was beginning to go, his gaze seemed sharper than ever as it searched first Joshua’s face, then Atalanza’s.

“There has to be a way to stop this… a way to force them to see reason!” Joshua shook his head slowly. So brilliant, so unfathomably intelligent was this little old man, and yet for all that, he had not the foggiest idea of what such an inclination would put him up against.

“Parliament does not deal in reason, Prometheus. Nor in the greater good. Petitioning them to have the Cure placed back under Marchfield’s control would be a futile endeavor.” His statement was phrased with careful neutrality; he did not want to set off his employer any more than was necessary.

Unfortunately, such a degree of care meant that the underlying implications were completely lost on Dr. Vanderbilt. “So then we go higher! We petition the Crown. We have to do something, Joshua. Unless you would have us do nothing at all, and watch as Parliament starts a war!”

The taller of the two men ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair and sighed through his nose with a long-suffering air. He’d had a feeling it would come to this, and he didn’t like it one bit. When he’d gone into science, he’d forsaken all ties with his blood relatives, and had chosen to build his own fortune as a man of knowledge, not politics. He’d sworn to himself that he’d never use the connections that had once been his for anything. But now it looked as though he would have no choice. “Do not cast me the villain in this, Prometheus. The Crown will not likely help us any more than Parliament would, and I assure you that my sister and niece are likely more than aware of the situation already. However… if it will bring you some sort of satisfaction, I suppose I can try.”

“Fine, fine,” Vanderbilt agreed with a wave of his hand. “And what of you, Atalanza? Do you see perhaps some solution that misses an old man and his oldest apprentice?” Both sets of eyes, a cloudy gray and deep purple, swung to the room’s third occupant, and the sole female.

---

Duke David Gilgamesh was the sort of man who saw no harm in congratulating himself on a job well done, provided it didn’t interfere with anything that still needed doing. This was one such instance; his personal stockpile of The Cure was growing ever larger, and so were those of his allies, while his opponents still wondered where all the supply was disappearing to. Remarkable, how people could be persuaded to keep silent with the right incentive.

It varied from person to person, of course. Money was enough for most, and money he had to spare. His personal fortune, the product of shrewd investments and rather ruthless- some would say underhanded- business practices, was greater than the Crown’s, to say nothing of the rest of the city. Sometimes, when money was not enough, the disappearance of a child or ailing relative was enough to earn capitulation, and the safe return of the hostage of course. None would speak of it afterwards, and obviously he made sure that nobody ever saw his face or heard his voice when captive anyway. Sometimes, being free of the oppressive weight that was a conscience was quite beneficial.

This was certainly what kept him always one step ahead of that whelp of a princess and her little band of interfering fools. Assassins, scientists, even a mage, for Elisia’s sake- none of it was anywhere near enough to stop him. They knew it was him who sent people after their lives, but they were so incapable of proving even the faintest connection that to accuse him would be their defeat, not his.

The one thing that continued to rib at him was that they all so stubbornly refused to die. It was worse than some kind of pestilence, but the past year had convinced him that keeping them in their little ratholes was enough. The day Loki had won a seat in Parliament, he would admit he had been worried, but not enough had changed for it to affect his long-term plans.

And then of course Prometheus and his lackeys at Marchfield had finally made themselves useful and dropped the coup de grace right into his lap… it was quite nearly too good to be true, and so of course he had thought it might be and dragged one of those magic-slinging animals up from the hellhole they lived in and tried it himself. Not only was The Cure exactly as effective as Vanderbilt thought, but Gilgamesh had discovered that sustained exposure was fatal. It looked like if their little vermin bodies were kept from processing their abominable energies for too long, they simply up and died. Or maybe that was the dehydration. It scarcely mattered.

He was not so foolish as to believe he could have his plan enacted they way things were now- no, it was far too soon, the magi far too placid to convince those indecisive middle-ground bastards that they needed to die. It would take much more for that sort of measure to be sanctioned, but Gilgamesh was ever a forward-thinker, and he already knew what he was going to do about that.

“Tell my wife I’ll be out for the day,” he informed his steward, and the man bowed silently before taking his exit. “I’ve got business to attend to…”

---

Loki stepped out of the smallcraft, alighting on the staircase which led up to a rather impressive home. She’d let Zade have the day off, so it was only her old bodyguard Carlisle with her at this point, which may have seemed a little reckless for someone who’d dealt with four separate assassination attempts in the past year. She wasn’t too worried; the security at her destination was uniquely-suited to dealing with the same.

Treading up the stairs, she rapped on the large front door and stood back, smoothing her palms over the front of her obsidian-colored gown. Social calls still weren’t something she was terribly familiar with, but then this one had three purposes, only two of them actually social.

If the manservant who answered was surprised to see the Princess at the door, he did not show it, immediately dropping into a bow and ushering herself and her self-proclaimed human shield inside. The interior of the home was as tasteful and impressive as the outside, probably largely unchanged for quite some years. That ended to be the way of the older aristocratic homes, hers included.

She spotted one of the causes for her visit right away, apparently occupying himself in the way only children can by dashing about the foyer with his arms held out by his sides. She waited for the boy to notice her, then crossed to where he stood, crouching until she was at even height with her cousin. “Siri,” she greeted with a small smile, ruffling his hair. “How are you? Is your father up and about yet?”

Loki was not generally good with children, but this was her little cousin, and she liked him a good deal more than the older one. A reason among several why she’d chosen to bring him here rather than leave him in the custody of her aunt and uncle. The latter was far too busy with his work, and the former was just… well, no need to think about that too much. He’d been but a spare anyway, now he was heir to perhaps the kindest person the Princess knew, and one of but few friends she could claim to have.

It had only been a couple of weeks since Caelin had taken his dose of The Cure, and she’d also come to see how his recovery was going. Parliament was not in session today, so she’d thought a personal visit might not be too much of an inconvenience. Not to mention, of course, that there was some news she needed to pass on.

The room was hotter than most people would have been able to stand, although it's sole occupant paid it no heed. Within the torrid enclosure that was the fourth training room of the Guild Eos stood stark still. Sweat rolled from his body in beads, striking the floor with more force enough to cause an audible noise. Garbed in only breeches and a belt, the pugilist was exposed and glistening as he scanned the empty room. Eos stood in what was supposed to be a loose position, arms raised parallel to the ground and legs spread two feet from one another while leaning forward, but the dusky-skinned assassin trembled with exertion. His muscles corded against whatever force held him in check.

Slowly, Eos nodded and reached for his belt at which a thin oak wand was sheathed. Withdrawing the magical implement, he aimed the wand at his center mass and discharged the pre-cast spell stored within. A field of intensified weight bore down upon the assassin. The third such casting since dawn. The wand slipped from his grasp and was glued to the floor by the thrice-amplified force pressing on Eos. With a grunt and a sharp intake of breath he spun in place, shifting to a more linear position with arms raised above his head and standing on one leg with the other raised so knee met chest.

For twenty minutes Eos held this position, breathing shallow breaths. His body burned all over and muscles quivered in protest. Finally though, the compounded spell wore off and the world seemed to lift from his shoulders. With an overly-loud sigh of relief Eos straightened his back and stretched. He smiled upon hearing several pops between his bones. Damn that hurts...hurts pretty good though.

Eos turned on his heel and started towards the door when a junior assassin peered through. Her eyes widened, realizing she'd been caught staring. Eos smirked and put her under a questioning gaze. He struck an akimbo, allowing the dim light to reveal the forest of scars upon his form and the built muscle underneath. Barely a year ago most of it had hung slack on his frame, and now nothing was going to waste. Eos couldn't help but think: Damn...i'm a sexy beast.

"Senior Assassin," the woman caught herself and sketched a bow. "Second-Masters Hera and Nidhogg would like to speak with you." Eos nodded and dismissed the junior assassin. He still disliked the formality used within the true branches of the Guild immensely, but agreed to abide by their rules...as long as he took an active part in the protection of Pandora, Caelin and Loki. Eos had accompanied Pandora on several of her visits to the sickly noble's abode and shared words with the boy. In no time flat Eos decided that Caelin was of sterner stuff than most, and took a liking to him. He sorely hoped that Caelin would recover soon.

Minutes passed by as Eos returned to his room to clean up, don his armor and equip what weaponry he was permitted by Amon Gregory. The meeting was underway quickly as well. At the end of it as he bid Hera and Nidhogg good day, Eos was scowling. It was a habit that he was trying to break. There were whisperings of another attempt on Loki's life again? There had been seven so far...four that the princess herself was aware of, the other three having met a brutal end meted by either Eos or Amon. The former Hand raised his tattooed palm and stared into the black disk as he walked.

Selene...please let this be a good day. without realizing it, his other hand was toying with the sunburst pendant at his neck.

Pandora smiled and straightened, wiping a thin arm across her brow as she brought herself to her full (rather unimpressive, all things considered) height. Just an ordinary flu; nothing to worry about. Part of her rejoiced that she probably wouldn't be seeing many more cases of Wasting Lung cropping up; Mr. Vernazza's air filter was making the skies look so much prettier already. "He'll be fine with a few hours' sleep, Mrs. Worthing," she informed the hovering mother pleasantly.

She was visiting this particular patient in his home, as she had taken to doing lately. It wasn't so bad, all things considered, but she missed not having to carry all her supplied around with her wherever she went. Granted, she didn't have that many things, since she really wouldn't know what to do with alf the medical equipment that proper guild physicians used, but she did have bandages and painkillers, plus a low-strength disinfectant for scrapes. It was amazing how much more she was able to do when she didn't have to heal every simple thing with her magic. She wasn't exactly sure why the princess continued to fund her efforts, but she was grateful in the extreme for it.

Of course, the number of chronic Wasting cases she was dealing with wasn't improving that much, and she was worried. About a week ago, a rumor had reached Delta of a potential cure for the disease, but no serum had yet made itself visible in the district that would need it the most. Unlike most of the folk down here, Pandora wasn't able to wave away the rumor as nothing real, because she had been there for its creation. Dr. Vanderbilt was a bit strange, but she had thought him the kind of person who really wanted to see his invention distributed, and she wondered what the holdup could possibly be.

Declining Mrs. Worthing's offer of tea, Pan waved at the widow and her young son and saw herself out, padding along the street with her supplies across her back. She was presently staying with her grandmother and grandfather (not blood relatives, but they'd raised her, so that's what she called them), and the matron of the house was in serious need of a dose of The Cure. She hoped it would be made available soon.

Of course, it could not be so simple as to make that the only pressing matter on Pan's mind at the moment. Unfortunately, the reason she was not currently living at her clinic was because someone also wanted her dead for some reason. Not the cheeriest of thoughts to be having, but not really something she could avoid considering every time she made a house call. She couldn't not be available to the people here- they needed her, and she wasn't about to hide from them. Still, any stranger asking after the whereabouts of Pandora Elling was never given the truth of it, so she was probably pretty safe for the moment. At least her friends knew where to find her.

---

The Assassins' Guild

Zade arched into a back handspring, only narrowly avoiding the blow from the wooden shortsword. The bruises on her arms, legs, and torso would attest to the fact that she would be several times dead of this were a real battle, and even then she knew the Guildmaster was checking his blows. As humiliating as that had been at first, she had come to understand the necessity of it, and she'd be a fool if she denied that she was receiving what amounted to the single most effective combat crash-course ever devised.

This was what she did on her 'days off.' Sought out as much punishment as she could take in the hopes that she'd finally be able to land a hit on the old man who moved like water- always just out of reach and slippery as all get-out. It was a personal favor to Loki that he was doing this, she had gathered, but sometimes she was almost certain that he enjoyed teaching generally. She did not dare to hope that she was in any way an apt pupil, but she was learning fast enough, she supposed, for he never gave her any reason to think otherwise.

Unlike his weapon, her own was the real thing, made of metal and not wood, though not sharpened quite so much as to be fatal without deliberate intent. The steel bladed ring was about three and a half feet in internal diameter, and an odd weapon choice to say the least. Perhaps it made it less surprising that she had spent most of her life as part of a street act and not a fighting force. Not that the skills were too far removed when it came down to it; it was mostly a matter of being less showy and more efficient.

"All right, that should be enough for today, my dear," Amon announced, replacing his practice armament in a pile of the same. Zade didn't have the energy to do much more than nod. Generally speaking, she'd spend the next few hours in the archives below the Guild, learning battle strategy and history, the things that an essentially self-raised Gamma trouper tended to miss out on. It was almost like they cared... well, perhaps that was a bit too bitter. The both of them had done her much good, and she could appreciate an opportunity when she saw it, especially when it came with the understanding that certain past crimes would remain... overlooked.

Atalanza blinked slowly, her pale irises steadied as she gazed directly before her. Eyes narrowed and unfocused, her surroundings barely registered in her consciousness. An insistent and spirited rambling hummed in her ears, thrumming her eardrums. Cocking her head to the side, she slowly lifted her gaze, her pupils refocusing themselves on the workplace around her. In immediate proximity stood Joshua, a few paces away with his back to her. His arms crossed his chest and his defensive stance told all that needed to be known about the scene taking place before her. The throng of ramblings from the professor needn’t be more than a redundant and pestering mosquito at her.

Her ears cleared and vision lost its last blur, bringing her back to reality the way in which one would surface from a pool of water. Senses quickly sharpening, Atalanza moved forward in one stride, her long legs carrying her efficiently to Joshua’s side in a single step. She hugged her black coat to her sides, a chill running down her spine as she turned her eyes to the older man beside her, Vanderbilt continuing his fitful rant. Scrutinizing his solemn features, Ata lifted her firm chin slightly and shifted her gaze to the elderly professor before them. The rant had suddenly ceased, a momentary silence ringing in the workplace before Joseph’s strong voice boomed from beside her.

“Parliament does not deal in reason,—”

Ata had to restrain herself from falling into a fit of her own spiteful laughter, tucking her arms further into her sides as she smirked. Damn me if it ever did. Her lips pursed as her eyes narrowed once more. Prometheus leapt back into his rambling and she released a short sigh. The poor man had worked his tail off—not to mention Joshua and herself as well—,slaving over his precious Cure. They all believed in it and what it could mean for the city. They had all fooled themselves into believing that they could have been creating a solution to the pain and suffering in the lives of so many people, far more desolate than they. She brusquely shook her head, clearing the distant imagery of the grimy district in which she herself had writhed for two years of her youthful life. Yes, they truly believed that they were doing something good; something benevolent; something compassionate.

And now, where was this benevolence? In the filthiest, most grimy hands of all, that was where. Ata despised most of Parliament, especially and particularly the Prime Minister. However, as a scientist she had hardly a right to opinion at all. Any opinion she might have had would be completely ignored by anyone with the power to put action behind their opinions anyhow.

Her eyebrows cinched together as Prometheus hurled an accusation at Joshua, who merely refuted with compliance. The pair of assistants were clearly aware of the elderly man’s anguish over the situation. He rarely—if ever—became so distraught over matters. The best thing either of them could do was sooth the professor’s nerves whilst keeping their own boiling anger at the sickening thing being done. Their hard work for good will having been distorted into something devious. Her stomach churned at the thought.

“And what of you?”

Atalanza’s eyes widened momentarily as the two males rounded on her, yanking her out of her reverie. She looked from one set of inquisitive eyes to the other, her mouth falling slightly ajar as her mind reeled. Prometheus’s gaze pressed further as the silence lengthened. Her brow furrowed once more.

“Solution?” she scoffed. “I’m sure the only true solution is to hogtie the bastards and give them a taste of their own medicine,” Ata muttered under her breath, half-heartedly hoping that the professor’s aged ears wouldn’t have picked up all of her sadistic comment. When the two men’s gazes continued to press in on her, she sighed, dropping her arms to her sides. “Look, Prometheus, I honestly haven’t the faintest idea how to manage politicians, but I do know that while our chances may look rather dim, we need to fight back in some way. I don’t know how just yet, but there has to be something we can do. We are the biggest brains Revelation has to offer. I suppose fighting fire with fire would be an effective road to take. Fight our own science with more science. Fight The Cure with…science.”

It was once again time for Giacomo to come by Prometheus to deliver the process diagnostics of the air purifier. Using the mind mapping he had of Marchfield he walked to Prometheus office, wilst looking at the astonishing results on the paper. Who could have thought that just the centrifugal force of the intake would be enough to chemically break the majority of the polutants down. Such a simple addition, that he initialy had made to increase the airflow into the construct. As Giacomo tried to open the door, wilst still maintaining his walking pace, he slamed himself into the locked door. There was just one reason for Prometheus to be outside of his office at this hour of the day, and Giacomo knew it all too well.

He then walked to Prometheus laboratory, the place where the 'legendary' cure for the lung dissease was developed. The place where he delivered a few samples of the poluted air. Just as Giacomo was about to open the door he heard Prometheus rant on the other side. It wasn't unusual for him to rant about something, it almost was his signature skill to rant about... Well, just about anything. Instead of dropping in Giacomo decided to stay off-sided for a moment and listen to the conversation. It seemed that the cure wasn't getting to the right poeple, but even worse it was being used to neutralize mages. This was troublesome indeed, he obviously disliked the idea of using a medicine as a weapon, but what he disliked even more was that this selfish behaviour of the parliament was killing the innocent.

At the end of Prometheus rant Giacomo came into the lab. "Prometheus, the air purifier is a massive success. Polutant concentrations are dropping faster than a falling hamer, the air quality in Delta is almost on par with Beta's quality and the water distribution program makes the entire machine cost efficiënt. It's even better than I hoped it would be." He said with some enthousiasm as he handed the paperwork to Prometheus. Than as he changed subject so did the tone of his voice, turning a bit more serious and stern. "Oh, I overheard your rant just a moment ago and I may have the answer. Though we, scientists can do very little, you can do a lot as the head of Marchfield. You could change the method of distribution, from this open form to a more directed one. Simply use a distribute where necessary policy, that way one would have to have the symtoms to get access to the cure. Another option to hinder parliament is to recover the cure due to a suspected production flaw. My last option is to go underground with part of the production, but I personally would prefer the first option." He said calmly.

The Assassin's Guild

The smell of waxed robes permeated the immediate close vicinity as the doctor moved through the building of the Assassin's Guild. Behind him, a short and rather bouncy girl followed after him, eyes wild and taking in every scrap of her backround. This was only the second time she had been in the Assassin's Guild. She still had to undergo formal training, but after some arm-twisting, her master had allowed her to access the building while on his supervision. Her eyes were still blindfolded as she was lead across the streets with a cane to the building, taking many false turns and going in many circles before reaching the place itself.

Victoria Steins stood at the entrance to the large book room, taking in the sights until Etzel turned around and gave her a pointed look through his mask. She snapped back to reality and followed Etzel to the sciences section.

"Victoria, you will be becoming an Assassin soon..."

She shook her head. "No way. I told you this before." She quipped.

"You know too much, you chose to come with me."

"How else am I supposed to get my inductment into the physicians guild?"

"You HAVE been saving up, right?"

"...Yes?" In reality, she had spent much of her given money in maintaining a small home owned by a elderly lady. She didn't really have much to live on when her parents died.

"No you haven't. Now, if you want to pass the exam..."

"Damn it, I don't want to become an Assassin!" She said, rather calmly.

It had been a huge argument between the two nowadays. However, due to the frequency of this argument, it's become rather half-hearted and it's mostly just a monotone back-and-forth between the master and apprentice. Etzel shook his head, and pulled a book from the shelf. "The guild offers you a measure of protection. You know how to fight, but once I'm gone you won't have somebody to watch your back." He said, making himself sound a lot older and decrepit than he really was.

"You wrestle rats the length of my arm, master. I think you're good." She retorted, puffing out her cheeks.

"You'll come to it eventually. Here, the book. 'One-hundred Common Maladies of the Body' by Glashkov". Etzel sighed. "Good reference for the most common sicknesses and how to treat them. Another," Etzel handed her another volume. " 'Flesh Workings'. A good collection. Study this. Sadly, some of the wounds depicted on the book we won't be able to practice- not in your life-time, hopefully."

Victoria sighed. More books. What her parents didn't tell her was just how much she had to memorize. "Right, right."

"Now, I shall be looking up somethings myself. Take the usual spot, and remember, if I don't see you when I return-"

"..I'm literally dead." Victoria finished, nodding. She moved over to a table, plopping down and staring at the volumes. She dejectedly looked to the side and saw a girl that looked about the same age as her. "Hmm. Didn't know they made 'em this young." She muttered to herself. "Means kids might be running after us with blades. Better not.... Would that seem suspicious, would they catch on? I don't know. At least I have this thing by my side. I can take 'em."

She tipped her hat down and began reading.

---

District Alpha

"Loki!" The child gasped, bouncing up from his running position. He ran over, about to give her a hug before he paused. He bowed once, and then latched himself to the princess briefly. "I'm fine! This place is so awesome- you need to visit more often!" He cried excitedly, hopping up and down. "Dad gave me this!" He held up a bulky toy cargo plane with a openable hatch. He remembered the Princess had another question and paused. "Uh, speaking of dad, he's been better. He can eat almost the entire bowl of food the maids give him now!" He beamed.

"Siri, what is all the noise about? Is a friend over?" Came a voice. Siri jumped, and turned around. He drew himself up to his full height almost comically and hid his plane behind his back. Taylor walked down the steps, looking a lot healthier than he had been in the past. His pale-gray skin tone was fuller in color, and he wasn't wearing layer upon layer of fur coats anymore. "Siri, I thought you were studying." He said lightly.

"But dad, Loki is here!" He said, running over and pointing out the black-garbed princess- it if weren't obvious enough. Taylor smiled at her, stopping at the foot of the steps before bowing respectfully. She was royalty, after all. "Princess." He greeted warmly, showing her to the parlor. A maid had already prepared some modest polished copperware filled with an eastern herbal tea. To be honest, Taylor liked the copper color. It was cheap, it was nice-looking, and it held.

"Siri, when you are finished with your work you can go and play with Loki if you want." He said. Siri jumped, saluted once again in an exaggerated fashion and dashed out the room. He had left the cargo plane on the table. Taylor drew out a seat for the Princess, waiting for her to take a seat before he did. "He's a good boy." He said rather fondly. He was nearly on his deathbed when Siri had arrived on his doorstep, and in his decrepit state the boy was rather frightened of him. He was glad he more-or-less accepted him now as his guardian. It was only for him that Taylor decided to take the cure. Why else would he end his suffering when people in Delta and Gamma were still afflicted with this disease? He'd rather have died- and that was saying something.

"You must visit more often. How are you? What brings you here today?" He asked, taking his own seat and holding the teapot gingerly in his hands. He filled the cups with tea- as customary from where he got the leaves from.

Eyes darting to the room’s most recent occupant, Atalanza crossed her arms across her chest once more. Her face resumed its autonomic, scrupulous expression as she took in the familiar man. She had always thought Giacomo to be a fearsome specimen. Of course, she knew much better of his intentions, but there was something about his stern expression along with the glowing crystals in his skin that unnerved her on some level. Though her face never betrayed this wonderment.

Ata’s lips pursed, and she took a step toward the raven-haired man, scrutinizing him with pale eyes. “That’s all good and well, Giacomo, I’m glad your work is panning out for you—we may not have the burden of having people to provide The Cure to in the future. To say you’ve made quite a stride in Revelation history is quite an understatement. Not to mention the ravishing proposition to simply ‘take back’ The Cure inconspicuously.” Her mouth pulled into a smirk as she further narrowed her eyes. “And while that is all good and well, I somehow find it hard believe that the grimy little rats in Parliament who already have their hands on The Cure—mass producing it as we speak—are going to be willing to just give it back. They don’t care if there is a flaw in it. They are using it as a punishment; a weapon; a torture device. They’re not going to to give it back.”

A short silence allowed time for the atmosphere around the conversation to lose its bitter chill as Ata’s expression eased in ferocity. Her eyes softened for a moment. She was preaching to the choir. All three of the people surrounding her had nothing but pure intentions. Squabbling with one another over something that they all felt the same sentiments for was futile; a waste of time.

She backtracked. “Your ideas are good, just not entirely practical. We made the mistake of not putting the distribution policy on it in the first place—when the serum was first completed. We can’t go back and fix that now.” She attempted a sympathetic expression before regaining a serious composure. “However, going underground isn’t out of the question. We may not be able to retrieve the old serum, but perhaps we can create a new one. A better one. This time being to sure to keep it far out of the sight of any politicians.”

The sultry orange glow of the mid-morning sun glared through the windows and settled upon a woman whose wisps of pale-gold hair blew about the frame of her face. She was an attractive woman whose face was nonetheless marred by bitter regret. In moments like these, when she was alone in her rooms, sipping her tea and looking out over the beautiful estate gardens, Imogene did not feel the need to mask her sadness. After all, the only creatures present to see her current state were the bluebirds chirping cheerfully on the railing of her large veranda style balcony. It seemed as if they were trying to give her the promise of a peaceful day, but peace was a state of being which had left her alone for quite some time now.

Imogene gripped the delicate porcelain tea cup with more force and brought it to her pale lips, allowing the firmly set line to slacken enough to grant the entrance of the honey sweetened liquid into her mouth. She breathed in its smell, and the long wisps of steam coming from the cup. She liked her tea hot; nearly scalding. It had been her preference since she was still young enough for it to be alarming to her mother. Imogene had never allowed her to slip an ice cube into her drink, like her mother wanted to. It had been one of the few things she was firm on.

There was a knock on the door, and Imogene had the sudden urge to sob into her tea. But tears had left her almost as long ago as peace had. Tears were not a solution to anything. Her grief ran to deep for them.

“Come in,” she said in a more unforgiving tone than she had intended. Her maid entered: Katie. A red-headed slip of a girl who looked young enough to be her daughter. Her daughter. Imogene had promised herself she would stop saying that word. Each time it was thought, or uttered, it had the force of a knife plunging into her body, and all the pain.

“May I dress you, Madame?” Katie asked. The poor girl. She never knew if she was coming or going with Imogene. The Lady had changed her mind so many times about every small detail recently. She was surprised this girl was keeping up so well.

Imogene said nothing. She simple set down her tea cup and stood near her wardrobe with her arms outstretched and waited. The maid wasted no time in doing what she was wordlessly bid. She dressed her in a beautiful champagne colored chiffon gown, and dressed her hair in the way Imogene liked. The whole time, the Lady couldn’t feel anything but a sense of numbness in her body.

“Is my husband at home?” she asked finally in monotone.

“No, Madame. I believe I saw him leave earlier this morning. I was asked by his steward to mention that he would be gone for the entire day.”

It was just as well. The last thing Imogene wished to see most days was Lord Gilgamesh’s face. Each time she saw it, she though of nothing but the nights he would come home still smelling of alcohol and another woman’s perfume. Instead of going to his own room, he would first come to her. She would have thought his lust had been satisfied, but still he came to her bed. He was determined to torment her, she was sure. Especially now that she’d disgraced him by producing such a disappointing child.

Imogene was sure she never would have expected so much of love if her parent’s hadn’t given her such a shining example. Her life was not unlike the hundreds of other wives of nobleman who took what they wanted, damn who it hurt. Her parents were the odd ones; the exception to the rule. And because of them she had been so bitterly disappointed when her fairytale took such a sad turn. She would never experience the love her father had for her mother. No one would ever love her that way.

Her daughter had made the days worthwhile, until he took her away along with everything else Imogene loved. There, she’d done it again. She’d let her guard down and that beautiful little face enter into her mind. David had said it would be easier if she just forgot. Imogene had tried, but she never could. No matter what she did, Imogene would always have her memories, and the knowledge that her daughter was somewhere out there in the world; perhaps at the Facility, or somewhere in Delta. If only Imogene knew for certain. She was sure the knowledge would bring her some kind of closure, even if she could never have her Sigrun back.

It was a day similar to any other in District Delta. The air was thick with smog and the sun shone through a mild haze, the sky becoming cast in a fuzzy texture that was nothing short of normal. And on this day, as was the case most days, Felix Windsor wasn't around to see it, he was in Alpha, teaching at the institute. It was a job that never ceased to surprise him. He'd seen powerful mages come and go, from incredible healers to destructive war machines. He himself was born to lean towards the latter. And as genes could not be changed his ability remained the same as always. He was further along the combat magic scale than most mages and, though he rarely demonstrated it, was capable of dealing out quite obscene amounts of damage to anything around him. Coupled with his tendency for physical over metaphysical magic, he was a force to be reckoned with when he reached his limits.

In the classroom at the Facility, the door swung open in front of Felix without him touching it. A simple enough trick but also a key part of the learning process. For the kids here to learn how to control themselves they needed to witness control on a basic level every day. Which meant doing a lot of magic, turning teaching into an even more exhausting job than usual.

"Good morning class, are we well?"

He greeted them the same as always and they responded in the same ill-timed way as usual. There was actually nothing happening around him that so much as hinted at anything being different that day. But there was a lot going on, big news had reached the District about a cure for the lung disease that was running rampant and Felix knew several people who would directly benefit from such a thing. There were magi healers but their reign could only go so far, a breakthrough like this would save a lot of people.

"Today's focus will probably come as no real shock to you all." He looked around at the faces of the younger class and saw most of them knew well what he was speaking about. "After an incident involving a pair of our older students that has lef our usual room somwhat charred, we'll be moving on to control of combat magic."

The Facility was a prime source of teenage angst, high-running emotions and frayed tempers. As such the ocassional venting of steam or displays of bravado took the form of fights, something that must be witnessed to be believed considering the nature of the students involved. A particularly bad one the day before had ended with students near the scene getting a display of powerful healing magic.

"Everybody reacts differently to the same stimulus. Where one person might laugh, another might get mad. And anger is the most dangerous emotion for a mage, it makes us unpredictable. It makes us volatile. It makes us lose control. And we need control, that's why you're all here after all, but before we can control our magic we need to be able to control ourselves."

It was here, in this same complex, that Felix had learned the same lesson so many years before. He attributed his endless patience to his intructors back then, as well as his considerable power. But that was the past, what he needed to concentrate on most at the moment was the kids. They were the future and he was the one to shape them. But that wasn't to say he couldn't have a little fun while he did it.

"Now, I seem to recall everyone agreeing that they learned better with visual aids. So let's do a little roleplay." He pointed out a small kid from the middle row. "Jonathon, come down here, you're going to be an angry boy." The poor kid didn't have an angry bone in his body, he was shy and reserved, but a large part of effective use of magic was confidence as far as he was concerned. Jonathon obeyed, albeit grudgingly, and another lad was brought down to simulate his opponent. It was a technique he'd used many times. He gave them each lines and choices and explained each bit, making sure to really hammer home the point, which was that you had to do everything in your power to stay in control at all times.

It went well, as it usually did, and the class got a few laughs out of it before the lesson ended. They all made a run for the door and left Felix alone in the classroom, where he stayed for no longer than five minutes. His teaching for the day was done, it was a short shift today, so he decided to take a slow walk back to the station, in no real rush to get home. There would be no rush anyway, despite the commute being so bad there had yet to be a direct line between Alpha and Delta Districts which meant he had to change at least once each journey. Still, he thought it was worth it.

Joshua had caught Atalanza's under-the-breath utterance, and a sardonic smile tugged at the edges of his mouth. He'd thought so too- still did most of the time, as a matter of fact. But his bitterness had long ago subsided into a dull sensation that bothered him only infrequently. He had hermited himself here in Marchfield, much as the old man who mentored him. Though he had both a private residence and a family, he saw them much less frequently than he probably should, one of the first things his sharp-tongued niece had so helpfully pointed out to him when she had petitioned him to allow his younger son to be adopted by another.

Giacomo Vernazza, one of the few scientists allowed to come and go through here essentially as he pleased, entered rather suddenly, speaking about his air purification engine. A rather impressive accomplishment, and one that had earned the man respect from fewer people than it should have. Joshua personally had known the man for a number of years and was glad of his efforts, not that that was worth a great deal. He was opening his mouth to point out that because there had initially been only one conceivable purpose for The Cure in the beginning, they had not bothered to consider that anyone would want to hoard it when Atalanza saved him the trouble, and he inclined his head in agreement.

"Still," he pointed out thoughtfully, "the idea of moving production underground is appealing. The problem is, I know of nobody with that kind of capability who would be willing to assist us. It's not something that could be produced in the necessary quantities in a lab setting without more funding than out department gets in a year."

Prometheus's eyes lit up when his younger assistant mentioned bettering the formula. "Yes, yes, a new formula, a new patent. Try and figure a way to reduce side-effects... Have to find a willing mage test subject. I wonder where Pandora is these days? Ah, but it will take so much more time... time, time, do we have enough time...?" The old man shuffled over to one of his many stacks of notes and began flipping through them, muttering to himself. Those who knew him well recognized this state; he was fully immersed in his own thoughts and would probably only give terse replies to any questions directed at him.

He seemed to snap out of it just long enough to remember he was not alone. "Well, what are you waiting for? We attack on multiple fronts! The three of you go see the Queen, and I'll get to work!" He seemed to forget for a moment that Giacomo was not actually involved on this project, but at least Joshua didn't.

"Congratulations on your success, Giacomo. You are of course not obligated to come, though am I not correct in saying that you receive funding directly from the Crown? Perhaps your assistance would be more valuable than mine for this." He shot a glance at Atalanza and shrugged as if to say 'might as well' and opened the laboratory door, allowing both of the others to pass before he shut it behind him, leaving the mad genius to his notes and his calculations. Prometheus wouldn't fail them, and he for one had no intention of failing Prometheus.

---

Seth Gilgamesh, his father's heir and perhaps more importantly his unpaid labor, was presently trying to coordinate where in the considerable state to store the shipments of The Cure that were coming in. The cellar was probably the best place for concealment purposes, but he had no desire to inhibit anyone's passage to the substantial quantities of drink to be found therein, least of all his father or himself. His father because frankly a sober David Gilgamesh was even more dangerous than a drunken one, in many senses of the term, and himself because sometimes a life spent covering up evidence of such a man's methods of persuasion was enough to warrant a stiff liquor or three.

"Just... in the dungeon for now, I suppose," he told the waiting courier from one of his sire's factories. Technically, those were supposed to be sealed off; personal dungeons in noble houses had been outlawed by the Queen and Parliament alike a number of years ago, after all, but well... Seth had no doubt at least that the ones beneath the palace no longer existed, but he would not presume to lay good money on anyone else having actually regarded the ordinance.

There was still a mountain of documents to be sorted through, and Seth had the intense desire to burn all of them for a moment, which signaled that it was probably a good time to take a break. He spent a few moments deciding what to do before he thought it might be best to take breakfast with his step-mother. The term was rather ludicrous; she was hardly five years his senior, but then this wasn't necessarily so uncommon. Especially not with second spouses. It didn't change anything, either, not really. Seth almost felt sorry for the poor woman, but his pity would be wasted there, and he certainly didn't have a whole lot of it to go around.

Emerging from his office, he directed a passing maid to inform the chef of where he'd be taking his meal, and made his way to the east wing, knocking on the door to Imogene's receiving room. Despite the public nature of his father's career, neither Seth nor the lady of the house left it much- he was too busy doing his father's office work, and she... well, any inclination she'd had to leave would probably have vanished with his half-sister, he supposed. The two of them didn't converse because they much cared about each other, he thought, but rather because there was simply no other outlet for mutual frustration. He had probably already told Imogene more than she should properly know of her husband's career and character, but he'd spared her the worst of it.

---

To say that she felt awkward being hugged about the waist by her little cousin was to do a disservice to the sheer level of discomfort that Loki was experiencing, but she handled it with as much grace as possible, patting him somewhat stiffly on the back. People did not regularly touch her, to say the least, but then children didn't really have the same boundaries as adults, now did they? On some level, it was nice to know she wasn't quite so stony as to prevent Siri from doing so.

Actually, she'd softened a great deal in the past year, in certain ways. It was almost amusing, actually; what most took to be an increasing resemblance to her mother was actually quite different: a growth more in the direction of Amon, who was able to be both expressive and still inscrutable at the same time. Her expressions were not overt, certainly not bombastic, but they were there, a small sign that perhaps everyone really was capable of change.

She smiled at the boy's recounting of his experiences here, and she knew she'd done something right by arranging it. A moment later, a much-improved-looking Lord Caelin Taylor appeared, and she echoed his warmth- if not in degree, than at least in intent. "Surely we can dispense with the formalities in our own residences, Caelin?" She was ushered into the parlor and took the offered seat, observing that in here at least, simplicity predominated over opulence. Something easily-appreciated and quite befitting of present company.

Sipping her tea and finding it pleasantly-flavored, she contemplated her answer for a moment. "Truthfully, I came for a number of reasons, mostly to see how you fared. I'm glad to see that the cure has already done you much good." She had stumbled upon knowledge of his illness in a rather unfortunate scenario that had involved a meeting (thankfully only with allies) in which he'd had a coughing fit. When the episode had left blood on the table, Loki had seen red in more than one sense. She'd been rather upset to say the least at the fact that he had not told her of something with such important implications, but once she'd had a chance to cool off, she'd realized that it really hadn't been any of her business and had never mentioned it again, at least not until she'd been informed of just what it was that occupied Prometheus Vanderbilt's time of late.

"I also came to check if you were aware of the... other implications of it." She referred of course to the discovered side-effects as well as what had been uncovered about its effect on magi.

Pan hummed to herself as she wandered about her grandparents' kitchen. Up until about six months ago, she'd been absolutely hopeless with anything involving food, but now that she was practically in hiding, she was slowly starting to learn those skills that she'd really had no time for previously. It was just as well; without as much to fill her days, she would probably have otherwise driven herself crazy with nothing to do.

She leaned against some free counterspace and considered what, exactly, she should do with the rest of her day. She had no more appointments to keep today, nor was it her day to visit Loki at the palace. Those were always something of a double-edged sword. The princess herself was hospitable, albeit in sort of a strange way, but it was obvious she didn't really belong there. Still, who did they have but each other these days? It wasn't safe for any of them to keep that many associates outside of the others, after all, and she didn't, aside from her family and her patients.

The smell of baking bread filled the small kitchen, and Pandora grinned to herself. Maybe one day, when all of this is over, she'd be able to make bread and pastries for a living. It sounded like a nice, peaceful sort of occupation. She didn't think too hard about when one day would be, or if it would ever come at all, because really, practicality was never the point of dreaming. She left the practicality to other people. They liked it better than she did, anyway.

---

The Assassins' Guild

Zade was taking notes on a rather large (but not dusty- nothing in the Archive was ever dusty) leather-bound book when she heard someone take a seat not far from her. Normally, this was something she would simply ignore, but as it was, she heard muttering, and had the voice not been feminine, she would have sworn that the voice belonged to a doctor she'd met a few times in the past. He certainly had the habit of talking to himself, and the subject matter was somewhat similar also.

As it was, she glanced up and saw a blond woman pull her had down over her head and apparently bury her nose in a book. She'd never seen this woman before, which while not necessarily a reason for suspicion (she certainly did not know all the assassins around here, after all) was certainly of at least mild interest. As Loki was constantly reminding her, even those things which did not seem to have immediate significance could be important later.

It was perhaps along this line of thinking that Zade decided to inquire. "Glashkov?" she had to admit, that was an odd choice for an assassin's light reading. "You... don't live here, do you?" As if the clothes hadn't made that obvious enough; even she wore the standard uniform around the Guild itself, and she certainly wasn't an actual assassin. Close enough, she supposed, but not really.

Her daily dress and grooming finished, Imogene had dismissed her maid and commenced wandering about in search of a purposeful occupation which might hold her memories and her grief at bay, if only for a little while. For she knew, if she spent one more moment pondering ruefully about what might have been, or if there were anything she could possibly do to change the sad twist of fate, she would simply go mad. Gliding into her personal receiving room with enough grace to make it seem as if she were on a cloud, her eyes fell on the small but beautifully embellished writing desk beneath one of the room’s many windows. It was one of the few things she had brought with her when she’d moved from her family’s estate to her husband’s, which was infinitely more grand.

Imogene remembered that time well; back when David had still seemed as enamored of her as she had been of him. He had spared no expense, allowing her to decorate the rooms which would become hers after their shared duration in the estate’s own personal “honeymoon suite” as lavishly as she pleased. He told her she need bring nothing with her, but, on the desk, she had insisted. It had been a tradition on her mother’s side of the family to pass the writing desk from mother to daughter. Her mother had given it to her upon her marriage to David, just as she would one day give it to her daughter. Of course, she’d had no idea, no inkling that she would never be allowed that privilege…

Sigrun’s birth had been difficult. It put quite a strain on Imogene, and the doctor told her, after Sigrun, there would be no more children. Even as the news was being given to her--David a few feet away in a darkened corner of the room--she held her newborn daughter in her arms, never guessing that she would one day be stolen away. At the time, Imogene couldn’t say that she much cared if she never had another child. The perfect child, and the only one Imogene could ever want was already lying swaddled in her arms, suckling from her breast for the first time; her little body was so close that it felt like an extension of her own, as if she would be bound to this baby by an invisible string which connected their two hearts forever.

It had been true enough. No matter the distance which currently gulfed between them now, that cord still tugged at her like the phantom limb of a man who’d been unfortunate enough to lose his arm or leg. Though it was gone, he could still feel it at times, maybe in the middle of the night, moving of its own accord as clearly as the days when it had still been attached to his body. Imogene was inexplicably tied to her daughter and could still feel her with a sense stronger than sight, touch, sound, smell or taste. She had felt it the moment Sigrun had entered the world, and she knew it would cease only in the moment that she ever left it. It was stronger than any emotion could ever be, and it was how she knew, without having to be told, that her daughter was still alive and well somewhere just out of reach. It was also what made the urge to know where she was and with whom all the stronger within her mother’s heart.

But what was to be done? Even if she had an inkling, she would never be able to keep it from the watchful eyes of her husband, she was sure. He had made it quite clear that, in his eyes, Sigrun had never existed, and she would do well to adopt his view, because their daughter would never be allowed back into their lives.

Pushing thoughts which only intensified her grief out of her head, she made her way to the aforementioned writing desk and sat down. Perhaps she could pass the time by writing to her mother…

Dearest Mother, she began, but as soon as the two words were written, the pen she held gingerly between her fingertips could only hover indecisively over the page. What was there to say, after all? Their favorite topic of conversation--for Grandmamma Clarissa had doted on her granddaughter as much as Imogene had--was now a taboo.

Imogene put the pen down and crumpled the paper into a ball. Her eyes turned sadly to the fishbowl on the windowsill which housed two black fish with golden bellies. They swam in a repetitive circular motion, as if they were playing follow the leader. Imogene watched them: round and round, and round and round they swam until they were nothing more than an inky blur that bled to meld effortlessly with the water. She watched, little understanding why the sight was so captivating.

A knock at the door made Imogene’s body lurch forward automatically, and she was pulled out of her hypnosis. It was then that she understood. Staring at those fish, her mind had been unequivocally blank. There were no thoughts, no memories or feelings in those few moments, and it felt immeasurably good to be so numb--mind and body--that nothing was real for once. She was loathe to have her lack of thought interrupted.

Imogene knew who it was, of course. Only three people sought her company these days, and only two of them knocked. Her husband came and went as he pleased and Imogene was sure that knocking was not an action he housed in his impressive repertoire. Katie had already came and went, which left only one person: Seth.

“Come in,” she called, still sitting at her writing desk. Seeing as Seth was the only person whose conversation could take her mind of other, more unpleasant things, Imogene enjoyed his visits as much as she could enjoy anything in her state, with grief so close, waiting in the wings, threatening to pounce on her the moment she let her guard down.

Taylor Estate

Taylor gratefully accepted her concerns. "Well, Loki. I know how temperamental you can be." He replied. He left the cup of tea to stew, as he had imbibed copious amounts upstairs along with the meal his maids insisted on forcing down his throat. That was the thing if you ruled the household with a velvet hand- servants tend to be more vocal, but he knew the maids were only looking out for his health. He gave her a pointed look. The Princess, even now, never really did make house calls unless she had more than one reason to do so- and at least one of those reasons had to be of somewhat importance. His suspicions were answered when she asked about the implications of taking the cure Vanderbilt had created.

He chuckled. "What other choice did I have, now? I'm sure, that someday the Gray man on his horse will come back for me because I defied him. At the very least, I will then be strong enough to resist him instead of being on all fours and retching my innards out." His voice grew slightly bitter, but Taylor wasn't a man that could maintain that voice. It sounded more like self depreciation rather than cynicism. He hardly used such crude language, but it was a casual talk amongst friends- and he considered that the only time when he could drop this facade. Taylor wasn't the smartest man, and he certainly wasn't the strongest- so he studied hard and worked more than most nobles to retain his guise of intelligence.

Seeing Loki so angry that day had definitely spooked him. Though he didn't realize it at the time, it spoke of just how concerned she was for his health- and how she respected it even though she thought he was "killing himself". It was also why Taylor trusted her completely. It was an old man thing- despite the noble's relative youth. Like his own open honesty, he could decipher others. A trick often used by members of Parliament, "misused" if it was in his opinion.

"I am mending. I hope to be able to perform more activities by the end of the week. Sadly, the physician told me I had let myself rot for a little longer than he would have liked. Of course, I have to be here. For him, for you, for everyone else. You may be smarter and more powerful than I can hope to be, but you still lack experience." Even the dullest person would have caught on that he wouldn't live as long as most people, even with the disease banished from his body. "I feel like an old fogey saying that." He added, smiling. He picked the cup up delicately, and downed the entire cup so the maids wouldn't berate him again.

---

Assassin's Guild

The common treatment for infected wounds can be carried out in various ways, but can be very difficult without the proper antibiotic trea- Suddenly, the girl's sixth sense picked up, her hair standing on end. It never usually meant anything- the young lady had become so paranoid even Etzel has to ask her to calm down. The masked doctor's most recent attempt in pressing away the paranoia was working- as she wasn't flipping out on every man that happened to be holding something sharp, blunt, long, or short. She looked up from the shadow of her hat to see the young lady she was observing early to be right over her.

"Glashkov?" She asked, piquing Victoria's interest. Didn't assassins read these books? Or rather, were they not as multifunctional as she had thought? Well, her master seemed more focused on medicine than actual fighting. That would explain.

Maybe it was a ploy? A plan to draw her in before she planted a knife in her neck? No, no way- not here? She had her master's permission. Before she could go further and start talking to herself again, she quashed the anxious feeling and looked up with a wistful grin. "Glashkov indeed." She replied. "Yeah, I don't live here- Otherwise I'd have one of those snazzy suits you're wearing." She marked her place in the book, and closed it.

"I don't see many people like you around here, though." She commented. "Nothing like a fellow girl here to calm the nerves- everyone here makes me feel so stupid!" She extended a hand to the girl.

On most occasions the workshop was alike unto an inferno, the clashing of steel akin to the screaming of the furies, while the aging blacksmith toiled tirelessly for days on end constantly drawing, bending, and folding the blistering metal into all forms of blades, or shrinking and punching plates to be used for the Crown’s skyship repairs. The few strikers apprenticed to Garbiel would rush to and fro while heating metal, fetching coke, the traditional fuel of Forgefire workshops, disliking the cheaper coal, and performing whatever tasks the smith deemed them capable of managing. However this afternoon was different, but a more common sight over the past year since the brutal assassination of the Marquis Adam Goldwater, as the workshop lay silent with hungry furnaces aching to burn once again, a thumping sound could be heard echoing from the upstairs living apartments reserved for the blacksmith and his family, or it would be for his family had the man ever had one. It was the echoing of Forgefire's colossal boots trudging back and forth through his study, contemplating the events occurring within the previous week since the discovery of The Cure by Dr. Vanderbilt, and the unconscionable procurement of this medicine by persons overwhelmed with greed.

A simple steel goblet lay clasped within thin, nimble hands, twirling the glass slowly with a slight twist of the wrist, swirling the deep red liquid in tranquil circles. A horribly scarred arm crept upwards to touch the cool rim to parched lips, sipping slowly from the spiced wine, but only lasting for a quick moment, almost teasing the tongue with the taste. It was not his custom to drink heavily, and many know the dangers of being a drunk blacksmith, but dark days like these forced a weak soul to seek solace where it could, pondering the evils of a failing world. This was merely his first cup though; he would not begin to drink more heavily until later off in the night when the Blacksmith’s Guild was less stringent upon the workings of their members. Less is required of the grizzled old man with each consecutive year, and all the Guild mostly desires is for the Forgefire technique to be taught to the younger generation. They were using him like they did everyone, bleeding them dry until they were worth nothing, but this was his life and he loved working on the forge.

What the man could not grasp his mind around was how anyone could let this happen to those already suffering more than any human should bear, but what could he do about it? It had been his biggest regret to never use his influence for good when he could, and now with his political connections were slipping away slowly, drifting towards the easily fooled youth. Garbiel had not seen it for many years, but the magi used to be imprisoned within that so-called school, and only if the walls could speak would anyone know what truly happened there, and now they are under the threat of extinction. With a guttural sigh the wine vessel was laid on a paper-smothered desk as orderliness had never been the greatest concern of Garbiel. The newly emancipated hand then gravitated towards the crude blade gracing the leather belt around the smith’s waist, thumbing the length of the blade curiously, as the elderly man seated himself roughly behind the cluttered desk in a lush goose-down chair, the red-velvet cases embroidered with a fuchsia-colored stitch. The man may not squander much wealth on clothing, but he would not settle for less than the best in all furniture used for lounging.

“Oh well…” Grumbled the blacksmith quietly to himself, “Nothing much I can do about it, so best leave it be for the bureaucrats to solve for their selves.”

As if a dark cloud had lifted from his furrowed brow the look of the Forgefire smith’s countenance metamorphosed from that of a tortured soul to that of complete tranquility, looking much more comfortable on the bearded face. The sip teased the parched mouth, the spices tantalizing the palette, begging for more of the beloved nectar, and this increased desire was sated with one long draught from the vessel, emptying of its contents. A warm smile crept upon Garbiel’s face at the prospect of another glass, but with a longing look he placed the goblet by the flask of wine seated in a corner of his desk. Instead his lumbering frame turned towards a window on the other side of the room overlooking the bustling streets of Beta District.

“Maybe it would be best to traverse to city on such a beautiful day. Who to visit however…”

Speaking to their selves, was not an uncommon habit of blacksmith, mostly it was done in an attempt to hear you speak over the blazing fires of the furnace, of the clashing of steel. The bald man ambled off towards the thick oaken door separating the apartment from the staircase leading to the workshop, stopping momentarily the key that lay dangling off a hook to its right. The locking mechanism had been designed by one of his scientist associates, and he had crafted the parts himself, consisting of a design unique to most other locks within Revelation. With a resounding thud the door was shut, and the quiet click of mechanisms turning into placed signaled the security of his living quarters, as creaking steps whisked the broad man outwards and into the clutching maw of the crowd, transforming the large man into another formless wanderer.

Arriving at the train station, Felix attracted, as usual, a variety of looks. His shabby suit and untamed hair gave him away as a Delta man and the main reason people ever crossed in from over there was as an instructor at the Institute. They may as well have given him a carriage of his own for all the people looking down at him. It was the same every day but it was still something he would never get used to. The way he could feel eyes burning into the back of his head, the contempt with which he was regarded, the cold hate in many cases was bad enough but he thought he'd be able to handle it if they just looked him in the eye when he turned to face them. But no, they turned their heads, like he wasn't good enough to meet their gaze. If he had things his way he'd blow them all to hell right there and then and be damned with the consequences.

Unfortunately things just didn't work out that way. And even if he felt strongly enough to commit murder, something he didn't know if he was capable of or not, he had the Institute to think about. The kids that would have to grow up with even more prejudice in the world just because he couldn't control himself. Indeed, the fate of every mage rested on the shoulders of each and every one of his kind. Which is why he bit his lip and climbed on to the train when it pulled in, taking his notepad from his pocket and jotting down some ideas he'd had on the way. There would be no one to read over his shoulder, there was not another passenger for half a dozen rows in either direction.


The journey to District Beta, aside from the usual distance he managed to keep from any other passengers, was uneventful. He hopped off here and waited for his connecting service, which today would take him all the way to Delta, rather than him changing again in Gamma. People here were less bothered by him, he didn't stand out quite so much and his purpose in the area was not quite so obvious, which was always a relief. So his wait passed quickly, he did not have to concentrate on keeping his mouth shut and his hands by his side.

Eventually, just over an hour after his first train, he arrived back in District Delta, back home at last. With no more to do with his time he considered just going home and getting his work finished, as well as some of those all important weekly chores that did no more than bore the arse off him. Unfortunately his Father was ill again. Nothing particularly bad but a man of his age could go from fine to Death's door in a matter of hours, no matter how much of a fighter he was.

Felix's Father had been retired for a number of years and now lived with him at home. He'd managed to hold on to his house even after the change in jobs that left him with a lower income and it was big enough for the two of them. But in recent times the old man had been getting ill more and more often, although he always made a full recovery, usually through the aid of an ex-student who had become a damn fine healer around the area, someone he'd need to stop by and ask for help from yet again.

Her Grandparent's house was on the way back to Felix's own home, barely out of the way really, and he knew that was where she was staying at the moment. Not many knew and he was careful to keep it quiet, Pandora had told him she needed to lay low for a while and he made sure to respect her wishes of being a little harder to track down than your average mage. His own suggestion of cancelling house calls landed on deaf ears. Whatever she was running from, it wasn't going to be enough to stop her doing her job and he doubted that anything would be enough for that.

At a leisurely pace he walked the half mile there and knocked the door briskly, stepping back and waiting for an answer.

Giacomo nodded as Prometheus assistant basically undermined his primary and most preferable idea. True, they couldn't change it on the flick of a switch now that the stuff was out there, but through painstaking paperwork it should be possible. Then the thought without consious mind was put to the lips: "But isn't our job as scientists to see the possibilities and think about the future?" That these words left his mind was a shock to Giacomo himself. He then heard Joshua's counterword regarding the underground production. It was quite depressing to hear that such ammounts of money were spend without necessity on mage countermeasures. "Quite dissapointing to hear you need such funding to make medication that is meant for the poorest, but even worse is how the money is wasted now." He said calmly.


Then his ears picked up the muttering of prometheus, asside from his yelling this was the most annoying manner of speach Prometheus used, at least by Giacomo's books, it made it hard to know what the man was saying. He could hear it was about the comment about making a new better cure, but couldn't filter through it well enough to fully understand. Though he could deduct that he was already working on a new formula, which lead him to say: "If I might, I'd suggest to take a less chemical solution and look closer to nature. Even though the air purifier is standing for a short while, I've noticed bacterial growth on the filters, after a few basic tests I've concluded that these actualy break down the part of the mix that I was struggling to get under controll. Quite simply facinating. Wilst I do not know if these parts are the causes, nor I know whether these bacteria will cause harm to the human body, I suspect that this might be something to look into. Bacteria as a cure, doesn't that just sound like a leap for medical science to you?" He said with a certain and understandable enthousiasm.

Giacomo was walking to the door as Prometheus mentioned his royal funding. He paused his walk, turned to Joshua and with an unreadable smile he said: "You found me out, now my only choice is to send assasins after you." Before he bursted in a rather friendly laughter, which directly made clear that he was atempting to make a joke. As he walked into the corridor behind the door he, more or less into the room rather than directed to anyone in particular, said: "In any case, if room will play a factor in the necessary funding then I don't mind lending one of the empty storage levels under the air purifier to you as a lab. A few simple additions should be enough to turn it into a lab. And under the cover of the air purifier I can buy large quantities of mana at discounted prices, not to mention many other subtances and materials I need for operation, annalysis and research purposes." He said with a smirk covering his face.

This was probably the worst part of being a mainstream member of the Guild. As a Hand, he had gone in without so much as a puff of displaced air to suggest his existence, donning his solid black leathers and disappearing. As a vagabond, tattered rags and stained pants was enough to keep him going unnoticed day to day. In his current occupation, Eos found the amount of costume changes vexing at times. As of this very moment Eos was dressed in gray and black formal attire suited for meeting friends and dining out. It still felt much too fancy and sifling for his sensibilities, although the vest and red tie did make him feel rather dashing.

As newly broken in leather shoes padded across the cobblestone, Eos adjusted the cuffs of his pristine dress-shirt and straightened the vest over it. He sensed the scrutiny of several Alpha-goers on a leisurely stroll, most of which could be traced back to members of the fairer sex. Imagined or not, their appraisal made him slightly uncomfortable. He was so used to being overlooked or people being oblivious to his presence that the feeling of others not simply noticing, but intentionally staring was unnerving. Eos was about to banish these thoughts and chock it up to paranoia when a passing lady and her daughters tossed a coy batting of her eyelashes his way and the latter two giggled.

Eos cleared his throat and adjusted his tie once more, continuing on his way. A short distance down the road the assassin's destination came into sight: The Gilgamesh Estate. He smirked and his thoughts grew clearer as his focus came to him. Ever since recovering from the rancid poisoning suffered from the well-aimed bolt of an enemy assassin a year previous, Eos had rigorously trained his mind and body alongside his former mentor. With Amon Gregory's help he learned to control his murderous impulses...although to say there was a flawless record on his attempts not to kill Amon would be a blatant lie. Still. Things felt better now. Sharper, more tangible.

The assassin slipped into the shadows between a gate and a neighboring estate and vaulted over once he was sure the coast was clear. The nearest three sentries were too focused on decorum and aesthetic appeal with their erect positions and unblinking stares into the distance that Eos was almost sure that he could have walked right past them instead of zig-zagging inbetween bushes and statues in the garden. As Eos neared the delicately engraved window, he contemplated what little information he'd been given on the nature of this assignment.

Six of the most likely candidates for the newest attempt on Loki's life had been listed for Eos and one other assassin to track down and interrogate, three each. As each had a relatively spotless record as far as politicians and bluebloods went, Eos's visit was more a formality and a veiled threat than anything else. Just to let them know that they were being watched. As for actual surveillance, that was up to whomever the Second-Masters had assigned to the task.

Silent as death Eos placed his foot on the lush carpet inside of the manse. The window closed with a click, it's picked lock resetting. Eos replaced the needle-like thieves tools on the inside of his vest and began walking as if all was normal. For all the servants knew, it was. High-nosed snobs and blackmailing politicians-to-be visited the Gilgamesh estate on a regular basis, so what was one more nicely dressed fellow wandering it's halls. Having memorized a bluprint of the structures earlier, Eos navigated th halls with ease. He smiled and nodded at each and every servant he passed, even tipping a silver or two to a couple of the younger ones. God knew they deserved it.

Eos pulled up alongside the younger Gilgamesh at the door to Imogene's room with a firendly smile. His sleeves had been rolled up and Eos's hand, black nail-polish and dark disks within the palms plain for all to see. An odd choice of decoration to most, and a sign of death to few others. "Evenin', lord. Mind if I join you for a chat? I represent the interests of several members of the aristocracy and parliament who would rather remain anonymous, of whom are interested in some possible activities your family may be involved in. Ludicrous, I know, Gilgamesh has always done so much for Revelation. But! Business is business!"

As the noble would enter, Eos would follow, keeping a polite distance and silence until properly addressed by the man or his mother. This first part of his mission was somewhat vague; The Second-Masters had said to draw information from any of the family at his discretion, as they were not completely sure of who--even if they were--planning to make a move.

The Assassins' Guild

After leaving Scheherazade in the care of the Archivist, Amon made his way back to his private office space, which was inconspicuously located amongst a row of similarly-furnished spaces on what was assuredly not the top floor of the building. It would be rather contrary for a master assassin to make his personal quarters ostentatious enough to be noticed apart from the rest, after all.

On his way in, he passed the apprentice doing duty as a receptionist of sorts and stopped. The poor lad was still new enough to look absolutely petrified of him, something that had Amon chuckling inwardly. “Should a man by the name of Garbiel Forgefire come by, do direct him to me.” The lad gulped and nodded quickly, a gesture which Amon himself returned with a good deal more poise before continuing on his way.

He had noted that Etzel and his apprentice seemed to be present also, though he had no idea if the physician-assassin needed to see him specifically or not. For the most part, he let Etzel go about his business as he would. Though he had tried to convince him that staying permanently at the Guild for a while would be just as safe as moving about and being in hiding generally, he could understand if that was not the way he wished to conduct his business. He was, after all, just as much a doctor as he was a professional murderer.

---

Marchfield Laboratories

"You found me out, now my only choice is to send assassins after you." Joshua shook his head. “And here I thought I’d escaped such dangers. Ah well, I suppose things must always be sacrificed for science.” A congenial smile crossed his face before he remembered their destination and it dropped into a frown. Oh, this was going to go marvelously. Good day, Minerva, I know it’s been almost a year since
I last bothered to come by for a chat, but I need you to run over Parliament for the sake of the poorest citizens in the city, none of whom will be a lick of defense for you when the repercussions come down on your head. this was going to be rather unpleasant indeed.

He considered trying his niece instead. She was a member of Parliament, after all; it was possible that she might be able to mobilize enough other members to take care of this without his sister’s interference, was it not? Well, there was little point in hypothesizing now, not when they’d have their answer soon enough.

Joshua ushered the other two in the direction of his personal smallcraft and climbed into the driver’s place himself. The trip through the rather scantly-populated streets of Alpha was quick, and it was not long before they were able to unload in front of the palace gates. It was only the most dreaded kind of nostalgia that he ever felt when looking at the place, but at the very least there was a chance that something could be done here. It wasn’t the Parliament building, after all.

He passed his name to a few of the guards and eventually managed to get the three of them to Alia, the Queen’s personal bodyguard, who took one look at the group of them and ushered the lot into Minerva’s receiving room. The monarch herself was radiant for a woman of her age, having received her own dose of the Cure quite recently. Seated at a writing desk, she looked up as the three entered, gentle eyes lighting up upon recognizing her only sibling.

“Joshua! It has been too long.” The man addressed bowed somewhat swiftly, but she brushed all that nonsense aside and embraced him, stepping back to regard her other guests with warmth. “Ah, you must be the esteemed Mr. Vernazza,” she said of Giacomo, offering a smile. “I’m afraid I do not know your name, Miss, but you are all quite welcome. Please, do sit. My brother scarcely has occasion to make social calls, so I assume you must need something. I assure you, if it is so important as to lure this particular mouse out of his lab, it must be important, and you have my full attention.”

Joshua looked to the others; he was not a man of many words, and for him to ask this of his sister, he knew, would be to taint any future action on her part with the blood between them. He did not need her to be so unfairly regarded. “Well, I think Atalanza here could pose the problem as well as I could, and Mr. Vernazza has a few possible solutions, but we could truly use your help…”

---

The Gilgamesh Estate

Seth had just laid his hand on the doorknob when he felt someone behind him and swung around, instinctively reaching for a blade that was, he realized with a healthy amount of trepidation, not presently there. His father had never been the sort of figure who needed to worry about protection in his own home, and Seth himself was not in the habit of carrying a weapon unless he ventured elsewhere. He kept a concealed one on his person when entertaining guests, but this was not something he’d thought he’d be doing today either.

Despite the man’s excessively chirpy tone, Seth was not so stupid as to believe that this was a simple friendly visit. Gray eyes flicked to the man’s hand, and he immediately recalled something he was not supposed to have read in his father’s private documents. This man was an assassin, and not only that, but the personal lapdog of the princess. And, below the woman herself, Amon Gregory, and Caelin Taylor, number four on Duke Gilgamesh’s hitlist.

It occurred to Seth that this man might very well be here to kill them, in which case it would probably be best to yell through the door at Imogene to escape and try to hold him off for as long as possible (he did not entertain fancies of winning unarmed), but he swiftly dismissed both notions. If Eos of Tartarus had come to kill him, Seth knew he’d be dead already.

Instead, he simply inclined his head, but spoke before opening the door. “My father’s wife is not in the best state right now, and she knows much less of him than I do. If assassins are taught mercy, I ask that you exercise it upon her if not myself.” With that, he opened the door and admitted them both.

“Lady Imogene, I apologize for the intrusion, but it appears that we have a guest. He wishes to… discuss my father, I think.” He shot something between a glare and an inquiry at Eos before seating himself across from his sire’s wife. He would allow her the discretion of choosing the pacing of the interrogation (for he was sure that was what this would be).

---

District Delta

A pair of plainly-dressed individuals were presently making a beeline for the residence of one Pandora Elling. Frankly, both believed the slaying of a simple healer a bit below the threshold of their skill, but as their employer had reminded them, nobody had yet succeeded in what should have been a simple task.

They were stymied by the arrival of a person not in their dossier of Elling’s known acquaintances, though, and they decided to wait until he was admitted. Hopefully, the man would leave soon and they could slip in after him and slay the healer. Otherwise, they would simply have to kill both.

Elsewhere in the city, some of their colleagues were poised to do much the same to a number of other priority targets.

---

The Taylor Estate

Loki could not say she was pleased to discuss Caelin’s death, but she appreciated the frankness with which he was able to do so. Perhaps her company was not as awful as some had accused it of being. Or maybe it was and that didn’t really matter to him. Either would do.

She shook her head at his joke. “Well, you might feel like an old man, but I assure you that your experience dealing with Parliament is most valuable. As is your conscience.” The last was more true than she cared to admit- Loki was well-aware that she had a less-than-perfect method of trying to figure out when she was taking things too far. She liked to think that she had the best interests of the city in mind, but she did not believe that all means to an end were equally valid. Unfortunately, this knowledge alone was not always enough to differentiate the acceptable means from the too-ruthless ones, ones that would have made her scarcely better than Gilgamesh himself.

It scared her, the possibility that she might end up like the Prime Minister. It was assuredly one of the reasons she kept Caelin’s counsel- unlike her, he was actually a compassionate individual with a discernible moral compass along some axis other than efficient/inefficient.

She was stopped from saying anything further by a noise from outside the door. “Did you hear that?” she asked quietly, calmly setting her teacup down on the table in front of her. It sounded quite a bit like someone was out there, but trying not to make any noise. Silently, the princess rose to her feet, stooping for a second to withdraw a knife from the side of her boot. She’d dealt with too many attempts on her life in the past year to take any possible threat less than perfectly seriously. Nobody was supposed to know she was here; she’d been so paranoid that she hadn’t even told Carlisle where they were headed until they were in the smallcraft.

A second later, the answer to her question was irrelevant, because the door burst open to admit a pair of assassins (though obviously Guild renegades). Carlisle followed, but she shook her head. “Find Siri and as many of the staff as you can; look out for others. Keep them safe.” Just two? Gilgamesh underestimates us… again. Frowning, she drew the one on the left to the far side of the room. They’d probably snuck past Caelin’s security… certainly more comforting than the possibility that they’d killed them.

There was nothing more capable of showing the long-lines lengthening across the blacksmith’s face from the years of grueling, hot labor than the light of day, casting light upon the wrinkled face to unearth the shadow thrown across it by the dimness of the workshop, yet this fact never hindered Garbiel from strolling through the city of Revelation in all his years, and was not about to stop for as many as he had left. It had always been an obsession for him to examine the city in all its amazing contradictions, where benevolence and malevolence went hand-in-hand, some had everything while others had nothing, why life contradicts itself none would know. His thoughts had not always strayed into this intangible-kind of pondering, and it seemed as if only a day ago the only thoughts to cross his mind were that of merely making a name of his own, but dreams and aspirations had slipped away into thoughts of death and trepidation.

The sights of District Gamma had begun to meld themselves within the metamorphosing city, the brighter colored clothes of District Beta giving way to the browns and blacks of District Gamma, as the quality of the cloth degraded to that of a rougher-type. With this change of garb as came a shift in the populace as the shops gave way to carts and the markets to performing troupes, while the cutpurses flitted through the unsuspecting crowd to sneak away with as much coin as their bags could carry. Despite the growing unease most wealthier citizens of District Beta would feel the smith became more somber at the signs of suffering that began to sprout forth.

An idle-hand reached upwards to paw the trimmed beard encompassing angular jowls, while tranquil eyes surveyed a pair of performers juggling with flaming hand-axes. The man and woman were frequenters to the Forgefire workshop who always asked for eight pair made of only caste-iron, and afterwards would douse the heads in kerosene while tossing them back and forth with leather gloves for grip. The heat and flame can break anything down to nothing given enough time, whether it was made from caste-iron or steel, as it had begun to do with Garbiel Forgefire, and the flaming, axe-juggling couple would come back every month to purchase new axes so they could earn their living.

Time began to slip away from the elderly man whose thoughts began to wonder of other things, that is until a sharp tug wrenched it back into the present. The smith’s free hand darted forth to snatch the cutpurse’s frail wrist with an iron grasp, yanking the child upwards with a yelp as his shoulder’s socket bore the weight of his entire body; luckily the child was not plump, while ferocious-eyes scrutinized his scrawny frame. A quick-glance would suggest the child was underfed, but upon closer observation round cheeks revealed it was just a natural disposition for slenderness, with a ragged mop of tangled hair hanging limply down casting a shadow over the child’s eyes. If it were not for this fact the thief would probably have been able to see the string holding the coin-pouch was actually a stout, steel chain.

Aggravated features twitched at the outrageous thought of thievery, and a flick of the wrist tossed the child brusquely to the side out of disgust, only to collapse limply to the ground with a good arm grasping at the dislocated shoulder. The disgusted blacksmith stalked off quietly until the Assassin’s Guild began to emerge from the depths of District Gamma, appearing as if it were bursting forth from the earth itself, and that it had only been hallowed out afterwards. This sight of this ominous abode jarred the smith’s memories, recalling why he had set out for this particular district in the first place, besides avoiding his duties; Amon Gregory had requested a conversation concerning the purchase of several weapons for the Assassin’s armory. Without a moment to lose the lumbering form of Garbiel quickly paced to the Guild, almost setting out at a run in hopes to reach there sooner, but knew it best not to be seen huffing and perspiring on such an occasion. The figure of a uniformed sentry blended with the obsidian-like stone wall behind him, and began chuckling slightly at the sight of the familiar blacksmith; all of Amon’s meetings with Garbiel were scheduled for the same day and time each month, and had become more of a ritual than business affair for the two aging men.

The discomfited blacksmith hurried past without speaking to the waiting Minstrel, only acknowledging him with the briefest of nods. The Guild almost seemed like a cavern upon entering its interior, and a brief moment was called in order for the aging eyes to adjust to the long expanses of torch-lit corridors in-between thin-slit windows, more alike to archer slits than proper windows. The interior of the Assassin’s Guild had always seemed as quite as a crypt to Garbiel, a man accustomed to the hammering of steel and crackling of fire, while silent uniform-garbed figures rushed to and from on silent feet, performing whatever duties necessary, whether they be for work or leisure. He almost rushed past a seated apprentice had the man not squeaked like a mouse, "Are you Garbiel Forgefire?"

The words caught the hurrying man as if they were a net, stopping him to respond tersely, "Yes I am son, now get on with it!"

The harsh remark alarmed the already nervous receptionist, forcing his voice to squeak in an even higher pitch, "Master Amon says he will be expecting you in his study sir."

The instructions urged Garbiel that much faster, and hoping not to embarass himself even more than he already had by being later than he already was the man set off at a quickened pace, forcing the aging man to perspire slightly and gasp for breath. As a calloused hand motioned to knock on the door thick, oaken door a calm voice spoke out from the neighboring room, “You may enter Garbiel; I believe the entire Guild heard you coming,” as the door swung open to allow the blacksmith to enter the diminutive figure of the Guild master came into sight, seated perfectly erect on a simple cherry wood chair examining a rather cumbersome stack of papers and motioning towards an empty chair with a free hand, “Please have a seat.”The panting, aged man took a seat across from the gray-haired individual, taking a moment to regain his composure before beginning with their meeting. A grizzled hand swept across the top of a shaven head with a cloth that had been tucked away into a shirt pocket to wipe away several beads of perspiration that had gathered during the travel, while the other mused with his ginger beard in an attempt to conjure an apology.

“My sincerest apologies Sir Amon, I was lost within one of the street performances when I lost myself in thought. I only just remembered the time and rushed here as quickly as possible.”Icy-blue eyes raised themselves to meet the sparkling emerald gaze of Garbiel, contrasting as much as the rest of their countenances, while an understanding smile crept across the Assassin’s face.

“Neither of us are the shining examples of the yester-year that we were, time will have its way with everything Forgefire, no matter how it was forged, as a blacksmith you should know of that all too well. Do you have the necessary documents with you?”

Amon’s cool stare went back to the desk before him, placing the papers in his hand neatly in their respective pile, while a quill pen and jar of ink were brought from a door on its side. Garbiel brought forth this month’s bill tucked away in a sleeve, this business could have been handled by children, but both men were accustomed to the formality of their meetings and the image that it portrayed, and had grown slightly accustomed to each other’s presence throughout the years. It had been many such years since they had first met when Amon requested that resplendently simple-short sword, and Garbiel almost laughed in his face at the thought.

“So the years have been weighing on the infamous Sir Amon Gregory as well? May the sight of a day without your guardianship be long off indeed. I fear this city needs you for a while yet.”

A quizzical look crossed Amon’s crisp-features at the odd-statement spoken by the blacksmith; he had been known to speak with a grim-tone at times, but to voice such a foreshadowing of events was uncommon for the practical man. The assassin’s look was not met by the gloomy eyes of Garbiel that appeared to be looking into nothingness, almost as an uncommon look to the questing countenance usually portrayed as those of anger, almost disquieting Amon’s soul with their gaze. A signature was jotted down hastily, a rather unnaturally quick gesture by Amon, as a question was voiced.

“Garbiel you do not sound yourself this day. We shall end this meeting prematurely so that you may rest. I will send a messenger with this bill after a copy is made and the ink dries.” The sound of Amon’s voice seemed to wrench the drifting smith back to reality with a slight start as a second’s pause was used to comport himself quickly.

“I think I shall take your advice and take my leave of you then. However I should like to visit the Archives, there is a volume I have been searching for and hear tell that your library may house a copy, and if so I would dreadfully like to borrow it for the time being. It’s something by Glashkov, I’ve forgotten the tile for the moment, but when I’ll remember it when I see it.”

A small hand waved in acquiescence at the large man’s inquiry, while attention was already placed back into the pile of papers seated to the side of the bill, scanning through countless pages of whatever it may be. As the blacksmith proceeded out the door the rustling of paper was heard coming from behind him while Amon dug through the pile in search of specific subjects. More dark-robed figures whisked past during his travel towards the Archive, giving this structure symbolic of death the façade of life and energy, some nodding in acknowledgement at the passing outsider. Many assassins had come and gone during his years of dealing with the Guild, and most of the faces were known to a man that put such attention to details, yet there were still the younger faces of the future that crept in every year to replace the aging ones of the past, and the numbers kept shifting year that past.

Eventually his footsteps brought him within the confines of the all-too-neat Archives, where it was joked that even the dust was catalogued by its keepers. At a nearby table there was a young lady standing, engaged in conversation with another, who seemed to be around the same age but neither was more than a child, which had a color-faded tome in her hands. Hoping to catch a glimpse of what was written on the cover of the book Garbiel walked around the backside of the standing lady, using his peripheral vision in hopes to spot the name without interrupting their conversation, hopefully he was not being overly conspicuous with his actions. Luckily he glimpsed the letters “Glash-, “ on the cover, and proceeded to seat himself nearby the pair, not wanting to interrupt them.

Pandora had just removed her bread loaves from the oven when there was a tapping at her front door. Knowing that both of her grandparents were out today, that left her the only one to answer it. Wiping her hands absently on the hand towel on the counter, she tried to make herself look slightly presentable (being a rather untidy cook, she was presently covered in quite a few white swaths of flour), but eventually gave up the effort as mostly useless. It wasn't like the people who came to see her generally cared much what she looked like anyway. The self-consciousness was hers alone, but it was a futile effort next to the compulsion to be polite and do things in a timely manner.

Pan pulled open the door, but it was not any of the people she might have been thinking it would be. "Professor Windsor," she greeted with obvious puzzlement. It was not as though she never saw him, of course, but she was pretty sure the last time had been about three months prior. Blinking overlarge blue eyes slowly for a second, she remembered her manners and shoved the rusty-hinged door open wide enough to admit him. "Oh, I'm sorry, please come in!" She smiled brightly and moved out of the way so he could enter, and then forced the door shut again behind him. Something of a feat for the slightly-built mage, but one she was well-used to. To say that everything in Delta was broken or malfunctioning would be a bit dramatic, but certainly her house wasn't in the best of shape. She had been considering asking Eos to take a look at it, before deciding that no, she was not going to do such a thing. He was an assassin, not a manual laborer.

"Uhm... I can't really offer you much, but I did just finish making some bread. Oh, and I have tea!" The thought was cheering to her; it was the same kind that Lord Taylor had, procured perhaps because of the sheer amount of delight she'd professed upon tasting some of his once. Moving a standing pot of water onto the stove, she lit it with a spell. Physical magic, and not her area of expertise, but something so simple that she was capable of it all the same. "Help yourself, if you'd like," she offered, indicating the hot loaves.

"Oh, right... you're probably here for a reason, huh? Is someone sick? You don't need me immediately, do you? Because I can go right now if-" Pandora cut herself off and cleared her throat awkwardly, shaking her head. "Sorry. Rambling." She took the pot off the flame and ladled it into two cups, both old and hers chipped, but useable. The tea leaves were added, and she handed one across to Felix.

---

The Assassins' Guild

Zade snorted, rolling her eyes, though not at the woman specifically, more at the mention of her rather obvious uniform. "Oh yes, nothing quite so tasteful as an apprentice's uniform. No better way to say, 'I'm new here, please throw sharp things at me to test my reflexes.'" All the same, she smiled, for it was indeed a joke- well, mostly. Only one person had thrown something sharp at her without warning thus far, and she had a feeling that was more to do with his personality than any actual training procedure here.

"Scheherazade," she said, taking the proffered hand and shaking it. "Well... Zade if you'd rather avoid the mouthful. Don't let any of them make you feel stupid; I'm pretty sure part of being an assassin is coming off like you know more than you actually do." She shrugged; at least that was how she chose to think of it. Well, except Amon. Zade was fairly certain he did know more than any man should. Occasionally, she thought she could see glimpses of it in his expression. Bah, and now I think I'm reading too much into things. Next thing I know, I'll be seeing sadness in someone's eyes or something. She wasn't much of an empathetic soul, and thought that most things of that nature were rather unreliable and frivolous.

At about this point, a rather large man with a shaven head, obviously not an assassin judging by his attempt to be subtle, passed behind Zade and sat not too far from the two of them. What he wanted, she had no idea, and it certainly wasn’t any of her business, but all the same she could not resist the ascension of her eyebrow, as if to ask the girl across from her if the man was serious. Being schooled relentlessly in looking out for people who might be after your employer’s life had the fringe benefit of attuning her to things like this, and it was actually because he was so clearly no trained the same way that she did not either move away or attack immediately (well, that and the fact that her charge was not actually present). Chances were, he wanted something relatively innocuous. Perhaps he knew the blonde across from her or something? Hell, he could be her father for all Zade knew.

Taylor Estate

"I hardly think you will need it for much longer. You've changed, though you may not be aware of all of them." He replied as the Princess interjected. Indeed, something was outside their room. He didn't remember any maid cleaners up here at this time- usually they tried to remain invisible. However, such footing- even the newest servant was quieter than that. His face darkened slightly, his amicable face torn away as if it were a mask. Such persistent attacks had lead to changes in the young noble as well. He unclipped the Epieu from his belt, holding it by his side as two men entered. His thoughts immediately darted to Siri, who was undoubtedly in his room completing his studies. However, the Princess put his mind at ease as her bodyguard went to take care of him. He trusted the old man, though sometime he worried about his age. He dared not mention it, as some assassins had that damned pride like he had.

It had been a while since the last time they had been able to corner him like this. Most of the times, his guards caught them breaking an entry and quickly subdued them. They could hardly catch any prisoners. Those who did get caught committed suicide, the rest were killed or escaped. His guards, over the course of a year had been very vigilante, as their lives depended on their lord's health- and assassins would compromise that tenuous balance. Loki had drew one of the renegades over to the far side of the room. It was very lucky the room itself was fairly simple with very little fragile aesthetics, otherwise there might be glass danger.

The second assassin focused his attention on the young noble, who readied his short spear. It wasn't like he hadn't been practicing as much as he could as he started to mend, but his body still protests against extended periods of hard combat. Even now, the adrenaline rush is kicking in and causing him to break into a slight sweat. The Assassin drew a short sword, single edged hard-corner blade similar to a wakizashi. Very fitting for the stereotypical assassin- easy to draw, wield, and very quick. This was going to be difficult- but just a two-man squad? They had to be tougher than they looked if their assailant was that confident. Or stupid.

He did share Loki's suspicions that Gilgamesh was behind this, but as a devout upholder of justice, Caelin had always believed one was innocent until proven guilty. With no proof, he still nursed a weak doubt that the man may not want their heads. Suddenly, the Assassin darted for an opening in Taylor's guard, strafing left and jabbing toward his right side. Taylor dipped his spear, catching the sword and parrying it away, moving free from the chair. He sidestepped another jab and raised his spear to block the following slash from that position. He suddenly ducked, slamming the man's foot with his spear before attempting to gut him- however the assassin had hopped away, shaking his foot out. With a sudden flash, Caelin charged in, slashing and stabbing in a methodical yet rapid fashion at any open spots. This sent the Assassin on the defensive. This normally would have defeated any other fighter, as Caelin had the advantage of being able to use the entire length of the shaft to outdistance the wakizashi. His eyes continually tracked the Assassin's movements, attempting to diverge some pattern that he could exploit.

---

Assassin's Guild

Now it was the young apprentice's turn to laugh. "You seem to be doing all right so far." She commented. Her countenance went slightly stone-like when she introduced herself as innate thoughts of paranoia ran though her head. Is it sudden for names? Does she want to win my confidence? Is she really going to slip a blade in my ribs? Should I give a fake name? I don't have living relatives- would she be able to link me to Master? Fake name? Traitors? It took her nearly ten seconds of internal struggle before she decided to be honest with her. She was rather tired of coming up with false identities, it didn't pay to lie to nice Assassins, and she couldn't think of a convincing name.

"Victoria. Victoria Steins." She said, shaking. "Scheherazade, was it? I hope I didn't butcher the name." She did not like getting names wrong, as it shows poor friendship. However, it was nicknames she was terrible with. She shifted slightly as a very burly man sat down near her. Her head was instantly wired, and more thoughts ran through her head. She had consulted her Master about this, as she normally did not suffer extreme bouts of paranoia before. He had written it off as close contact with himself for too long, and suggested that she leave.

"Aghh, how am i going to get that physician's inductment without going mad?" She muttered in a soft voice before she realized she had been talking to herself. She flushed red instantly, embarrassed to be caught doing that in public. She looked at the man and gave a sheepish grin. "Sir, can I help you? I, uh, don't work in this place so you shouldn't be asking me." Maybe he mistook her for an employee due to her different uniform.

"Professor Windor"

It was almost a question, such was the apparent surprise at his visit (And the white patches of flour she had missed only gave evidence that he had called at a bad time). True, he didn't frequent the doorsteps of previous students as a habit and it had been a number of months since he had seen her, and even then it was only a brief encounter... Ok, so perhaps she had every right to be surprised. And he had every right to feel just a little bit guilty about arriving out of the blue like this. So he did, though he hid it well.

"Hello Pandora!" he replied with a smile, somewhere between exhuberant and reserved. He enjoyed her company as much as anybody elses, perhaps more through nostalgia than common ground. She had been a joy to teach, always willing to learn and not in the slightest bit angry about having to be there at the Institute. His thoughts had been that if she was given the choice she would have been one of the very few to attend of her own whim. This lack of resentment towards the staff had led to easy raport and Felix had watched the girl grow into the good natured healer she now was.

She invited him in, apparently shook back to reality by him speaking, and closed the door behind him. Instantly the smell of fresh bread drifted into his nostrils and his mouth started watering, suddenly telling him just how hungry he was. Unfortunately for him, he had a strict exercise schedule to stick to and running on a full stomach was never pleasant. Not that it all seemed to be helping, each year seemed to add another few pounds to his increasingly ample frame and no amount of jogging could really shift it. At best he was slowing the inevitable process of age.

"Uhm... I can't really offer you much, but I did just finish making some bread. Oh, and I have tea!"

Cheery as ever, she set about preparing.

"A tea would be lovely, but I couldn-"

"Help yourself, if you'd like,"

"Well, if you insist." He shrugged his shoulders and found a breadknife on the kitchen counter to set about cutting himself a slice, realising that he was never going to shed weight at this rate. But nothing beat fresh bread. He was just about to ask how she was doing and get some small-talk out of the way before he cut to the chase but she beat him to the bat.

"Oh, right... you're probably here for a reason, huh? Is someone sick? You don't need me immediately, do you? Because I can go right now if-"

Pandora excused herself from her ramblings and left Felix to speak, also leaving him feeling just a little awkward, something he attempted to cover by taking a bite of his bread and pulling the cup towards him.

"Well," he started, finishing with a gulp. "Wonderful bread by the way - there was something I was meaning to ask you, yes." Here it came, the same as ever, dropping in unexpectedly to ask a favour. "You see, it's my Father again, he's a little under the weather and this time it looks a bit more serious. There's no rush, of course, I know how busy you are these days. But if you'd be able to give him a once over I'd be very grateful."

He took a sip of his tea and pulled an approving face. He could see why she'd got so excited about it.

"There was something else too." Something he wasn't quite so hesitant to bring up. "You're a healer so I thought you must know something about this cure for the wasting lung that people have been talking about? Apparently it was supposed to arrive sometime soon, if it hasn't already, but the details are a little sketchy. Professor Leyton, you remember him? Well he got struck with a pretty bad case of it a while back and he could really do with a dose of the cure."

Sitting under the open window, Imogene was able to feel the fresh air on her skin. The smell was calming and she breathed it in deeply. With a twinge of guilt, she thought of the stories she’d heard about the quality of air in the Delta District where her daughter most likely lived now. She had heard that the living conditions were awful, and that the air was no better then a poison. Of course, Imogene had never been there herself, and the suffering of the occupants of District Delta was not a popular topic of conversation in the crowds she frequented--or use to. She decided to shut the window with a snap. Imogene was suddenly very angry with the fresh air.

When Seth didn’t enter immediately after she called for him to come in, she turned her head to the door expectantly. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought she heard two voices outside her door: Seth’s and a stranger’s, however, she couldn’t make out what they were saying. After a moment, the door finally opened, and Seth walked in, closely followed by a man Imogene had never seen before.

Seth explained that this mysterious man was a guest who wished to discuss her husband. Imogene had to admit she was confused: by the man, by what he wanted. Not to mention that she knew immediately that he was no ordinary guest. His features were normal enough. Imogene scrutinized him. He had a pleasant enough face, but perhaps it was the scar above his lip that seemed menacing. No, that wasn’t it. The scar even seemed to add to the attractiveness of his face. The dark tone of his skin, his black hair, the way he stood: there was nothing out of the norm there. Ah, it was his eyes--rather, there was something mocking behind them. It was also his finely cut suit which seemed to be wearing him more than he was wearing it, as if it were not his usual form of attire. Overall, there was something about the way he carried himself-- the way he entered the room that made Imogene realize he was a man of whom she should be nervous. She looked in Seth’s direction. Her stepson certainly seemed as if he were.

Imogene didn’t know very much about assassins or their place in society. It was not something that noblemen’s wives in general need concern themselves with. There were many other things with which they were allowed to occupy their time, but the vagaries and workings of the assassin’s guild was not one of them. As far as she knew, she had never met one of their kind, yet even with her limited knowledge, she could guess who this man was, and the moment she did was the moment she began to feel anxious.

Ever the perfect hostess, Imogene could be nothing but cordial to him, despite who he was or what he was doing there. It was unthinkable for her to treat a guest of her household rudely. She smiled then, and put on the mask of hospitality.

“Forgive me,” she said to the man, “I did not think we would be entertaining anyone today or I would have prepared myself. Let me ring for tea, and please, have a seat and make yourself comfortable.” Imogene stood, walked to the wall and pressed the button which rang down to the kitchen. A servant answered immediately, as if his only job was to wait by the intercom to receive the Lady’s call. Imogene ordered the tea and sat herself down in the center of the room where six Victorian style chairs were facing each other across a wrought iron table with a glass top. She smiled congenially at the stranger.

“I don’t believe I have had the privilege of meeting you before. May I ask your name, and what business you have with my husband?”

It did not take long for the two young women to catch on to his attempt at being inconspicuous, he should have known better than to try and fool the assassin, even if she was an apprentice, and more so judging by the look that the apprentice had tossed his way that seemed as if she were ready to pounce with what was probably one of his own weapons that had been forged for the Assassin’s armory. The child seated on the other side, however, turned and let an embarrassed-grin spread across a rather attractive face and rounded cheeks; she was definitely much more amiable than the other one.

"Sir, can I help you? I, uh, don't work in this place so you shouldn't be asking me."

Garbiel acquiesced to his failure with a heavy sigh, causing a ginger-bearded chin to tilt downwards, exposing a shaved pate to the sunray bursting in through the one of the window-slits across from where he seated himself. After a slight shaking of his head the smith proceeded to stand up slowly as worn-out joints crackled and popped in protest to the movement, almost screaming in protest at being torn from their restful position. A few quick, shuffling steps brought the man next to the table where the amiable girl was seated and proceeded to sit on the edge, slightly away from the mean one that seemed ready to skewer him at any minute.

Upon closer inspection Garbiel noticed he had been wrong in his previous assumption that they were children, in fact they were just babies to him, young enough to be his granddaughters had he ever sired a family. How the time seemed to fly by as the years progressed, he had always regretted not living life while there was the time to do it, and now the days passed like flowers only to be enjoyed for such a short time before they withered away. It took a slight shake of the head to bring the blacksmith into the here and now, cheeks blushing slightly from the embarrassment of sitting there without introducing himself while the babies were staring at him quietly, the mean one almost digging holes into his soul by now.

“My deepest apologies children, there’s no cause to be nervous. My name is Garbiel Forgefire, and I was hoping to inquire as to the title of that book. I have a particular one in mind that I was hoping to find here and borrow for a short while.”

A broad grin enveloped his plump cheeks, moving up in such a way that they almost covered his eyes, in hopes to lighten the mood slightly. The tense air between the trio seemed to slacken, at least that’s the way it seemed to him anyway, as a resonant voice spoke his intent.

Pandora pinked slightly at the compliment- baking and such was all still new to her, and she was glad it seemed to be going well- and smiled, though her mouth took a decidedly downward turn when Professor Windsor explained his reason for being here in the first place. It seemed his father was ill. She'd seen to the older Mr. Windsor more than once in the past, and there was little mistake that the man was slowly ailing with age. Try as she might, there was nothing she could do about that. High doses of magic could imbue someone with energy and strength, but she could not reverse the process of time, and such aid would always wear off eventually. Still, sickness she could cure, though with no promises that it would not return eventually.

"Of course I'll come and see him," she replied without hesitation. "I didn't really have many other things to do today anyway." She had been planning on making a trip up to Gamma to visit the Guild, hence the bread loaves. Though she was the furthest thing from an assassin, she knew quite a few, and the Guildmaster was kind enough to tolerate her presence, especially because her skills meant that for a few hours at least, practice could be a lot more... intense. She didn't really see what good it did to slice each other open instead of leaving bruises, but she considered repairing such damage a form of repayment for the safety and chance to stop glancing over her shoulder that the Guild offered. She wasn't really savvy to the irony of feeling most secure in a building full of impeccably-trained killers.

Professor Windsor's next question caught her off-guard for a moment. People down here were not usually aware that The Cure even existed at all, but then he worked at the Facility, and that was all the way up on the outskirts of Alpha. It made sense that he would have heard some form of whispering about it somewhere closer to Marchfield. Pandora debated how much she should say one the matter, chewing her bottom lip in an unconscious nervous gesture. In the end, though, she knew she was a horrible liar, and she didn't like it besides. With a small sigh under her breath, she lifted her eyes from her hands to the Professor's face.

Somehow, that made it easier. It was almost like she was back in class, explaining an answer she'd come up with. "There is a cure," she said with certainty. "I consulted on some of the research, actually. Dr. Vanderbilt wanted someone who knew something about magic, so... well, anyway, they invented a cure. It was Mana-based, though, so they wanted to test it on a mage to see what would happen." Here Pan paused, trying with little success to mask her discomfort. Though for anyone else it would have been nothing more than a simple injection, something about the formulation had made the minutes after its administration to her extremely painful, and she shuddered involuntarily at the memory.

"It... burns, for a while, and then everything is just... numb. They only gave me a bit, but I couldn't do magic for an hour afterwards. Dr. Vanderbilt hypothesizes that larger doses could make me- us, I suppose- unable to work magic for a day or more at a time. I don't exactly know what the delay is on getting it to people with Wasting Lung, I can only guess that maybe something is holding up production." The healer didn't really understand the nuances of how the government ran things, having never been taught of politics and Parliament, so any supposition on her part was entirely speculative.

"But anyway, I do have time to see your father now, as soon as you're-" she stopped abruptly again, but not because she was rambling this time. Rather, she had heard something outside, and listened intently to try and figure out what it was. She didn't need to wait long; one of her wards triggered, alerting her to the presence of someone she did not know. She was torn between actions; it could very well simply be someone looking for assistance, but she did not deal much with strangers these days.

She was also aware that someone, somewhere, wished her dead. By what she assumed was sheer luck, the last time they'd found her, Eos had been visiting, and naturally those out for her life hadn't stood that much of a chance. The time before that, she'd held them off with a shield over her doorway and snuck out the back. That had been the day it became necessary to close her clinic for good. The small blond woman swallowed audibly, deciding that she should probably go see who it was when the choice was removed from her discretion. She hadn't locked the door behind her guest, and the handle turned.

Assuming the worst now, she readied a shield and turned to her once teacher. "I'm very sorry professor, but I think it might be best if you- get down!" she very rarely shouted, and even this hardly qualified, but it was probably justified given the projectile aimed for his head. Apparently, these people didn't really care who they killed, as long as they got to her, and this upset the diminutive healer in a way few things could. With a terse word and a sharp flick of her wrist, she manifested the shield right in the path of the thrown dagger and it bounced off harmlessly. "Rogue assassins," she explained quickly. "You can try for the back door; my wards only picked up the two."

And indeed, the two inconspicuously-dressed individuals, a man and a woman, were both in her doorway now. The man drew a longsword, the woman a morning star, and Pan gritted her teeth. A heavy enough blow from either of those might have a shot at shattering a shield, though she had been practicing with them whenever she wasn't completely exhausted from healing all day.