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Claire Stanfield

West Wind | Combat

0 · 2,074 views · located in The Joffre

a character in “The Weight of Soul”, as played by àŒŒ ぀ ◕_◕ àŒœă€

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C L A I R ExxS T A N F I E L Dxxxx#9F000Fxx
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        29 (APRIL 14, 1912)xxxMxxx 【 WEST WIND / U.S.A. 】

        HT / 183 CM x WT / 75 KGx LEAN & ATHLETIC
        HAIR / GINGERx SKIN / WHITEx EYES / AMBER


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XXXXXKNOWLEDGE |x ◆◆◆◆◆xxxx■ Rank-A:xxxx5 YEARS
XUNDERSTANDING |x ◆◆◆◆◆
XXXXXXXXXCHARM |x ◆◆◆◆◆xxxx■ Artifact 1:xxxGRAHAM SPECTER (C)
XXXXXXXXCOMBAT |x ◆◆◆◆◆xxxx
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i. S A N I W Axxxxxxii. A R T I F A C T (1)xxxxxxiii. F A C T I O NxxW O R K Sxxxxxxiv. R E L A T I O N S H I P S



MISSIONS COMPLETED: 780 / MISSION SUCCESS RATE: 91%



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i. Religion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Catholicism.
ii. Birthplace . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Boston, United States.
iii. Occupation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Bodyguard.
iv. Morality Alignment . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Neutral Good.

Identifying Trait: Walks with a hunch, as though he's constantly slouching.





I. SANIWA

WINE MAN, A MAN COVERED IN WINE.



xxxTo say that Claire Stanfield is a man of duality would be quite accurate. Big smiles, friendly banter, and tall tales describe his first impression quite well. He presents himself as a jubilant-if not slightly spontaneous personality with a penchant for trips to new places. However, one should not mistake his magnetism for nicety; he only extends charisma to people he wants to impress. Otherwise, Claire will not make the effort to hide his inherent volatility. He has a hard time separating himself from his achievements so he takes criticism very personally. The redhead makes no effort to hide his volatility nor immaturity when people attribute his achievements to others. During his childhood, his parents equated one’s merits with usefulness and he internalized that principle. Therefore, Claire has a selective respect for authority. In general, he feels that rank is meaningless and isn’t incapable of challenging his superiors, Gallant “Luck” Gandor, excluded. As his bodyguard, Claire does not question Gandor.

xxxClaire sees the Gandor as a pragmatic figure who fills a void left in his past. More than the money and the innovation, Luck glides through his non-Saniwa responsibilities, acting as an example and mentor to the younger man. He sees a self made man who does not use his background as an excuse for his shortcomings. Claire, on the contrary, often inquires if he’s defined by his past. Despite attempts to renew himself, his past actions always remind him of his emotional impulsivity. His father, Benjamin Stanfield, never spent the money given to his family on anything nice even though he reaped benefits of being a World War I veteran. He preferred staying inside and nursing his leg injury with a cigar and an old book. Benjamin could not deal with the noise, delivering Claire or his brother a swift lashing whenever they were too loud for his tastes. Claire hated being home; his mother’s attempts to calm him down only bolstered his decision to leave his household.

xxxWith only twenty dollars in his pocket (a product of lifting coins from his father and random pennies on the street), he hopped the nearest train to New York City, the city that never sleeps. Perhaps by moving elsewhere he might find more support. It started in the train that he hopped, running along its side for a good fifteen minutes before he would land in an open boxcar. He sat for three weeks on and off, legs dangling out the side with a man named Eowen. At first, Claire noticed some inconsistencies: he never ate or drank, he talked about things that were out of date, and disappeared at night. They were all good questions to ask, but he felt too uncomfortable to ask until hearing the legends of the Rail Tracer. They came mostly from other vagabonds who came and went as they crossed state lines.

xxx“The Rail Tracer is covered in black.” “He pushes people off the train after midnight.” “If you see him you’re as good as bumped off!” Claire felt it odd that he never saw the specter in question, but he did notice Eowen missing whenever he woke up in the middle of the night. When he finally gathered the courage to ask the older male, Claire found himself nearly thrown off the roof, but his attitude impressed Eowen enough to tell his tale. Normally this would have been the time that most ran away, but both fear and sympathy led Claire to continue listening. Like Claire, he had a need to leave his past behind and travel where the road would take him, but chose trains rather than settling in New York. Neither of them went any deeper into the conversation, but once they reached Brooklyn, Eowen warned Claire that a new setting didn’t necessarily mean a new life. The Irishman merely thanked the ghost before waving to the air.

xxxAs it turned out, the Rail Tracer would be the nicest that a person treated him for at least a year. The Great Depression hit worse than an old man driving a jalopy. It started with him bouncing around jobs to underground fight clubs to even (unsuccessful) panhandling. The problem he soon learned wasn’t just the red hair because he could cover that with his hat. Everyone was poor. Shops closed earlier and earlier, some shut down completely, and when Black Tuesday hit Claire was both guilty and glad that he kept his scratch in a dufflebag.

xxxNot much changed as he already had a terrible time getting a job, but now he could fall to bread lines without any shame. His loneliness motivated him to make small talk with the strangers around him which helped train his conversational skills. Somedays everyone gave him radio silence, some he got a few words out, but few ever stayed. Often times they would be friends one day and complete strangers the next.
Graham was not one of those people.

xxxFrom the moment Graham opened his mouth, it was jokes, stories, and playful ribbing of the sights (and occasionally) the people around them. “Would ya’ look at all those cracks in the road? They could break a mom’s back.” “If the windows are the same as the curtains, what about your rug?” “Would you stop fuming? You look like a steamed tomato.” Granted, Claire nearly slapped him for that last one, but a swift apology and some self-deprecation seemed to calm the redhead. Graham would ramble on about the motor business, his run-ins with the mafia (which turned out to be only rumors), and the movies he snuck into when the ushers weren’t looking. He felt like a man from the heart of the town, the essence of the New York working class.

xxxClaire subconsciously turned on the charm and tried his best to pass the time while they waited for their singular slice of bread to get them through the day. He didn’t have much to tell so he recounted stories by his of the infamous “Rail Tracer” (which Graham really did not believe), fighting in the underground, or just asked Graham more about his life. They weren’t all that similar, which made conversations shallow, but Claire respected his mechanical skill as well as the blonde's open ear (on the rare occasion that Claire felt comfortable sharing them). On the other side, Graham acknowledged Claire’s gumption and lack of regard when it came to challenging others. Graham often chided Claire’s knee jerk reactions, saying that not all things were worth arguing for. His uncle had a small shop fixing fixing appliances. It paid near nothing and he would need to learn the trade but they had space in one of the closets to lay down a blanket. Claire gladly took the offer, but only after realizing that the blonde was, in fact, making an offer. Both of them acknowledged the level of pride they held onto in spite of their status so neither of them wanted to act as though they expected handouts. Graham in particular loved the feeling of buying real food with his money, but always refused gifts or tried to share them with the church.

xxxOver the years he’d resented being raised Catholic as most of the children in elementary school made fun of him, but more importantly, the lack of results. God never fixed his father the way his mother promised he would when Claire prayed. Still, he wanted something to hold onto and it was nice having a holy body to confide in. On one occasion, he stayed approached the priest, but freaked out when he saw him exorcising a young woman. As it turned out, the priest was a Spiritualist Saniwa who worked in New York City scouting potential trainees. He explained the truth behind ghosts and showed him the nature of Artifacts before the two of them began training. Claire was to come to night lessons at the church. Graham, being a non-Saniwa, did not believe him, but humored him enough to vouch for day shifts to his uncle.

xxxUnfortunately, his mugger begged to differ. When Claire broke the story to Graham that someone pulled a gun on him, the blonde lacked an answer or direction. Going to the police without an identity would not solve anything. They couldn’t duke it out either because this was far after the fact. Graham merely reassured Claire that he would be safe so long as he left earlier or carried a knife. Of course, that wasn’t the entire truth and Graham knew that so he began pressing Claire for more.

xxxFeeling threatened, Claire told his friend to stay out of it, escalating from a small argument to full on yelling until one of them finally snapped.

xxxIt wasn’t his proudest moment, probably his lowest point but unlike with the mugger he told his priest the whole truth. Behind the screen they couldn’t see his pained expressions, the fact that he needed to wash himself twice to get all the blood off, or that he dragged Graham’s wrench the entire way out of some strange compulsion. Perhaps it was his conscience punishing him or trying to retain some piece of Graham with him. Either way, the relief he felt from confession and the words of the father gave him the confidence to ask for penance. Of course, God had an interesting way of nudging sinners toward the path of light and in his case, the act of contrition.

xxxAfter months of laying low, the redhead’s funds dried up so he needed a new way to bring in money. He turned to the one place where it all started: the underground. All he needed to do was throw his money into the pot and fight. If he won, he took the cash, if he lost, he left with nothing (which was honestly near what he threw in). Thugs, failed boxers, and the impoverished all gathered in the ring, fighting one versus one until one man stood tall; in this case that happened to be Claire. Seven bodies and two broken knuckles later, they were declaring a blood-splattered “Wine Man” the winner. Claire had tried to coin the more sophisticated “Vino," but his earlier matches burned him into effigy. It should have been easy then to retrieve the cash and leave, but the Stanfield felt someone’s eyes boring into him. They weren’t the kind of eyes of some swell (not to be confused with being wonderful, but rather a rich man), but a wise guy who could stare into your soul by glancing your way. It unnerved him so Claire responded the only way he knew how: challenging him to a fight. Sure enough, the man humored him...but the man also turned out to be one Gallant Gandor. He hadn’t known at the time, but the Gandor could have wiped the floor with him. It was a good thing that he liked the redhead’s moxie because he ended up bloodier than in any of the other fights.

xxxUpon actually acquainting themselves with one another, Claire could only offer an uneasy smile at Gandor’s job offer. What type of person just punched a guy in the face and then asked him to be a bodyguard? He soon realized that the type of person Gandor was, was a competitor (if that was the proper usage). Hunting, football, and especially horse racing fascinate him as does the thrill of a bet; nothing brought him more excitement than throwing money at the track. For Claire, gambling brought bad memories of neighbors being beaten for their debts, so betting for Gallant was nerve-wracking. What if he took it out of Claire’s paycheck? He supposed that it was the risk that one took when betting and the same risk that Gallant took when he hired him. In short, Claire, himself a sober realist for the most part, is attracted to Luck’s sense of elevating, romantic idealism.

xxxGallant Gandor brought Claire more than just a room to stay. The Gandor brought Claire something he never could have had, even as a high ranking Saniwa: respect. Gallant’s influence, by extension, earned Claire respect from Saniwa society. Even in an allegedly harmonious organization, there still existed a hierarchy among Saniwa and the Irish sat near the bottom. Becoming Gallant Gandor’s bodyguard, however, changed people’s perspectives. Being Luck’s guardian meant upward mobility and connections to Saniwa he’d never be in the same room with and in some ways it did. Walking beside his boss silenced his detractors from making comments about his lowly background or improper speech and he relished those moments even when they came to an end. When Gandor wasn’t around however, his employees would scoff at the idea of working under an Irishman (even if they were on the upswing). Nicknames like “Wic," “Leprechaun,” “Cat-Lick,” and “SID” were the Sterling-appropriate ones, but occasionally less kind ones would remind Claire of where he came from. In those cases, Claire kept his replies brusque, but fair as he had to keep appearances lest one of them report to Gandor.

xxxNowadays he tries to keep up appearances for the sake of being a Rank A Saniwa (try being the keyword). Those who have worked with him will attest that he is a good learner, but a terrible teacher. He does well to finish his assignments; however, he can’t delegate tasks efficiently nor give his squad mates a proper idea of how to . Despite his judgment of another Saniwa’s worth, he lacks the experience to properly utilize the strengths and weaknesses of his team members and more often than not, leaves them to fend for themselves after reviewing his semblance of a plan.



Skills:x Martial Arts, Acrobatics, Exorcism, Ghost Identification, Mechanics.
Known Languages:x English (fluent, Boston accent), Gaelic (limited), German (limited).

Likes/Interests:x Alcohol, Reading, Movies, Sports, Jazz, Gambling.
Dislikes:x Criticism, Lack of validation, Raw Tomatoes, Hot Weather, Tedium.


__________

Faceclaim: Claire Stanfield (Baccano!).
Image Sources: Please list all sources of the images you used. I trust you with being respectful/being specific where it's appropriate.





i. S A N I W Axxxxxxii. A R T I F A C T (1)xxxxxxiii. F A C T I O NxxW O R K Sxxxxxxiv. R E L A T I O N S H I P S


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ImageImageImageHT / 179 CM
WT / 77 KG
TYPE / COMBAT
AGE / 8 YEARS OLD

#9E552B / ♫

AWAKENED SKILL / "PENNIES FROM HEAVEN"
Can attract small metal objects to himself for short amounts of time. The duration correlates to the amount of spirit his Saniwa provides.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxSURVIVAL [HP] x◆◆◆◆◆XXLEADERSHIP [DEF]x ◆◆◆◆◆XXIMPULSE [ATTK]x◆◆◆◆◆XXMOBILITY [SPD]x◆◆◆◆◆XXSPIRIT x ◆◆◆◆◆


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II. ARTIFACT (C)

A MAGNETIC PERSONALITY.



xxxThe Diamond 12-inch Adjustable Wrench came into the original Graham’s possession as the result of a poker game sometime around the late 1920s that mostly, functioned as a toy since jobs were few and far between. Most of the time he and Claire feigned sword fights with it and other tools (usually pipes), but occasionally they would fix old appliances or make house calls.

xxxDuring those times Graham was blue to Claire’s red, the mentor to his apprentice, the cat to his dog and the nickel to Claire’s other nickel when they finally saved up enough to buy Famous Funnies #1. Aside from chiding Claire for being too easily aggravated, he embodied many of the traits that Claire didn’t, namely being able to pick his battles. Most things he brushed off as jokes or points of curiosity, which helped to keep him calm. Rather than blow up in the face of frustration he preferred attempting to understand people’s points of view both for his own sake and for the sake of whatever he was dealing with.

xxxThat did not, however, void him of morality. The true sentiment behind Graham Specter the Artifact came from the conflict between Claire’s actions and the other Graham’s morality. It was one thing to act in self-defense, but another to continue punishing a person for their actions. In Claire’s view, the mugger not only threatened to kill him but also brought back memories of his father sitting vigilant on the couch, ready to shoot anything that came through the door and the one time he nearly got killed.

xxxPot bellied, stout, and with hairy knuckles, all of it was too similar to ignore and that was not something Graham could understand. Despite the blonde’s attempts to convince Claire that he needed to tell him everything, the redhead refused. How could a guy who had never been in a real fight understand? He even had the nerve to say that Claire would be starving without him! Well that wasn’t true (actually it was) so Claire threw a punch. Then he threw another and another until Graham picked up his wrench and struck back.

xxxClaire had been hit countless times before in the forearm, in the face, in everything, but nothing quite matched the pain and the betrayal of being struck with the wrench, being struck by Graham. It had only been in the arm, but that was enough to leave him bleeding which was enough justification for Claire to wrestle the tool away and stain the wrench with as much blood as he did himself.

xxxHe’d almost feel relieved were it not for the fact that he beat his (ex)friend to a bloody pulp. He hadn’t checked for a pulse, too scared to face the idea that he might have actually killed him but still felt himself dragging the evidence behind. Both the event and the object haunted him and consumed him even as he confessed to the priest (who acted ridiculously calm in spite of the situation). He could remember every word of both the man behind the screen and his own oath to sin no more as well as the swell of regret in his heart.

xxx“I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to sin no more and avoid the near occasions of sin. Amen.”

xxxAs it turned out, his contrition would also be his chance to lay his betrayal to rest for Graham, the Artifact, laid unconscious inside the booth.
To some extent, Graham Specter, sees the flashes of regret and occasional pauses whenever he and Claire celebrate an accomplishment or the biweekly ruminations whenever the redhead spends a few dollars on a bottle of gin, but any efforts to understand him are met with mixed results. Often the duo feels dangerously close and sometimes, they aren’t sure how to deal with one another. As much flack as Gallant Gandor receives for treating his Artifact like a son, Claire plays his own game of treating his Artifact like a best friend, if not a brother. While this leads to synergy when the two are happy, it also leads to volatility when one or more of them are not.

xxxIn many ways, the Artifact, Graham, acts too much like the man he was subconsciously modeled after, but in others he carries a natural curiosity in the way things work. From a mechanical point of view, he loves looking at blueprints, reverse engineering, and attempting to make broken objects work once more. His projects are not always successful, but failures only breed more curiosity and success, pride in sharing his work.



__________

Faceclaim: Graham Specter (Baccano!).
Image Sources: Please list all sources of the images you used. I trust you with being respectful/being specific where it's appropriate.







i. S A N I W Axxxxxxii. A R T I F A C T (1)xxxxxxiii. A R T I F A C T (2)xxxxxxiv. F A C T I O NxxW O R K Sxxxxxxv. R E L A T I O N S H I P S



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IV. FACTION WORKS
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Big Meaty Claws Operation We




i. S A N I W Axxxxxxii. A R T I F A C T (1)xxxxxxiii. F A C T I O NxxW O R K Sxxxxxxiv. R E L A T I O N S H I P S



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IV. RELATIONSHIPS


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Statusxxxxxxxxx.Claire Stanfield.
●●●●●●xxRESPECT
●●●●●●xxFONDNESS
●●●●●●xxRIVALRY
●●●●●●xxDISLIKE
●●●●●●xxROMANCE

TWoS

"Why am I the way I am?" | Claire is often at odds with his past and present selves. He is proud of how far he has come but equally troubled by his actions. He does not feel as though he has changed much from young adulthood since he still holds onto the same weaknesses but cannot figure out a way to eliminate them. More than anything, he hopes for a future where he doesn't need to lean on another person to find reprieve in his life.


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Statusxxxxxxxxx.Gallant Gandor.
●●●●●●xxRESPECT
●●●●●●xxFONDNESS
●●●●●●xxRIVALRY
●●●●●●xxDISLIKE
●●●●●●xxROMANCE

TWoS

"He's Joe Brooks! He's the bee's knees and the cat's meow! Whenever he's in a meeting he's firin' on all six cylinders." | Gallant Gandor holds a special place in Claire's heart as his benefactor, mentor, and friend. He pulled the redhead from the darkest time in his life and gave him a greater purpose. More than the money, Gandor gave him upward mobility in a way that no one else could have while others chose to spit on his ethnicity. At times, Claire recognizes the Gandor's cultural ignorance but shrugs it off as him being funny.


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Statusxxxxxxxxx.Mouse Kazetani.
●●●●●●xxRESPECT
●●●●●●xxFONDNESS
●●●●●●xxRIVALRY
●●●●●●xxDISLIKE
●●●●●●xxROMANCE

TWoS

"He seems like he's always balled up, but off the job he has a funny side. Well except, when he's trying to trick me." | Miyoshi is, in many ways, Claire's natural foil. Where one has measured grace, the other is a bumbling fool. Where one is short, the other is a gangly tree. He finds Miyoshi's demeanor very respectable, but feels the morbidity that resonates within the Japanese man. For that reason, he continues to joke around with Miyoshi and try to get him to reciprocate...even when it involves pulling a prank on him.

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© àŒŒ ぀ ◕_◕ àŒœă€ / © CODE & TWoS BETHELIT & STAFFïŒé­‚ăźé‡ăżăƒ»THE WEIGHT OF SOUL PROJECT

So begins...

Claire Stanfield's Story

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Miyoshi Kazetani Character Portrait: Claire Stanfield
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"Are you scared?"

"No."

"Excited?"

"Maybe."

From the distance Claire saw a line of trees which, upon closer inspection smelled of cherry blossoms. They disappeared as they walked closer and in their place was a footman who he presumed to be an Artifact.

"I see Mouse's already here," he said, giving a nod to the male before the two entered the building.

Mouse--rather Miyoshi had a pesky habit of hiding himself using Kimura Asagi, which to his credit was useful, but annoying for anyone who worked with him. Though they'd been partnered once or twice, the Kazetani changed his appearance each time. It left him without so much as an inkling of a mental image and this time was no different. During Operation Chilled Meat he disguised himself as a Chinaman, but now he sported a pale face and a burgundy suit. Still, he carried the same countenance that made him certifiably Mouse.

"Smoking to mask the flower smell?" he asked.

"You say that, but you were lightin’ a ciggy in the car,” Graham chided.

Claire rolled his eyes before glancing toward the meditating East Wind leader and then the blonde and her Artifact. Subconsciously, he adjusted his tie, feeling under dressed compared to his counterparts (sans the similarly dressed Graham). He’d settled on a Half-Windsor knot after failing to tie a full Windsor in the car despite Graham’s best efforts and his blazer too, seemed speckled with lint he failed to notice prior to entering the room. Normally it wasn't too much of an issue since missions rarely required formal wear, but now that he was in the presence of a deb he started wondering if he should have gone to the cleaner’s.

"So uh,” Claire paused, "what’s the name Jane?”

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Miyoshi Kazetani Character Portrait: Claire Stanfield Character Portrait: Geoffrey Lee Walker
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“So where you boys from?”

Lee's attention lingered on the view outside of the backseat window of the cab for a few more moments. Though there had been clear efforts to clear the streets of rubble from the Luftwaffe bombings, there still remained errant brick and stone. He had also noticed the way the driver avoided certain streets, probably closed from the amount of damage sustained. However, despite it all, he could still find a glimmer of cheer and hope in the driver's voice as he spoke. Shifting his attentions away from the streets outside the window, Lee's gaze turned instead onto the back of the cab driver's head. He was an older gentleman, a once dark brown head edged with grey and salt beginning to pepper his bushy mustache.

“Australia,” Lee answered simply.

The man in the seat beside him turned and gave him a hard look before he chuckled to himself and shrugged. “I think he knew that, mate.” Turing away from Lee, the man then began to speak to the driver. “Actually, we're from the Northern Territory, a port town called Darwin.” Lee watched for a moment as his Artifact, a man named Peter, explained the details before he reached into his coat pocket to retrieve a pack of cigarettes. The backseat already smelled of stale leather and smoke, he doubted another cigarette would hurt anything. and He pulled one from the pack and fished out his lighter from somewhere else and began to light it before the driver spoke again.

“Australia, huh? You fellows are a long way from home. What brings you to London?”

Lee took a moment to light the cigarette before answering. “Business.” Before Peter could shoot him another hard glance, Lee continued, “Private business. Sorry mate, would tell ya if I could.” It was the best he could do without going into the details of the House of Four Winds and the Saniwa, much less the specific reason of his presence there and their destination of the Viscount Kazetani's office. The driver seemed to accept the answer with a quiet nod. “Jerry's been hittin' youse fellas hard, hasn't he?” Lee asked, puffing smoke out the open window. He could still see the odd brick of stone on the side of the road.

The driver shook his head. “Not as hard as he has been, but still pretty hard. Had to go the shelter just last month.” Lee turned back toward the driver and shook his head. “Still, it'll take more than a few bombs to break London,”

Lee smiled and nodded, “Must be that British stiff upper-lip I've been hearin' about,” he said with a chuckle, causing the driver to laugh along.

“God save the King,” Peter added.

“God save the King,” The driver agreed.

A few more minutes of idle conversation, and the cab pulled up to the office. Lee took one more puff from the cigarette before he exited the cab. Stepping outside, he was struck with a strong smell of something sickly sweet which caused him to recoil out of surprise. A glance at Peter revealed the man looking back him, a raised brow. They both knew what the most likely source was. Shaking his head, Lee moved toward the driver side window and withdrew his wallet from his back pocket as Peter went to the boot to retrieve their duffles. Lee opened his wallet and paid the man in pounds. “Here ya go,” Lee said, handing the driver the money, “Thanks heaps, mate. Be safe,”

“You too, and good luck on your private business,” the driver replied with a laugh. Lee watched as the man threw the car into reverse and left, and soon melted into the night.

“Here, your shit's heavy,” Peter said as he pulled along side Lee, passing along his duffle bag. Lee took it and slung it over his shoulder with one hand, while holding the cigarette with his other. “We're late,” Peter added, looking at his watch.

Lee only laughed and shook his head. “'Course we are, ya didn't think we'd be on time, did ya?” Lee could feel the side-eye Peter was giving him, but he could also feel the smile tugging at the corner of the artifact's lips. “Come on, why keep 'em waitin' when we're already here?” Lee said, making his way toward the office. As they walked, Lee fiddled with the bowtie around his collar, making sure that it was straight as he could get it. Satisfied, Lee then straightened out his dark brown vest and the tan coat over it. He wasn't exactly used to formal wear, but he had to admit. He looked damn good in a bowtie. Then he began to wave his cigarette at Peter's string tie, “'Straighten your tie doovalacky, we don't want 'em to think we're a couple o' bogans.”

Peter simply stared at him before straightening his tie with a deadpan look, before straightening his glasses. “Better?” he asked. Lee nodded, and led them toward the door to the office. As they entered, Peter inclined his head to the fellow at the door, offering a “G'evenin',” before following Lee into the office proper.

The office was... small, even without others. With them, it was cramped, but still. Lee gave the room a quick once over before tilting his head. It seemed like they weren't the last ones to arrive, surprisingly. He inclined his head in greeting to the room, but his attention was grabbed by an the intensely redheaded Claire. Lee's heard of his fellow West Wind Saniwa from Gandor, but he wasn't prepared for how red the man's hair truly was. “Shit mate,” Lee said before he could stop himself, “You havin' a barbie or is that your hair?” Peter only rolled his eyes.

“Dammit Lee.”

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Miyoshi Kazetani Character Portrait: Claire Stanfield Character Portrait: Cyril Noël Character Portrait: Geoffrey Lee Walker
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#, as written by Jedly
Cyril breathed through his teeth at the depressing result of his seventh attempt to tie a necktie. He wasn't too adamant about wearing formal attire, but has gradually become more comfortable in such apparel. His only qualm with the set was the piece of entropy-abiding set of apparel striking out in rebellion. It was constricting and frankly a liability. At any given moment somebody could grab him by the silk shell and have an instantaneous leverage if an altercation were to develop from there.

The clothing was forced upon him by his higher-ups as a means of making him operate in a more professional manner. Since Cyril believed it would expend too much effort to raise a voice of opposition, he went with their wishes and has sported the suit and tie ever since, in spite of his personal stance. After giving the fabric one last tug, he paced his way through the flat and rounded the corner into the main room. There, standing in rays of light that all focused on the room's center was a girl with her hands tightly clasped together and her eyes shut. She remained there quietly while she offered praise to the deity she held in such high regard. Anybody would naturally be captivated by the sight. The way the sun gracefully fell onto the girl's skin, how shallow her breaths were due to being preoccupied with praying, the whole spectacle would leave one speechless regardless of religious affiliation. Or maybe because of the two cat ears that kept up a presentable form too.

But Cyril wasn't one for common courtesies and even with his taciturn demeanor still intruded upon the her prayer, ”So, did He pick up or were you put on hold again?” He asked in a spiteful tone to evoke some chagrin, ”You know, maybe you should try sending Him a letter. Kind of like how kids always write to Saint Nicholas?” The girl tried her best to maintain her composure, but unseeable from Cyril's perspective, her brow had become visually furrowed. ”Actually, Sinterklaas has become more prevalent recently. After the Nazis enacted Gleichschaltung in the Netherlands a few months ago, the R.A.F has recently started rewriting his rhymes. They dropped candy over occupied land to one of them. How'd it go again...? Ah, right. The Saniwa took a deep breathe and delved into a recitation, taking a portion of the sunlight to bask in himself. ”R.A.F. Kapoentje, Gooi wat in mijn schoentje, Bij de Moffen gooein, Maar in Hol-”

And just like that, the last straw turned to cinders. The girl unwillingly placed her morning prayers on a halt as she whirled around to face Cyril, flames burning wildly in her eyes. In response to this agitated display, the young adult blankly looked at her. ”Hey, weren't you just in the middle of something important?”

”Look who the hell is tal- eep!” Wulf realized her mistake and sent a barrage of apologies into the sun. This was how the days of the socially declined Cyril Noel and his faithful Artifact Wulfetrud went. The comical exchange of words through scorched air was only but the tip of the iceberg. After preparing for the day before them, the duo would head to a diner that sat on the edge of Donkmeer Lake. Cyril and Wulfetrud unanimously agreed the view was the best thing to start the day with, that and a cup of coffee and tea respectively. And if his morning had been especially shitty, a glass of wine.

They would then continue on with their jobs at that very diner, where Cyril managed its resources while Wulfetrud served as a waitress. She marketed off her extra ears under the guise that they were rather than legitimate parts of her body. With her ingenuity, the girl entrenched herselff deeper in the role and altered her speech. She got into the act of ending off her sentences with “mew” or “meow”, or her fans' favorite, straining out any word containing the syllable “per”:

”Thank you, devoted patron! Don't worry, your meal will be just puuuuurfect~!”

Bleugh

Cyril was thankful for the fact that he rarely bared witness to this performance. It was impossible for him to make the connection between the voice filled with amity and its deprecating counterpart. Although Cyril tended to be the only recipient of the latter.

After work was done for the day, they would report in to the local Saniwa who presided over the district and distributed missions like they were coupons to gentlemen's clubs. In the case that the two were graced with a day off, which was nearly impossible since the area appeared to always be a cesspool for activity. But if this instance ever rose, they made sure to savor every morsel. Their free time was usually spent aimlessly strolling around Ghent, stopping by shops that especially caught Wulf's eye, and reclining at a pub Cyril frequented. Though the girl may have looked incongruous in an establishment chock full of burly men, albeit her partner wasn't all that much to look at, the two resonated with the drunken community. It was even more entertaining for the girl to watch as Cyril contested alcoholic veterans and wiped the floor with them, and since it was a pretty undemanding task to get him home, she let the young adult drink to his threshold. Although he never admitted it, he always called it quits just before he's crossed over from sobriety. The blond cared for his artifact's frame of mind, despite the fact that any valid evidence has yet to leave his mouth.

Cyril backpedaled from the girl and made his way to the entrance where a coat rack resided. ”You're not continuing to pester me. Something's up, right?” Wulf abruptly called out, lids still closed shut and palms pressed tightly together. Yep, that’s what caught her attention. The Saniwa peaked his head from around the corner to offer the girl an ambiguous answer, his own definition of the word courteous, ”...Maybe.” He picked up the faint sound of the girl clicking her tongue and blindly plucked a flat cap from a limb. The young adult then backtracked his steps once again and stopped at the girl's side. A pair of friendly yet mildly agitated eyes looked up at Cyril as he gently placed the article of apparel over his partner's ears. ”Comfortable enough?” He queried in an affable voice which Wulf was unable to determine to be false or genuine. The girl responded with a composed nod before she adjusted the hat with her hands. ”Good.” Cyril curtly spoke as he began to make his way out of the open room. The artifact finally remembered her original question and opened her mouth in preparation, but even before a syllable could be vocalized the young adult had already answered, ”The city of rain and tea.”




”Leave me... Go on, save yourself.” Cyril managed to croak out as he lied there on the cobblestone, his face ashen to the point that blood no longer seemed to flow through. ”C-Cyril, please.” She begged with a gaze drowning in distress. The Saniwa rolled over to his side, gravel and dust ground against his body through every muscle movement, while his back faced Wulfetrud. ”You have to finish the mission. Do it for me... Don't worry, I'll be okay.” He was a lost cause, his life force comprised of a mere twenty-one grams was but a fleeting memory. ”Cyril... Come on. We're in public. J-Just get up from the sidewalk already. People are staring.”

That was indeed true,with the ambiance of car engines and horns that filled the streets. Passersby simply did just that, only daring to steal a glance before racing off, since they obviously didn't want to be involved with a doubled over Belgian and a girl who actually fitted into the setting. ”We have to get to the me- ARE YOU SERIOUSLY THINKING OF READING RIGHT NOW?!” She hissed as Cyril produced a book with the subtly of an otter afloat. Wulf believed that the bookworm had sewn pockets into his jackets just for the written word.

”Alright, there has to be a specific reason why you don't want to go. At least Maria and Basilio are there, so it's not like the whole entire team consists of strangers.” Her words were charged with static on the brim of electrocuting the supposedly esteemed Combat Saniwa lying on the dampened sidewalk.

”Because there are people there.” He suddenly blurted out to justify his defiant nature. A look of disbelief overcame her complexion as she dared to even process the words that just left the Saniwa's mouth. She managed to contain herself once a palm was applied to her face. "And...?” She ventured to implore him to expand on the vague answer.

”And they’re alive.”

”And?”

”And they're people.”

”Why does this argument sound painfully tenable?!”

”Because we're socially inept.”

”...I hate you.”

”That makes the two of us.”




Just as the two arrived at the office Wulfetrud suddenly grabbed the fine fabric of his suit, ”Wait a second.” She forced Cyril around to face her and began to fix his tie in meticulous adjustments, to which the Saniwa only rolled his eyes, ”What? You have to at least look somewhat presentable. There are some big-time figures in there, right?” She gave the silk one last tug and stepped back to observe her masterpiece. She took a few scant seconds to determine whether it symmetrically sufficed, during which Cyril decided to slip in a retort, ”Right, I'm sure they're keeping a keen eye out for lackluster dressers. Oi, no hats indoors. It's improper etiquette.” He spoke in a cold voice as he yanked the cap right off from her her head. Flustered couldn’t even dream to describe the shade of rosy red that filled her cheeks at such a swift rate. The girl flailed her arms as she hoped to bridge the gap of their height difference yet to no avail was unable to reach it. Besides, the cat ears would help her leave more of an impression. Given how unapproachable her partner was, at least somebody needed to be remembered as an actual existence. Then again, she wasn’t exactly much of a social butterfly herself. She felt unnerved by these new horizons, and the fact that Cyril was acting his usual indifferent self wasn’t helping either. Perhaps underneath that blasĂ© mug was a tinge of worry. ”Well, shall we? Might as well get it over with?” His irritated temperament that she was all too familiar with was the thing that brought her out of her muse. The pair of apathetic eyes staring back at hers urged her to answer, ”Leave me
 Go on, save yourself.”

The girl almost broke out in laughter at the ravine that formed between his brows.

The slam of the door behind them denoted the point of no return. Once they had digested the room and its current denizens in its fullest, the two thought together in perfect unison, ”Well fuck.”

The office itself was actually quite anticlimactic, mundane really. Cyril was expecting a room embellished with a wallet that had to compensate for something else. The duo’s noses picked up the trace of cigarette smoke, which the younger of the two met abrasively with a scrunched up face. The girl wondered if everybody in this team besides Maria and her artifact were smokers. It was probably not far from the truth, much to her dismay. The Saniwa didn’t even make an effort to alert the others of his presence. A few of them were already engrossed in conversation, so rather than intruding on that oh so picturesque moment, Cyril shot the head honchos a nod. His gaze specifically rested on Yuuki before he turned himself around to set two cases next to the door. The proper thing to do in this scenario was to introduce himself and report in. Unfortunately, any driving force to do this had long since been expired, as made clear when the blond popped open Friedrich Nietzche’s Human, All Too Human and picked up from where he left off. The floor seemed to have met his standard for seating. As if this scene had played out many times, his artifact sat down next to him and read along, occasionally holding the page by the end for a few sparse moments to catch up.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Miyoshi Kazetani Character Portrait: Claire Stanfield Character Portrait: Cyril Noël Character Portrait: Amelia Renard Character Portrait: Geoffrey Lee Walker
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#, as written by Alligot
A M E L I A

S A M A E L






The imposing stench of oil and spent gunpowder lingered through the street, so thick that it might just be visible. A half dozen men with whitened hair and creased faces pried and struggled against piles of rubble and splintered wood, their hands thickly gloved. Children clad in oversized coats clambered and ran across the street - scurrying to make room for the occasional automobile or taxi.

One of the laboring men lifted a hand to a couple passing by, their attire undamaged and vibrant in color, their step determined and backs straight. The shorter of the two carried a trio of satchels, all varying in size, and wore a simple shirt and slacks - a strange thing in the chilling fall weather. His fair hair was combed back, yet his face was unkempt, with visible stubble on his jaw and neck. Upon his right arm he wore a simply-designed silver watch backwards, having to tilt his palm up if he were to read the time.

Ahead of him walked a woman with similarly-colored hair, although hers was fell past her shoulders, with her head covered by a shapeless cap. Her hands were hidden within the pockets of an olive coat, with a similar, thinner watch resting upon her right wrist. A draft of wind blew past, ruffling her skirt and hair and bringing with it a thick floral aroma, washing away the previous odors.

Hey, Amelia? I think we're getting close.

A couple simple words that nobody save one could hear - a faint, almost intimate whisper slid into her thoughts, a deep, ringing voice she knew belonged to Samael, an angelic name that was given to a man who had seemed a godsend upon his creation. He's since failed to keep such high esteem, with a primary reason being his ceaseless chiding.

Do you think I'm lost? I already know we're close.

Her tone was defensive - perhaps a bit tired. The taxi had dropped them off at the wrong office, forcing them to walk several blocks, a setback made more difficult even with flat shoes due to the damaged, messy terrain. Well, that, and she knew that Samael had been preoccupied with watching their surroundings. It was with no small amount of irritation that she learned that her Artifact just now figured out where they were.

Not paying attention, though. Come on, isn't the smell a bit strong for a few withering flowerbeds? This is an Artifact's work.

Her irritation lapsed - for she herself hadn't given the ability any other notice than relief, due to it removing the previous stench.

Is it doing anything to us?

To this, he shrugged. The scent grew stronger as they turned the corner of the street, facing the Kazetani office at the intersection. Though, neither of them felt tired or otherwise affected by the ability as their proximity increased.

No idea, but I'm guessing it's not.

Could be the American Saniwa, then. The West Wind has a liking for these kinds of displays, swaggering bunch of cowboys that they are.

The source quickly came into view - a uniformed Artifact standing at his post near the door. Samael gave him a nod as the pair walked inside. Another moment spent with a receptionist - and they were walking into the meeting room a minute later. She had removed her hat and coat, tucking both under her arm, while Samael had actually tucked his shirt in.

As she observed the room, it was reassuring to see that she wasn't the last to arrive. A quick count indicated that two still had yet to arrive - the two women from the East and South wind, probably. She took note of Kazetani's stifling presence - with both father and child carrying a similar air, with the younger talking to who Amelia supposed to be Christie. A duo of tall, older man accompanied by what Samael confirmed to be their two Artifacts. She tagged them as the West Wind Saniwa, if only due to their volume and dialect. And sitting on the floor was a young-looking man (wait, why was he sitting?) she swore she'd seen before -

Have you ever seen an Artifact that looks like that? Samael interrupted, his curiosity piqued.

Amelia instead followed Samael's gaze, and immediately saw what had piqued his curiosity. The young man's artifact was also sitting nearby, and she might have commented on that were she not also looking at a pair of animalistic ears, thrust out from the top of the girl's head.

Ah. Those two.

You know them?

No, but I saw them at the Graduation. Strange sort - if you can't tell.

Everyone's strange in a way, though.

They're acting like an actual teenaged couple. At a meeting about - really, the most important assignment any of us will ever do?

Oh - her ear's doing a twitching thing. Really, it's kind of endearing.

Though Amelia had already walked off, her gaze set upon a pair of particular Saniwa - perhaps one of the few professionals within the group.

Thinking with elitism doesn't qualify you for it, you know.

"Madame Christie, Mr. Kazetani? It's wonderful to finally meet you." Amelia said, adopting a smile and lilt to her tone. "Precious few other Saniwa hardly seem as composed."

She glanced at the elder Kazetani out of the corner of her eye - his head seemed bent, his eyes closed, so she didn't wish to disturb his thoughts. So, with a hand to her chest, she continued, "I'm Amelia - Amelia Renard, one of the Research Saniwa."

You're off your game today.

I'm not even playing the game.

Then you need to improve on your flattery.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Miyoshi Kazetani Character Portrait: Claire Stanfield Character Portrait: Cyril Noël Character Portrait: Maria Calag Character Portrait: Amelia Renard Character Portrait: Geoffrey Lee Walker
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Dark brown eyes study the quiet streets, observing the townspeople close up shop or head home. Her lips move, her voice barely above a whisper. Chavacano rolls off her tongue, the language of home comforting in a place so vastly different. "Are we running late?" She cringes hearing herself, knowing full well she'd uttered several variations of that same question the past hour. But patience was never her strong suit, and travelling only made her fuse shorter.

To her left, Basilio stirs. A hand reaches into his coat pocket, pulling out a well-worn pocket watch and a flashlight. Their driver gives them a curious glance, interested in the two foreigners in his coach, but says nothing. His gut tells him that he shouldn't, and he's inclined to trust it. They would speak to him in English if they wished for his input. Plus, the male customer had a larger build he'd be better off not experiencing firsthand. With war at their doorstep, one had to look out for anything.

A few seconds later and the Artifact sighs, hiding the watch once again. "Yes. But it's not inexcusable." With all factors considered, the two made good time. If the weather had faired any worse, the pair might've been three days late.

With a heavy sigh, she rubs her neck where an itch developed. She loathes formal appearance, but understands their need. Still, she wonders just how presentable she'd still be with the scent of smoke and leather clinging to her like perfume. A small stain on the seat's material catches her eye, and she discreetly moves away from the spot. It could've been something as innocuous as tea, but she'd rather not think of the other possibilities. It would be best if she focused on other things.

"Who else are we meeting? Anyone we know?" Other than the most important details (namely, the place, host, time and date of the meeting), Maria largely ignored the contents of the summon. As she often does, she left the specifics to her Artifact.

"Cyril Noël." Her face remains unsurprisingly blank, and Basilio supplies her with additional information to jog her memory. "We met in India. His artifact's -."

"Oh, Mr. Congeniality and Wulf!" She abruptly switches to English, a hint of excitement entering her voice. If one met Cyril Noël firsthand, they would quickly understand why the nickname ill-suited the Belgian. Her sudden outburst surprises the driver, who quietly attempts to make sense of the conversation. Unfortunately for him, she returns to her native tongue. "What winds are the others from?"

"Two others from the North, two from the East, and another two from the West.."

"Well let's hope the West Winds fair better as Saniwa than they do governing another country." He's reluctant to admit it, but there was truth in her bitter words. Basilio remains silent for the rest of the trip, unwilling to fan the flames higher. Prejudice should not be on the forefront of their minds upon meeting the rest.

Thankfully, the awkward silence does not last long. The cab rolls to a stop, and the two pay their fare. Maria takes care not to slip on the damp cobblestone as they alight from the car. A footman assists her, the scent of cherry blossom assailing her sense of smell as he nears. It doesn't take long for her to deduce that he's an Artifact, although she did have to wonder about the strength of his cologne. "Looks like we're in the right place. Get our bags, Basilio, I'll go ahead."

She quickly confirms her identity with the receptionist, and checks her reflection in the hallway mirror before entering the room. Her usually long hair was tied in a loose braid, and her collar remained stiff from the starch. Nothing could be done about the faint scent of the taxi, lest she use the perfume Rani gave her. Maria doubts that's a good idea. At the very least, she doesn't feel like the farm girl she grew up as. That would suffice as her basis of confidence.

Maria enters, her gaze perusing the room before settling on a familiar figure seated on the floor. Without so much as a greeting to the Belgian, she swiftly moves to his side. Wulf gives her a smile as hello, to which she replies in kind. The two formed an unlikely friendship thanks to the socially-inept Saniwa sitting between them.

Though shorter than everyone else in the room, Maria stands with her back straight. "Maria Calag, Spiritualist." The Spiritualist hates how she has to look up to meet their gazes, but continues to project confidence as she introduces herself. Basilio enters soon after and the room immediately feels even more cramped than it already did. Why did she have such a large Artifact? More importantly, what was Cyril doing occupying precious standing room with his butt?

She gives Cyril a warning kick, urging him to join her. "Stand up, Cyril. And I mean right now."

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Miyoshi Kazetani Character Portrait: Claire Stanfield Character Portrait: Cyril Noël Character Portrait: Maria Calag Character Portrait: Amelia Renard Character Portrait: Geoffrey Lee Walker
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Do you think this is the right place?

Mamoru grimaces. That’s what the information says. Shouldn’t we be going in already? We’re already late.

Mayumi’s mouth twitches slightly, and suddenly she’s fading around the edges.

Her artifact, a very ordinary looking Japanese man - looking supremely out of place on the London street, incredulously side-eyes her. Are you really using this now? Here?

We’re going to wait. I want to see someone else go first.

And you really need to waste spirit for that? Aren’t you a little bit excessive?

Now that she isn’t visible to humans, Mayumi turns towards her Artifact and pouts. My social training included hosting people, and entertaining them. I’m not even in the right formal clothes - neither us could even properly put together a formal western outfit. I know you’re fluent in English, but mine is awful. I just want to feel a little bit better about this. Can’t you cover for me?

Mamoru heaves a resigned sigh and turns back to watch the entrance of the building, and Mayumi gives a small smile. At least we made sure to get here early and explore the area first, if we hadn’t you’d be a wreck right now.

She gives him a dirty look, more expressive now that she’s invisible. Seeing a taxi pull up in front of the building, she and Mamoru turn in tandem to look towards the entrance. Attentively watching a small young woman and a much larger young man exit the car and enter the building, Mayumi takes a deep breath rolls her shoulders back, straightening up into a more graceful posture and her edges fading back into existence. Flattening down imaginary wrinkles in her kimono, she carefully crosses street to the entrance of the building, with Mamoru following just as gracefully behind. Quickly and quietly entering the building, she hurries to the office, just losing sight of the larger young man walking into the door of the office as she turns the corner at the opposite end of the hall. She schools her face into a placid, friendly expression and walks down the hall and waits next to the door, gesturing for her Artifact to go first.

He gives her a long suffering look, but opens the door and enters just in time to see the from earlier young woman kick another young man and berate him. Trying to suppress a slightly bewildered expression, Mamoru turns to the Kazetani Head and greets him, switching from Japanese to English. “It’s an honor to meet everyone. I’m Mamoru Shimizu, and this is Mayumi Shimizu. We’re researchers previously assigned to the GodTree project in Japan.” He turns to include everyone, “I hope everyone will treat us well.”

Mayumi steps forward from behind Mamoru and adding, “I - It’s good to meet you all.”

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Miyoshi Kazetani Character Portrait: Claire Stanfield Character Portrait: Cyril Noël Character Portrait: Maria Calag Character Portrait: Amelia Renard Character Portrait: Geoffrey Lee Walker
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MIYOSHI
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MIYOSHI
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“All is in order now,” Yuuki gravely affirms. “It seems none of you understand the pressing matter.”

“Miyoshi,” he tersely says.

Returning to his seat, Yuuki gestures for his son to continue in his stead.

Amidst smoke and darkness, Miyoshi wordlessly moves through the room. Any barriers there might have between the room’s inhabitants are, to Miyoshi, less of an issue than the crisis he must explain.

After some preparation, he begins to speak.

“Jonathan Watson has been dead for many months and yet only more deaths follow.” Miyoshi says. “I cannot tell you the extraordinary sense of duty that has united us all, but as it currently stands, one researcher remains. His name is Albert Gammond. We know that the killer practices soul extraction. Therefore, we have been gathered to supervise Mr. Gammond’s death. He will be on the Joffre alongside us, and we are to let him die.”

He pauses--and a sort of strangled gasp comes from Rosalind Christie.

“Let the man die?” she cries.

“Of course.” Miyoshi replies simply, after a pause. “Soul extraction is a unique practice in that both a victim and an extractor leave soul trace in the process. It’s tricky business though, as it is time-sensitive. Still, we’re a capable bunch I should hope. Even if our killer escapes us, their soul residue will not.”

Miyoshi smiles pleasantly. “So, letting Gammond die is to our benefit, really.”

“Good God.” Rosalind shivers.

“Well.” Miyoshi continues. “I should say, logic, reason, pure science: these are the proper ways to pursue a mystery. Gammond’s death should not be any different. He’s resigned himself to his fate, honestly. Father asked him where he’d like to die, and the Joffre was his answer. We are all spectators; Gammond has invited us to watch.”

His voice trails off to swirl past the open window of the small office. He settles in the uncomfortable silence he’s created, and relishes in the horror he’s established. He feels almost sad when his father disrupts his mood.

The elder Kazetani lights a cigarette, a brief flash of light in obscurity.

“That will be all, Miyoshi.” Yuuki says. “Now for introductions."

“Mr.Noel, Belgium’s best, is to protect Ms.Calag, our good tracker. Ms.Calag should be glad to have Mr.Noel’s service, as he is the best of Belgium, having graduated the top of his class. Likewise, Mr. Noel should be thankful of Ms. Calag’s social conscientiousness, lest his manners badly guide him. Any misstep of Mr.Noel’s part may lead to Ms.Calag’s end. We are lucky to have Ms. Calag among us. Rani does not often lend her favorite Spiritualists. Be vigilant, Mr.Noel.

“And Gandor’s own Mr. Stanfield. I’ve heard many honorable things about you from my colleague. My son is very fond of you. He specially requested you as a chaperone, and I daresay you will live up to expectations. You are to guard him, and Ms. HĂ©lĂšne Köhler, whom you shall meet later. If you fail, they will die, I suppose. Ms. Köhler and Miyoshi are irreplaceable House assets.

“Finally, Mr. Walker shall be Ms. Renard’s aide. She is the taskforce’s Researcher and Artifact specialist by extension. Often, the two of you will need to join forces, combine your equipments, and act as the team’s strongholds. Without either of you, Saniwa cannot work independently long-distance from their Artifacts. Fortunately, the two of you are experts at surviving. Mr. Walker in particular is an expert survivalist. Continue not dying.”

“Of course, Miyoshi shall be the team leader. Report to him, and he shall report to me.”

“I swear our triumph,” Miyoshi says, earning him a frown from his father.

“Miyoshi. Do not be so certain of your success.” Yuuki says coolly, to which Miyoshi thinly smiles.

It is a queer thing to hear. He looks at his father as though he has never seen him before. For a moment, Miyoshi is so emotionless that he does not trust himself to speak.

Miyoshi feels nothing; absolutely nothing. He has no sorrow, no desire for action, and no inclination to seek truth for its own sake. He understands enough about the world and the hearts of men. He does not need the honors he would gain from his duty, nor the satisfaction of learning Watson’s demise. He sees little personal profit in the entire ordeal, but chooses his words thoughtfully. There is some humor, he thinks, in only partially masking his detachment.

“Of course. If we are to die on the Joffre, we’ve at least had a pleasant journey.” Miyoshi laughs.

“Yes, I suppose that is true.” Yuuki replies, and it is Miyoshi’s turn to be surprised. “There are many paths to take in life, and death is simply just another.”

The elder Kazetani gives a slow half-smile that Miyoshi gracefully returns.

Grinning wryly, the younger Kazetani turns to face his subordinates.

“To death, the weight of soul, and a journey to end all ends. What say all of you?”

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Miyoshi Kazetani Character Portrait: Claire Stanfield Character Portrait: Cyril Noël Character Portrait: Maria Calag Character Portrait: Amelia Renard Character Portrait: Geoffrey Lee Walker
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#, as written by Jedly
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Even with his nose deep in Friedrich’s work for free spirits Cyril was still able to sense a figure materialize at his side. Before the foot coming down like a striking hammer met its target, the young adult turned to face his artifact. No words were spoken, nor were anything thoughts transmitted through a mental connection. Only the exchange of gazes occurred.

”Wulf, tell my wife I love her.”

”As if somebody would marry you.” The girl followed up ruthlessly deadpan.

”True, but still painful.

Cyril angled his vision up at the source of the kick from his seated position. Almost instantaneously, the extremely faint signs of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and despite common belief, it was genuine. ”Glad to see you’re doing well after our escapade, Maria.” He spoke in a voiced laced in neither amiability nor derision. Only professional esteem, which in itself was peculiar considering that Cyril was the polar opposite of professional. The Philippine was one of the very, very, very few people awarded with the privilege of being on the exiguous mental list labeled COMPETENT. Her mentality was comprised of the right amounts acumen and cynicism to gaze unobstructedly through the looking glass. On top of that, she was a living and breathing example of the reason to never look down upon people of short stature. In a deriding sense, of course. As the idiom went: The smaller they are, the easier it is to stab the living shit out of you.

”Sure you’ve been fine with that guy who’s at the apex of masculinity- Speaking of which, greetings Basilio.” Both Cyril and Wulf waved in unison at the Saniwa’s escort, who would most like have been in the midst of panic if he had claustrophobia. The blond unconsciously referred to artifacts as human beings. And why should he do anything beside that? They eat, sleep, and shit. To his understanding, those were the core fundamentals of what it meant to be “human”. Although in his mind he knew they were products of the soul, discerning between specific origins required far too much effort for the Belgian to squander. ”Hey, since you’re here, I want you to tell me what you think of this little excerpt?” Cyril abruptly switched gears without noticed, his slack stature now brimmed with energy once his gaze had been cast back to the literature in his hands. After a low breath, words filled with enthrallment flew forth. ”Even the distinction between soul and body is wholly due to the primitive conception of the dream, as also the hypothesis of the embodied soul, whence the development of all superstition, and also, probably the belief in god. “The dead still live: for they appear to the living in dreams.” Very befitting of our current arrangements, right? The last few words lost their vibrance as Cyril looked away from the book to witness Maria’s reaction. Seamlessly, the young adult was once again his lethargic self. Though hopefully the cutout would refresh the surely tired Maria and Basilio, he didn’t really make it a priority to transmit his words in a warm manner.

As much as he hated to admit it, Maria had done Cyril a solid. Back when Wulf’s personality was still in the midst of being cultivated, and at the time had bared a close resemblance to a blank canvas, the Spiritualist had “fleshed out” the girl’s colors almost effortlessly. Cyril was, one would say, in total awe. Surely being members of the same sex was a crucial factor, but perhaps it was all of the facets entailed with another human being that. It’s not that Wulf ever shirked from telling Cyril about something that was on her mind, in fact he was her go-to for such issues, in spite of the lack of lucid empathy he exhibited. He had never explicitly thanked Maria, and chances are, he never would. There was no meaning in such a petty matter.

For karma had already caught up with him.

Cyril was able to digest the words that cut through the air as well as those on the pages before him. Though, he did find his interest piqued when Myoshi nonchalantly dropped the bomb filled with quite the payload. So the people whose job was to prevent deaths would now ensure one would take place. Talk about a plot twist. It wasn’t cheesy, in all actuality, it had taken the combat Saniwa by surprise. The only sign of a response were his widened eyes, which only remained in that form for a short-lived second before mellowing out once again.

"Wait, seriously?!” Wulfetrud internally exclaimed while she shared the same expression as Ms. Christine. An anxious glance to her side confirmed that her partner was completely impassive to this revelation. She yet again envied that aloof side of him, but then again, one of them had to maintain a cool head. Her furred ears twitched uneasily as Miyoshi led the team on, not letting a single consonant fall short of any ears. Even though the Saniwa coolly made an attempt to rationalize what had slithered out of his mouth, a shiver still ran up the girl’s spine despite the amount of carbon dioxide in the room.

Of course. In the name of science. Any second now, Cyril expected Miyoshi to slip into a labcoat produced from a hatch in the ceiling and go forth as an envoy of science. Every generic mad scientist believes that his cause is just no matter the horrors that may lead up to the culmination of his efforts, for it’s all in the name of science. Though mad scientists never seemed to be chained by budget cuts and external benefactors. The guy continued to droll on until the older, veteran Kazetani took the spotlight. Cyril forced himself to hold back the urge to click his tongue after another death stick was ignited, his eyes follow its grey essence as it weakened in density. His eyes were brought back to the Head Saniwa when his ears picked up his own unwelcomed name. He could feel minutes shaved off his life as the words sank in and registered. Although, after he took the other eccentric characters within the room into account, he had gotten off somewhat easy. After the other members had received their assignments, father and son exchanged volleys that probably comprised the familial bonds between them. It would’ve been a heart-warming sight, only if the two individuals weren’t batshit and if Cyril had he actually listened to.

The young adult was now at a crossroads. A pivotal juncture. A fight with temptation. Cyril glanced up to Miyoshi and back down to the book multiple times, until Wulf nudged him in the arm with her elbow. A sigh of defeat escaped his lips as he brought the two uneven halves of the book together in one hand and inelegantly got to his feet, with his artifact in briskly in tow. ”Well, guess I have to make this official? Where do I sign in blood?” He brusquely fixed his stature and opened his mouth again, ”I, Cyril Noel, and Wulfetrud, hereby swear to protect Maria Calag and Basilio to the best of our abilities and then some, lest the former perish and return to this plane to haunt my kitchen’s sink drawer.” He felt another nudge, this time a bit harder than the first. Wulf didn’t seem to enjoy the verbal jab and pouted. ”Glad to be onboard.”

As long as there's sleep and fine wine.

Hopefully the train ride would stop Wulf's caterwauling on taking a scenic trip.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Miyoshi Kazetani Character Portrait: Claire Stanfield Character Portrait: Cyril Noël Character Portrait: Maria Calag Character Portrait: Amelia Renard Character Portrait: Geoffrey Lee Walker
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KNICKERBOKERX
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As much as Claire would have liked the conversation to stay between the three of them, another man came to the party.

Is that how they teach roofuckers to talk down under? is what he thought and would have liked to say, but in the presence of more formal company he much preferred staying on the side of politeness.

"Don't give me that hooey, I'm just-"

As if by magic another voice, presumably the North Wind woman butted in to introduce herself to Rosalind.

Then a foreigner kicked a boy.

Then she scolded him.

Then he, Claire, the person that was there first, opened his mouth to continue. All presumptions of formality had flown out the window so he had no problem giving the Australian a talking to.

"What he means to say is that it's very nice to meet all of you," Graham finished, putting a hand on Claire's shoulder.

Claire turned to Graham, a grimace evident on his face. The two of them exchanged a hard look, seemingly unaware of the background noise until Claire relented and slouched further.

"Kangaroos included," he muttered, turning his gaze to the elder Kazetani.

The Asian silenced the room with his voice which emanated death, destruction, and the need to get canned. Similarly, his son spoke sardonically, surrounded by the characteristic mystique that plagued his character. Despite his transparency with the mission details, Claire knew that nothing would ever be as it seemed with the Kazetani family and even less so with the House. To let a man die was a terrible mission in it of itself even if it was for the greater good. Here, they were at a crossroads. They had to sacrifice the last scientist on Watson's project which meant that all the information would truly be laid to rest.

It wouldn't bother him more than the usual suicide mission, or he liked to think so, but Graham gave him a quick glance to make sure that the redhead was fine with it. The Irishman had a particular way of expressing discontent, which, in this case, meant cringing at Gammond's resignation to death. Still, they nodded off to each introduction. Claire didn't really know any of them, but smirked at the mention of his name and the sprinkle of praise that came with it. He wasn't conceited by any means, but given that he had to guard three people (two of which were irreplaceable) there was a certain honor that came with the job.

Then again, I'm sure there's tons of rats in Japan, he thought with a shrug.

Only ten minutes in and you're already making jabs at him?

A short pause dictated their thoughts before Claire replied with a cheeky grin, not only because of the thought of having Mouse replaced with a literal rat, but also because of Yuuki's blase approach to death. He couldn't tell if they hated each other or just everyone else, but neither of them would dissuade his attitude.

"Death ain't a path I plan on taking for a while Mister Kazetani," Claire replied, standing tall.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Miyoshi Kazetani Character Portrait: Claire Stanfield Character Portrait: Cyril Noël Character Portrait: Amelia Renard Character Portrait: Geoffrey Lee Walker Character Portrait: Mayumi Miyamoto
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#, as written by Alligot
A M E L I A

S A M A E L






Amelia and Samael both mulled over Yuuki's words, and their respective roles in what would be an inevitable, grim conclusion. Their minds might melt together, but their thoughts were divisive.

This seems wasteful. Surely there's a better way than providing the man as bait - bait we intend to lose. Can we not put the reading couple with him - or perhaps the Americans? They could catch the killer in the attempt.

They'd be obvious, no? They are to be caught, not scared off.

One of us, then. We're not bodyguards. You might not be.

A brief silence slid between them - unnoticed by the rest of the room's inhabitants. After all, they had not spoken out loud to one another since they entered. To them, nothing had changed.

Typically, you're the one to lecture; but it seems strange for you to worry about his life.

And it's unfortunate that you view life so lightly when you know nothing of taking it.

The comment would have stung another. Later, when the watch was removed, maybe Amelia might admit the sharp tone had caused her pause - that is, if she would be honest with herself. He knew she believed herself desensitized to it - but it was never her hand that swung the sword, nor her finger that squeezed the trigger. It was never her gaze that captured the loss, for she avoided lifeless eyes, lest they cast their curse upon her. Eventually, she would learn. But, god willing, not the same way he had. Not with the same conclusion.

It isn't our place to decide. It's a simple order, and the chances of killing or even failing to capture the killer altogether are high. The residue will give us a fingerprint that they can never remove or sever away. Their capture would be inevitable, and there would be no place they could hide.

Samael knew this. Perhaps for taking the killer alive, this was the best solution. Not a right solution by any means, akin to leading a lamb to sacrificial slaughter. It was not like playing his old games, hidden in the snow. His victims had been armed, they would have killed him if they could. This man seemed unlikely to kill much - especially Amelia or himself.

We've got assistants?

It had been a long gap in their conversation as the elder Kazetani had announced their roles. Amelia had been surprised initially, and her thoughts were resting somewhere between mild irritation and strangely enough, enthusiasm. Although the Australians might get in the way, with their loud banter and manner counteractive to both Amelia and Samael's subtler demeanor.

It's nice to not be an assistant for a change... but - They seem rather loud. They do.

Still, you've been placed in a position of importance.

Amelia crossed her arms, having been listening to the Japanese boy's quick monologue. Were all Kazetani so fatalistic? With the elder man's jab about their possible failure, and the son's quip of their deaths, Amelia couldn't help but wonder if they're intended to die along with the researcher.

"Every precaution will be taken to make sure this goes right."

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Miyoshi Kazetani Character Portrait: Claire Stanfield Character Portrait: Cyril Noël Character Portrait: Maria Calag Character Portrait: Amelia Renard Character Portrait: Geoffrey Lee Walker
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Mayumi’s former calm didn’t last long, and having watched all the other Saniwa in the room interact so easily with each other, her anxiety reignited and her stomach began to churn yet again. The elder Kazetani’s scolding only made it worse, and her Artifact finally addressed her building apprehension.

He slid his eyes back to take in her profile from his place slightly in front of her, and carefully made sure nothing showed on his face while he addressed her over their connection.

Take a slow, deep breath. Losing your calm will gain you nothing, and you need to pay attention to what everyone is saying since I will not be the one everyone will need to talk to, and nor am I going to translate this to you. Focus, and make sure to be shrewd in your analysis. We will need it.

Mayumi’s eyelids fluttered for a second as she centered herself, and she took a surreptitious breath while the Kazetani heir slowly began his circuit around the room. It was a useless endeavour however, as her anxiety immediately returned when she heard that they were allowing this Albert Gammond to die, her blood running cold and the bile rising to the back of her throat as she had to suppress memories of a similar slaughter of an entire research project for information. Her fear and horror passed quickly, but her and Mamoru shared a wordless sense of uneasiness over their connection to the mirrored circumstances. While the others in the room exclaimed, the Artifact’s lips pressed together for just a split second and Mayumi’s hands clenched in a vice grip in her sleeves. They only allowed themselves their slips for a moment before they forced themselves back into their placid facades.

Mayumi, grateful for both her large sleeves and her more... demonstrative teammates, quietly revelled in the sense of forced calm her Artifact had pushed at her as they regained themselves. She watched as the Kazetani continued, she was entirely impressed despite herself.

In a way, Kazetani’s pragmatism is quite impressive. This “scientific” outlook sounds more like desperate platitudes of a dead man to himself, but it also sounds just creepy enough to be the sentiment of a researcher who worked on the project that pioneered soul extraction. I’m not quite sure who that was supposed to comfort however, us or himself; We’re still going to use him as bait and watch him die, it's an empty platitude.

Not everyone has watched the wholesale slaughter of a research team before, and not everyone has the guts to feel fine watching someone purposefully die as bait. It’s not like you aren’t feeling sick just thinking of it. Let them have this if it makes them easier to work with.

Mayumi made the mental equivalent of a face at him through their connection, and listened attentively as Ambassador Kazetani began on the introductions. While the rest of the team’s long and impressive resumes made for impactful introductions, it surprised neither of them that Mayumi was so replaceable. She felt Mamoru’s slight frustration and displeasure at being relegated to a disposable poison dispenser. The contrast to the strength and prestige of his former incarnation compared to his current form was frustrating, and had begun to grate.

Tentatively through the connection Mayumi offered her thoughts.

I’m sorry.

It’s fine. It’s nothing that won’t change in time. This is good for us however, underestimation is our best weapon.

Mayumi finally felt as though the ground had solidified under her feet again.

Underestimation is key.

She clung to the thought and used it to propel her into a greater sense of calm and purpose. Anchored in pragmatism once more, she continued to listen to the Kazetani heir as he closed his father’s introductions. She reflected on the proceedings, and mused to herself.

If nothing else, the Kazetani has outdone himself with his cynicism. It’s very impressive in it’s own way. I think he may in fact have become the most cynical person we’ve ever met.

Mamoru snorted in response, but tellingly didn’t protest as he shared in his Saniwa’s gallows humor. He chipped in for the both of them, and carefully articulated their willingness to join what was shaping up to be a possible suicide mission for all the belief the Kazetanis' had.

“We will do our utmost to ensure the success of the mission. Thank you for allowing us the privilege to support you; we will work hard to live up to it.”

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Miyoshi Kazetani Character Portrait: Claire Stanfield Character Portrait: Cyril Noël Character Portrait: Maria Calag Character Portrait: Amelia Renard Character Portrait: Geoffrey Lee Walker
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Maria could only roll her eyes at the exchange between Cyril and his Artifact. The two shared a lively dynamic, at odds with the relationship she shared with Basilio. She simply nods in response to the quote as the older Kazetani begins to speak. His words carry a weight far heavier than they sounded, and it was with Miyoshi's briefing that she came to understand why.

A hand clings to the fabric of her skirt, her protest lost in the grip of her fingers. The smoke that first looked so mysterious now felt like a smog that would choke her. Her face grows pale and she feels sick to stomach, but keeps her lips sealed. Instead, she breathes, counts to ten. Basilio's face betrays nothing, and instead gives his Saniwa a cursory glance. Her thoughts could be seen on her face, but the Spiritualist did well to hold her tongue. A rare instance, but Maria knew it would not do her well to disagree with their plan. Basilio simply braces himself for the mental explosion that was sure to come in a few seconds. His Saniwa did not dwell in her negative mindsets long.

Sure enough, he was blasted with a cacophony of swears ill-suited to a child of God.

How could they do that? Fire stirs within her, putting color back in her cheeks and a spark in her eyes. Life is a gift. Each soul is special - there should be another way. There must be; this is simply the easier way. Fear keeps her words from leaving the safety of her and Basilio's shared mind. The man simply indulges her internal rant, though Maria suspects he tuned her out after a certain point.

Basilio feels a sliver of unease as Miyoshi's final statements hang over the air like a knife. Does anyone ever really resign themselves to death? Maria does not reply, and instead busies her hands with her braid. It was a question she could answer for anyone but herself. Would she go against mission orders if Albert Gammond asked for her to save his life? Her throat dries. It scares her that she could not instantly answer yes. She tries not to dwell on it, but the quiet provided a perfect moment for introspection. She knew that as Saniwa, she made decisions that went against her moral compass. She expected it even. But never anything to this extent.

The heavy silence finally comes to a close as Yuuki Kazetani speaks once again. The pair look in the East Wind head's direction at the mention of Maria's name. Genuine relief pervaded her conscious as she learnt that Cyril and Wulf would be their partners. She did not doubt their abilities - she'd witnessed them firsthand. But more than that, they would be a welcome distraction from what she conceived to be a moral atrocity.

Through his introductions, Maria learnt more of the others in the room. Her Artifact comments on it before she can, a true testament to how peculiar they all were. Their appearances don't match their résumés. A small smile forms on her thin lips, a modicum of good humor returning. The two exchange small quips to alleviate the tension she felt.

Clearly. The West Wind are loud folks, aren't they? The Kazetani are too fatalistic; they could definitely use a dose of sunshine.

On the same level as us? Isn't that a bit much?

Of course. At this rate they need it. Her spirits lifted, she affirmed her decision, even if reluctance colored it. She waits for a pause, then speaks, her voice carrying a forced enthusiasm and confidence. "I'd disagree about haunting your sink; it's probably filthy. " Turning to Miyoshi, she agrees with a nod, then turns to Cyril. "We'll be in your care."

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Miyoshi Kazetani Character Portrait: Claire Stanfield Character Portrait: Cyril Noël Character Portrait: Maria Calag Character Portrait: Amelia Renard Character Portrait: Geoffrey Lee Walker
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“Nice one mate,” Lee replied dryly to Claire's quiet jab. He could feel Peter mentally poking him, but Lee simply shrugged him off, and began to take in the other arrivals. He noted the antics of the other Combat pair, acting more like a couple than artifact and Saniwa. He also noted the familiarity the shorter Saniwa-- South Wind if he had his guess, showed them. Her artifact was a large man himself, giving Lee a run for his money in heft and height. His eyes lingered on the man for a moment before he continued to scan. The other pair were a woman and a man, though they mostly kept to themselves, and did not display the... oddities the rest did.

Including ourselves, He felt Peter interject. Lee could only nod in agreement. It was true, their-- his Peter reminded him, introduction wasn't the most professional. The last arrival, a man and a young girl was finally made their entrance, and Lee raised an eyebrow at their garb. A kimono, they must be the other East Winds.

Lee nodded at their greetings before he turned toward Peter. I know what a kimono is, mate. I just never seen one. Peter smiled in response, but said nothing else.

It was about then the elder Kazetani began to speak. At his words, Lee snapped to attention and took on a more professional demeanor, with Peter following suit. Their spines straightened, their shoulders squared, and they held their wrists behind themselves looking almost disciplined in the process. Their shoulders never shifted at the Kazetani's spoke, but Lee did mutter “Poor bastard,” under his breath once he heard that they were going to be using a man named Albert Gammond as bait. It was grim business, but Lee said nothing else. It sounded as if the man made his choice, and if their mission was to supervise his death, then that were their mission. There wasn't anything they could do about it but follow orders. Though, the way the younger Kazetani delivered the news as if it was something completely ordinary didn't sit too well with Lee.

Next came the proper introductions, where the elder Kazetani to names to faces. While he had already heard of Claire from Gandor, the rest were strangers, and it was nice to know what to call who. Both Lee and Peter committed names to memory. Near the end, the Kazetani revealed that they were to be Ms. Renard's aides. He turned toward the woman, and offered a dry smile before dipping his head in a greeting. “That's the plan,” Lee replied to the request of continuing not to die. He rather liked living, actually.

With that, the Kazetani's finished speaking, leaving Lee to mutter, “A bloody morbid bunch,” under his breath. He felt another mental poke from Peter, but then an agreement. A lot more fatalistic than we're used to, that's for true. Let's hope the rest of 'em aren't like that. A quick scan of the room, and the varying expressions on their faces, and Lee decided that, no, they probably weren't. The woman called Maria particularly had her emotions plainly written on her face.

Turning back to Yuuki and Miyoshi, Lee and Peter nodded in unison. “Death's only another beginnin', mate. Though--”

”We aren't plannin' on dyin' any time soon.” Peter finished the thought for them. With that, Peter turned toward Amelia with a smile. “You're in good hands Ms. Renard.”

“Hope we can say the same,” Lee added with a curl to the corner of his mouth.

The setting changes from Kazetani London Office to The Joffre

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Miyoshi Kazetani Character Portrait: Claire Stanfield Character Portrait: Cyril Noël Character Portrait: Maria Calag Character Portrait: Amelia Renard Character Portrait: Geoffrey Lee Walker
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CHAPTER ONE
An Important Passenger on the Joffre

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- seating arrangement -

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Under German command, the Joffre proceeds towards Vienna at a quarter to nine.

At 9.15, the train dutifully pulls out of the station, and Miyoshi stares out blankly at the repaired French countryside. This is not the France he remembers from his childhood. He is suddenly aware of how ugly Calais had become. German efforts largely renovated the buildings, but an atmosphere of loss remains. The landscape is marked by a foreign sadness, and there is nowhere pleasing for Miyoshi to look. The air is thick with rain and dirt; not since he stepped into the train has he breathed air so unadulterated by dust.

Miyoshi exhales, expelling cigarette smoke into the French winds. Then, he closes the window, centimeter by centimeter, until the world outside has been removed completely.

Inside the Waffen-SS dining car, his Artifact bites into a slice of beef; officers laugh among themselves; and everything smells of rain.

Warmth from German candles envelopes him. A feast has been laid out for his companions: roasted apples, boiled potatoes, sauerbraten, and schweinshaxe.

Too much. All certainly too much.

There is a sickness to this scene, he comments towards his Artifact.

Sickness you are not responsible for. Kimura Asagi reminds him.

Seated beside him, Kimura Asagi appears disguised as his IJA engineer companion. No longer sporting his natural look, he carries a Japanese image as well-tailored as his suit. He looks like his master; a cold, intelligent type, devoid of moral searchings. On the surface, they belong here, with the uniformed Nazis.

Behind him, a table of officers burst out into song. They sing Rise! Rise! All glory to the fatherland! He tires of the anthem, having memorized enough of it. Around him are men powered by German pride. With some humor, he wonders what it must feel like to be a fanatic. Few of his beliefs match their own.

For instance: Jedes Leben ist kostbar. Every life is precious. It is a Shinto thought. It is not one that Germany’s FĂŒhrer nor his father would agree with. For now, it is perfect for him.

Light colors his face as he lights another cigarette.

The carriage door swings open a little wider, and a rugged Waffen-SS officer in his late forties steps out of it into their dining room. A patch over his left eye barely conceals a large scar marring half his face. Something in his expression is unruly, and he carries a rawness akin to animal brawn. A hard jawline and strong cheekbone structure suggest that he had once been handsome. There is a sleeplessness in his eyes, as if they can no longer return to dreams. A younger uniformed man follows him with a suggestion of pride in his manner. He shuts the door behind them, and stands more firmly. Like Miyoshi, this young man’s face is clean and committed; he is supremely confident in his privileges.

For a moment, the two appear lost, before the elder one recognizes Miyoshi, and efficiently moves towards his table.

Miyoshi extends his cigar box to the two men, and they oblige with curt “danke”s.

“Thank you,” the elder man briskly repeats, lighting his newly acquired cigar. He glances at the seated Saniwa, then back to Miyoshi in particular. "Under the circumstances, I am afraid I could not arrange separate sleeping quarters you and your companion. Though formalities are necessary, I beg that you can forgive my limits, Herr Kazetani."

“You have been kind enough.” Miyoshi politely reassures. “I am sure my partner and I will not dislike your accommodations. Please, won’t you dine with us, ObersturmbannfĂŒhrer? And your comrade as well?”

Surely, the latter’s position had affected the younger man's brain. He is thoroughly engaged in brushing the lint off his coat, and seems wholly engrossed in the task.

“Hauptfeldwebel.” the older man says a little louder. His voice is calm, but there is on his face an exhausted tug.

“Of course,” the younger man abruptly replies, expressionless, before sitting down.

“Well then, that takes care of that.” The ObersturmbannfĂŒhrer says, unruffled, pushing aside a chair for himself. He then begins formal introductions.

“I am ObersturmbannfĂŒhrer Ernst Richter. My companion is Hauptfeldwebel Karl Neumann. Hauptfeldwebel, this is Herr Kazetani, son of Viscount Kazetani. He has come here as a companion to Herr Asagi, the tank engineer, you remember, from months ago. He is here to for our Char D2’s.”

“Herr Asagi? I am afraid I do not remember. But what interest do you gentlemen have in the Char D2?”

Neumann gazes at Kimura Asagi spefically with some rancidity, his fingers playing at his NCO braid. He is not, however, prepared for his question to be met with calm coolness.

Kimura Asagi stamps out his own cigarette. Miyoshi’s silence indicates that he should speak. After all, Kimura Asagi prepared for this--being in the IJA for over a year. The Artifact took courses at the Japanese Army Science School in his audition for this role. While indeed a spy, he is also a true engineering scholar.

Fortification (築柎歩), Civil Engineering (ćœŸæœšć­Š), Traffic Engineering (äș€é€šć­Š), Mapping (æžŹé‡ć­Š), Tactics (æˆŠèĄ“ć­Š), Artillery Studies (ç Č慔歊).

He remembers them all with strong familiarity.

Mathematics (æ•°ć­Š), Dynamics (抛歩), Physics (物理歊), Chemistry (挖歩), Drawing (曳歩).

Those, he recalls as well.

Like his training, his confidence is entirely genuine.

“The IJA have created Otsu-Gata Sensha from the Renault NC1. We have been making purchases from France in the past twenty years, but they refuse to sell us more advanced technology. Or perhaps, they cannot afford to. Regardless, this poses a problem to us.

“A problem?” Neumann smirks.

“We do not have an indigenous tank production capability,” Kimura Asagi says matter-of-factly. “And our tanks are still vulnerable. Take our Ke-Ni, for example. It has thicker armor than the Type 95, but she’s an inefficient vehicle. Her gun’s muzzle velocity is also still too slow. While you Germans have made strong strides in tank technology, we are leagues beneath the Russians.”

“The Russians,” scoffs the younger German, but his superior responds more gravely.

“The Russian T-34s.” Richter closes his eyes.

“I’ve heard stories,” Kimura Asagi stiffly says. “But not much beyond the complaints of our allies. I am a company leader. The information is heavy to hear.”

“Indeed, as the T-34’s have caused us great burden as well,” the elder officer agrees, likely from firsthand experience.

His eyes rest on Claire. When he speaks, Miyoshi realizes that he’s been observing Claire for awhile.

“I have seen this man before,” he says.

“He is Herr Stanfield, the American arms manufacturer,” Miyoshi evenly says.

“The Gandor boy.”

“Yes,” Miyoshi responds. And then decides to add: “Though he does not speak German.”

“Hm.” The German smiles, seemingly satisfied, and his interest shifts to the women seated across him. “Frau Austerlitz? I am told you are here to create a film about our company. I have yet to see your work, fraulein. Surely, your movie will bring light to the unselfish heroism which our men are excellent examples of. And we formally meet, Frau Köhler.”

Neumann bravely cuts in, a little shy, but clearly attracted. “Frau Köhler? The Frau Köhler?”

“Truly beautiful in person now as she was months before,” his superior chimes. “Your operetta in Berlin! I saw it! You were the jewel of Der Obersteiger. Sei nicht bös! I was in the audience! Your voice is captivating, like magic. And your eyes...”

He scrutinizes her through his single, unblinking eye.

“Himmelblau,” he finally decides, smiling at HĂ©lĂšne. “Your eyes. They are sky blue, like my son’s. My daugher, like you, enjoys singing as well. Perhaps you can teach her when the war is over.”

“Exceptional,” Miyoshi murmurs. Calculations are being made behind his watch, and he signals for Kimura Asagi to change the subject.

“Your children,” Kimura Asagi pauses. “Do you miss him?”

“I do.”

At the mention of his family, the tired officer comes alive.

“They ask me: Wouldn’t you rather be in Berlin? With your children? Watching the lines march, away from all these’”—he waves his hand at the window—”’remains’? But I tell them that I will go where I need to, as the charcoal burner of the country, I will burn what the FĂŒhrer needs me to burn. And so I am here, Herr Kazetani.”

At this, Miyoshi raises his glass just long enough for the gesture’s meaning to sink in.

“To the fire in your spirit,” Miyoshi toasts. “To Germany and its FĂŒhrer. Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein FĂŒhrer.”

“Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein FĂŒhrer,” the Waffen-SS men agree.

“Soon, Germany will win the war.” Miyoshi notes with false pleasure.

He smiles, knowing that Amelia, HĂ©lĂšne, and Claire would do their part to win the soldiers’ favor as well.

It would not be very hard.

Kinderleicht, he thinks.

Child’s play.

. . . .


In the civilian carriage, Albert Gammond watches the passengers with utmost curiosity. As he scans the weary travelers surrounding him, his physiognomy undergoes a curious change. An expression gathered there that could only be described as half puzzled, and half concerned. Though he has resigned himself towards death, he is still nonetheless afraid.

Beside him sits a serious-looking German man, and across him, a young couple.

Perhaps it is his Saniwa training, but he has the sensation that something huge and empty is about to devour him whole. He notices it then.

A poltergeist.

Hanging from the window beside him.

It does not move.

It does not do anything.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Miyoshi Kazetani Character Portrait: Claire Stanfield Character Portrait: Amelia Renard Character Portrait: HélÚne Köhler
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When Claire reviewed the documents for his cover whilst boarding the plane he had been analytical. When he was dropped off along with the others he had been excited. When he flipped through his German phrase book one last time, he was fumbling.

Calais had not fit the paintings he’d seen in artbooks but the changes matched the photos in newspapers. He didn’t know much about French architecture but some of the buildings looked out of place when compared to those that were torn down. Words like “bewohnt” for occupied, “gewichtig” for heavy, and “trĂŒmmer” for debris floated in his mind while others like “good evening” and “nice to meet you” stayed stubbornly English. Even outside of his terrible linguistic aptitude Claire had a hard time divorcing his personal feelings from the language.

Most of the other things the German officers were singing slipped through his mind as he picked at his boiled potatoes, a coincidental reminder of his ethnicity. The aromas of the feast were marred by Miyoshi’s cigarette smoke and the scent of bias if there even was one.

He knew from his physiognomy to the seating arrangement than he didn’t belong there. They sandwiched him between Kimura Asagi and another officer, forcing him to share a table corner with the Artifact.

Regardless, Claire steeled himself for the oncoming conversation. If he could not pull off “Claire Stanfield, Nazi Sympathizer” he could try “Claire Stanfield, Lovable Oaf.”

He caught the words ObersturmbannfĂŒhrer and Hauptfeldwebel respectively which he found rather odd (mainly because neither were mentioned in his book) so he mentally abbreviated them. Ober Ernst was the older, eye-patch wearing man while Haupt Karl was the younger officer. The redhead nodded at each of them, giving a sheepish smile in place of actual understanding. Phrases like “Herr Asagi”, “panzer” and “Char D2” kept him grounded in the conversation while Kimura Asagi’s quick spiel lost him entirely.

The Irishmen noted a few things such as Karl’s sour look toward Kimura Asagi and the hidden contempt in the Artifact’s tone. Clearly Karl was not the most open minded of individuals.

Still, the Germans seemed to care little for Claire himself as the only acknowledgement came from Ober Ernst and with the Gandor name attached.

“N-nien! Ich bin Claire Stanfield,” he stuttered.

The accent grated against his tongue as the sentence cemented him as certifiably incompetent compared to the effervescent Helene. She was blonde and blue-eyed with an unrivaled fluency in German (mainly because well, she was German) which meant that she controlled the room. He had no problem with the Espionage agent so much as what she embodied. The Nazi ideal prioritized appearance over actual merits and blamed the country’s failings on a race of people rather than their own failings. It was not to say that Helene did not deserve the praise, but their comments, that groveling or whatever the Germans wanted to call it annoyed him.

Himmelblau? Is that some sort of praise or something? he thought as he chewed his lip. Surely they must have been referring her eyes.

“Yeah? Well mine are himmelred!” he whispered, perhaps louder than he meant to.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and uses his free hand to sip from his glass long enough for Miyoshi to raise his own glass in toast of the FĂŒhrer. He understood that word well enough, but the smarter part of him (namely the one that Graham came from) told him to clarify with Miyoshi.

“Mouse, what are we toasting?” he asked, tilting his chair and leaning toward his Spiritualist friend.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Miyoshi Kazetani Character Portrait: Claire Stanfield Character Portrait: Cyril Noël Character Portrait: Maria Calag Character Portrait: Amelia Renard Character Portrait: Geoffrey Lee Walker
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#, as written by Alligot
Samael couldn't help but marvel at the accommodations - if only a bit. Before all of this, sitting in a cabin like this would have been considered a luxury. Hardly a shake or shudder, a roof, windows with drapes, as well as ample space to sit. Now, he himself sat here, such things now considered a basic commodity in travel. More than once, his hearing caught complaints on the lumpiness of the seats, or the poor quality of the carriage, and he would vividly remember standing for hours, packed into a metal carriage with other young men, all of them cold and wet but ravenous for war.

Even still, a more disturbing image entered his mind - that of his Opa, grandfather, and of the man's lamentations of luxury. Samael had died for only two decades and he was already thinking the same. Before he knew it, he would probably start to complain about his aching joints - and his saniwa would never let him hear the end of it.

But the trip was pleasant. He engrossed himself in German newspapers, and he was rather interested with Das Reich - specifically the small, impassioned essays by a man named Goebbels. Between the reading and Wulfetrud's attempts at making conversation, time passed rather quickly. He even had moments of shock - forgetting that he was tethered to his saniwa as he was, so surges in her emotion would catch him off guard. Of course, he tried to avoid thinking directly of her - not out of spite, but to avoid disturbing her own concentration. She was among wolves, after all.

Though - his situation now seemed hardly better. His thoughts had been interrupted by Maria's insistent glance, alerting him to the woman who clung to the window just outside. Her head was crowned by a delicate-seeming circlet of flowers, and an antiquated dress was shaking and fluttering from the violent, high-speed winds. He was quick to avert his gaze - it would be best to avoid drawing it's ire, especially in such close proximity to Gammond. Samael's elbow pressed against the older man's side, as well as his thigh remaining in contact. All he needed was to ensure the slightest touch, and as long as Gammond stayed still, they would both be fine.

If anything, his job was easy. He merely had to avoid moving - that, and making sure Gammond did the same.

"Tell me, mein freund, do you happen to know the answer to five across?" Samael asked in a rather plain tone, lifting the indicated part of the newspaper to Gammond's notice.

Maybe it wouldn't hurt to divert the older man's attention, especially in light of Basilio's small 'mistake', and the subsequent moment Maria took to leave, escaping from his peripheral vision. A plan for removing the poltergeist was surely soon to be in motion.





It had been a sickening feeling. Her home. Her once-beautiful home. It was a venom that settled in her abdomen, rising to her lungs and stealing what air she could siphon from the dust and the stifling rain that seemed to choke her. It burned through her arms - to her fingertips, a heat that she was sure would turn her skin as red as the devil's.

Calais had died. It was not battered and bruised like London. There were nearly no remains to identify, and what little there was had been desecrated beneath the shadow of a foreign flag and the heavy footfalls of invading boots. Horrid Germanic structures of concrete and steel replaced once-unyielding, ancient walls of stone, brick, and wood. It felt like a monstrous recreation of what she once held dear. A mere model, rendered by incompetent hands.

And even after the train had departed, the image remained in her mind, the city's skeletal dust still seemed to litter the air. Here, she dined with the army responsible. Amelia itched to draw her Gandor, hidden and holstered upon her thigh, but on this train, she was Amelie Austerlitz, young, unproven German director. Ambitious, proud - of both her work, and her country. And Amelie Austerlitz had no cause to use that gun. Amelie Austerlitz would never dream of harming those who served her country.

It was a mantra she had to practice every time the assumed any mask. To tear down what had once motivated her - given her cause for breath, and replace it with scaffolding.

Besides, she was unsettled enough as it was. She could feel Samael's ability sapping her body and mind. A rhythmic ache in the base of her skull, and an occasional needle or two of pain in her fingertips. She had not been sustaining him for long - and at this distance, the effects would not say mild for long. Thinking of Calais would only harm her facade further.

So, when Richter addressed her, she provided a genuine smile. She sat straighter - leaning forward and uncrossing her legs. Her hands set her silver aside to lace together upon the table. A slight tilt of her head. Subtle motions that would sell her character. Avid. Attentive. Perhaps even reverent. Hopefully no tell of the woman who, deep inside, wanted nothing more than to see these men laid low.

"A pleasure, ObersturmbannfĂŒhrer." She replied with delight, "And my production will not just shed light - it will exalt their heroism." She spoke her last claim quietly - with a momentary sombre timbre.

While the officers were shortly infatuated with Helene, Amelia intently listened and set herself towards the (admittedly well-cooked) pot roast. She made mental notes as the conversation shifted from Der Obersteiger to mention of Richter's two children (and his obvious love for them), and of smaller details - such as Claire's hushed statement.

Sie sind bernsteinfarbenen, Stanfield. She thought, amused, as she also gave toast with the rest of the tables. She hardly even noticed the small, small niche in her mind that was angered by Richter's dismissive gesture towards her country. (Or, what remained of it.)

"ObersturmbannfĂŒhrer, you did talk of heroism earlier - and if you don't mind me asking, surely you've seen some examples from the brave men under your command?" She was hesitant and cautious, for with and without her mask, she knew that such subjects could be treading on uncertain footing.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Miyoshi Kazetani Character Portrait: Claire Stanfield Character Portrait: Amelia Renard Character Portrait: HélÚne Köhler
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A miasma of despair hung over Calais, and for all her countrymen’s efforts to make the rule of the Fatherland glorious, reminders of French sorrow were everywhere to see. HĂ©lĂšne could only take her guilt and smother it under her determination to see this mission succeed. Failure, as with all her other missions, was never an option.

Her tour of performances had ended here, and her House duties had begun once again. Pressing away all other matters from her mind, she tilted her head slightly to change her focus from view outside to a sidelong look at the Saniwa next to her. While the others on this mission had been present for the briefing in London, HĂ©lĂšne’s heavily scrutinized schedule had left her no room for introductions. Taking one last glance at the woman next to her, she finally turned back to take in the rest of the car.

Eyes sweeping the room, she glanced again at the young Japanese man at her table. Admittedly, he was by far the most surprising among her fellow Saniwa. As soon as she had seen his face she had immediately recognized him, and her face had slipped in her surprise.

She gave another inner grimace at her past lapse. Being together with Walter for so long has made me lax, she reflected. Her aggrieved inner sigh turned into a quiet puff of breath as it passed her lips, and HĂ©lĂšne continued in her perusal of the table. Her eyes quickly alighted on the professional-looking IJA officer, and then on the shockingly redhaired man beside to him. As soon as she had taken in their profile she was glancing about the rest of the compartment, taking in rich food, the jubilant singing, and the many officers seated within.

Well, HĂ©lĂšne thought wryly, At least this will be interesting. And only made better by the fact that the only person I know has met me without me even being aware of their House connections. Walter, be glad you went ahead. She grumbled to her Artifact, aware that he was too far away to hear her thoughts. However, if she couldn’t even complain to her Artifact within the privacy of her own head, her frustration with what was sure to be an interesting adventure would most assuredly drive her mad.

HĂ©lĂšne turned her attention as a rugged, intimidating Waffen-SS officer entered the car and prowled toward her table. He was followed by another officer and they stopped to greet the handsome Japanese Saniwa.

Au! Herr Kazetani! That was his name! His name had been escaping her since she had seen him, and it had been gnawing at her as much as his apparently twisted nature in not introducing himself when they had first met.

She was careful to commit the officers’ names to memory however, and was rather amused as the other Japanese man--Herr Asagi, she reminded herself--took the younger one to task. HĂ©lĂšne folded away the small smirk trying to make its way to her mouth, and sent another ripple of amusement into the void of Walter’s thoughts.

The sobering attitude of Richter’s quiet grief killed her quick amusement however, and she quickly filed the remaining Saniwa’s names away as they were introduced. As introductions were turned on her, she found that while Herr Neumann’s enthusiasm was cute, it was more alarming than flattering.

“So good to meet you as well, Herr Neumann, Herr Richter. I am flattered to know that even such respectable officers such as yourselves know my name.” HĂ©lĂšne dipped her head, and her eyelashes fluttered for a second in humility as she smiled at them. The older man’s sincere enjoyment of her singing grew the charming smile on her face into a genuine one, and she took a moment to savor the happiness of true success.

With his continued praised, her cheeks warmed. “I am glad my singing can bring such happiness to you, Herr Richter. I would be more than honored to meet your family under such auspicious circumstances. If your daughter is anything like you, I am sure her singing is beautiful already; my presence would only do well to compliment her talents.”

As the topic of family continued, HĂ©lĂšne returned her attention to the food set before her and let the two Japanese men take control of the conversation. Saving a moment of childish amusement for the American’s antics, she gracefully lifted her glass for the toast.

“Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein FĂŒhrer,” she echoed. She took a delicate slip from her glass, and used the movement to allow herself a covert glance at her table members. Everyone’s smiles were real enough that she focused her attention back to her food while she gathered her thoughts.

With Frau Austerlitz engaging Herr Richter in conversation, HĂ©lĂšne turned to the younger of the Japanese men. “Herr Kazetani, it is good to see you looking so well since our last meeting.” The smile she turned on him felt a little sharper than normal, and she looked through her lashes at him in order to conceal the accusation she knew she was failing to stifle.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Miyoshi Kazetani Character Portrait: Claire Stanfield Character Portrait: Amelia Renard Character Portrait: HélÚne Köhler
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“Mouse, what are we toasting?” Claire leans into him.

“Hitler,” Miyoshi tersely replies. A thin, cruel smile plays at his lips for a minute. Then he resumes sitting back, and observes his female companions at work. There is a literary element to their acting, and he wonders which woman hates this more. The Resistance fighter, or the Nazi rebel? From their red smiles and rosy cheeks, he cannot tell. He is not like them. For him, it is a painless effort to appease his transgressors.

With these thoughts, he picks up his sherry and drinks discreetly. His eyes come gently round to Amelia, the more angular of the two women. She reminds him of a painting he’d seen at a Kyoto exhibition. There is a subdued aura somewhere beneath all her brightness. When she speaks, her voice is energized but tightly controlled.

Her question stirs something serious within Richter. The German gentleman looks at her, struck by something in her tone. Then he nods very slowly, and speaks with the depth indicative of a man who has seen and felt indescribable pain.

“Well...” says Richter thoughtfully. “I who speak to you have seen much of the war, and I know that one thing is true. What is brave for each man is different because each man is different. Sometimes I couldn't understand Hunsruck men, and they didn't understand me either. I am an aloof Berliner. What do I know? Bavarians are loud and fun-loving, Hunsruck men less so. When I am asked to describe my men’s bravery. I simply speak of my men. They are Germany’s people. Serving already makes them brave.”

“If you were there, Frau Austerlitz,” he continues, “You would know not to ask. But. You were not there. But your eyes seem gentle, so I will directly answer your question. Their brave accounts go beyond the invasion of Poland or the Battle of France. Evidence of their brave accounts are everywhere from the moment they begin to serve.”

“To leave home is brave.” He watches her reaction carefully. “When you make your films, Frau Austerlitz
 remember their victories as men before their victories as soldiers.”

He closes his spiel with folded hands, and even Kimura Asagi is quiet. The Artifact’s eyes continue to burn hazel, but his expression is faraway. His silence, Miyoshi would soon realize, stems not from respect, but from elsewhere.

It is HĂ©lĂšne’s soothing voice that returns much-needed warmth to the table. Richter seems moved by her compliments and willingness to meet his family, though HĂ©lĂšne’s attention is quickly redirected towards Miyoshi himself.

“Herr Kazetani, it is good to see you looking so well since our last meeting.” HĂ©lĂšne says to him, an accusation thinly veiled. A fire flickers in her gaze, alluding to her namesake. Köhler. Charcoal burner. Underneath her elegant costume lies a woman devoid of any softness.

But he doesn’t dislike that.

She has a distinct charm of manner expected of her breed. He can understand why men keep close watch of her. Her slender frame barely contains whatever passionate feelings she holds inside, though it is part of her charm, he thinks. Having had enough sherry, he decides to flirt a little for his own self-interest.

“Frau Köhler, I’m moved that you remember. Had my curfew been later, I would have pressed to have met you personally. But you are here, and we are dining together.”

His words flow with manner, with an air of someone who had learned to speak that way.

Across from him, Kimura Asagi’s jaw twitches.

Master.

Not now, Kimura Asagi. I am speaking with Ms.Köhler.

Nevermind the woman. Something else is here. Do you feel it?

No. Wait. Yes.

He is suddenly caught off-guard by a sensation of unease. He feels a shock of cold, as if he had been plunged into the bottom of the Laforet’s frozen lake. Shadows begin stealing between the crevices of his mind, and a familiar dizziness numbs his fingers. With some dread, he realizes that the soul tablets had delayed the spiritual response.

His fork falls to his plate, and his German hosts turn to look at him. Calm and adaptable as he sees himself to be, Miyoshi carries on the same as ever. He takes up his fork again with a sheepish expression, then looks at his hosts inquiringly.

“The pot roast is very good.” he says in an agreeable fashion. “I hope to have it again.”

Although Neumann is watching him narrowly, not a muscle in his face moves.

“Are you tired, Herr Kazetani?” Neumann sharply asks, and Kimura Asagi’s eyes flash, though Neumann takes no notice of his warning.

“Ah...” Miyoshi’s grip on his fork loosens. “I suppose I am. It’s been a long journey from Tokyo. You must forgive me.”

“Of course,” Richter says, bewildered that his guest need feel apologetic. “You’ve done nothing to be ashamed of.” And then, as if nothing had occurred at all, Richter smiles warmly at HĂ©lĂšne and Amelia, revealing a legion of handsome teeth.

“Have the two of you met before? I am just curious.”

Miyoshi finds himself smiling amusedly and thinking: Amelia and HĂ©lĂšne will be enough to set the Germans’ minds to rest. Internally, he gives a sigh of relief. The soul tablets helped him sustain Kimura Asagi’s disguise, but made him more sensitive to spiritual disturbance at a much slower rate. His Artifact is quick to catch on.

Master. You look a little paler than usual. Shall we retire early?

Yes. Something powerful is nearby.

A spirit is here. He can't measure it just yet. To make matters worse, Kimura Asagi’s Skill is starting to effectively wear him thin. His head throbs, and he can feel the tug of his life force press into his skull. He would need more soul tablets.

From his pocket, he produces his father’s wristwatch.

9.46. He would need to hurry lest he miss his hourly dosage.

“The night turns late. You must excuse us,” Miyoshi says, smiling gently, and re-pockets the item. “Thank you for the meal.”

Richter nods with quick consideration while Neumann has him fixed in his gaze.

Miyoshi quietly rises from the table, and goes out of the room, his steps deliberately paced. Then, like a man in a dream, Kimura Asagi turns slowly and follows his master out the door and into the cold, French night.

Under the touch of moonlight, they almost look like ghosts.

. . . .


Inside the Joffre’s sleeping car, darkness returns to Miyoshi’s eyes, and he feels the faint impressions of Kimura Asagi’s hand at the small of his back.

Pain swings through his head with every step. This time, however, Miyoshi is certain it is drug withdrawal, and not a spirit. A dark cloud passes over his features. He wears this expression all the way to the hallway marking the entrance to his sleeping cabin. Then, he turns to his Artifact, and speaks in almost a whisper.

“There was a spirit near our table earlier. I can’t feel it anymore. It’s elsewhere now. In any case, we should be careful. Perhaps we should locate it first so that we might warn the others.”

Miyoshi’s arms jerk suddenly. Kimura Asagi almost loses his footing in supporting his master.

“Master, we should return to your room first. You must rest.” Kimura Asagi says with some urgency.

“If Claire is as sharp I believe him to be, he will come for me. He knows about the soul tablets.”

“What! Master! You can't be serious--”

“It was a minor reveal in getting him to trust me.” Miyoshi interrupts with some consternation. “Gandor’s men do not trust easily. Surely, you of all people should know that.”

At this, Kimura Asagi falls silent. His gaze drifts towards his western shoes.

Presently, softening his words, Miyoshi says, “You return to the cabin. I’ll stay here and wait for Claire. He should know to come soon.”

There is dead silence for at least two minutes. The shared pause between Saniwa and Artifact indicates a painful understanding that neither are going to act upon. Then, the Saniwa produces a pill bottle from his coat. He chews on a soul tablet, and swallows the rest of it whole.

Without looking up, Kimura Asagi quietly speaks.

“Alright. Goodnight, Master.”

The Artifact's saliva-soaked cigar feels dry in his mouth, and he retreats deeper into their sleeping cabin without so much of another word.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Miyoshi Kazetani Character Portrait: Claire Stanfield Character Portrait: Amelia Renard Character Portrait: HélÚne Köhler
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HĂ©lĂšne laughed a little inside as she watched the Japanese man take a sip and begin to engage her. While her first comment had been a pointed little thing, designed to poke and prod, his masterful response delighted her. The accusing light in her eyes had been transmuted by his learned charm into dancing enthusiasm, and she leaned into him from across the table, eager to continue their promising repartee.

“I am flattered of your high opinion of me. While I am regretful for the lost opportunity of our last meeting, I am sure we will have much time over the course of the train ride to come to know each other this time.” Looking over at him with a mix of a fox’s eager anticipation and a child’s playfulness, she punctuated her last statement with a demure smile.

With a start however, she remembered the others at the table. Quickly taking in the expressions of her tablemates, HĂ©lĂšne hurried to include to the others. “And I am sure that I will love to greater meet the acquaintance of my gracious hosts, Herr Richter, Herr Neumann. Time in your busy schedules and many important duties allowing, of course.” She gave each a cordial nod as she said their names.

She added to the men across the table from her, “And the same to you Herr Stanfield, Herr Asagi, with what I am sure are many responsibilities.” Turning to the woman next to her, she continued with a smile, “And of course I’m sure we will bond greatly as roommates, Frau Austerlitz. I glad to have the chance to learn more about you and your work.”

Hearing a sudden clank of dropped cutlery, HĂ©lĂšne snapped around to find the source of the sound. Although Herr Kazetani had recovered with skillful grace and suave style, she was concerned to see the momentary slip from the imperturbable man.

She gratefully jumped on Richter’s quick deflection, slightly guilty that her unguarded interest had made him a target of her prideful little fanboy. She smiled at Richter, and with a quick look at Frau Austerlitz she answered, “Unfortunately I have not. Although I have been blessed with many opportunities since my recent graduation from the UniversitĂ€t fĂŒr Musik und darstellende Kunst Wien at our destination, my great fortune has not left me many chances to interact others outside of my art or my patrons. This trip is a great gift to me, in allowing me to meet my other fellow artists in the service of Fatherland. I am also glad to be able to meet and get to know many of my fans on a personal level,” here she turned to look at Herr Richter and Neumann specifically. With a cheerful smile she continued, “And I am so honored to hear such great praise from my audience. It only motivates me more to know that I can bring such joy to such brave men.”


As the Kazetani heir made his excuses for the evening, HĂ©lĂšne turned back only quickly to wish the Japanese men a goodnight before returning to engage Herr Neumann again in conversation while she still held his attention, eager to draw his attention away from their departure.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Miyoshi Kazetani Character Portrait: Claire Stanfield Character Portrait: Cyril Noël Character Portrait: Maria Calag Character Portrait: Amelia Renard Character Portrait: Geoffrey Lee Walker
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#, as written by Alligot
Silence hung low over the table after Richter ceased to speak. For what seemed like minutes, it lingered. Amelia could feel it in her ears, each rhythmic thud, thud, thud in her temples sent waves through her vision, cutting through the silence. She didn't speak.

Your German boys have not lost their homes, Richter. If leaving is bravery, then what does that make destruction? Loss? Amelia thought, raising a glass to her lips, eyes still locked on Richter. The cool water soothed her head, somewhat - though she didn't dare touch the wine, not while she still sustained Samael's ability.

Eventually, the singer spoke. It was a blessing that HĂ©lĂšne was adored so - her words could dance and twirl around the two German men, wrapping them around her fingers with a fine verbal tapestry, her mere visage melting their masculine shells. Even the curt, formally practiced Kazetani was himself enamored, though that seemed to be from a previous encounter. Amelia wondered if there was something deeper under their practiced small-talk.

“And of course I’m sure we will bond greatly as roommates, Frau Austerlitz. I glad to have the chance to learn more about you and your work.”
HĂ©lĂšne had addressed her, and Amelia had just began to reply when she heard the clang of steel. Across the table, Kazetani had dropped his fork, becoming the victim of several curious glances, including a strange gaze from Neumann.

Something about the younger officer seemed strange. This action - this look he had developed, it seemed analytical, precise. Perhaps predatory. A slip of the Neumann mask, and perhaps a glimpse into the character motive below. It definitely didn't seem to fit the proud, condescending behavior he'd formerly maintained, where a smirk or look of disdain, accompanied by some dismissive remark might have better fit her expectations. Of course, he could just dislike the Japanese, but he really has laid into the two of them so far.

“Are you tired, Herr Kazetani?” The question was piercing. To Kazetani's credit, he played the drop off as exhaustion - which, from his maintenance of Kimura's ability, could be genuine - and seemed to spur no alarm from Richter, who politely dismissed his guest.

“Have the two of you met before? I am just curious.”
Richter continued, seeming to draw attention away from his Japanese guest, diverting it to the two 'German' women. Almost as quickly, Helene leapt upon the opportunity with her same song and dance, before turning to occupy Neumann.

In any case, Amelia had a target - it is her task to vet suspicious characters, after all, and Neumann's hostility seemed a decent starting point.

Though it wasn't him she turned to - her attention shifted towards Richter once more. "I'm afraid I haven't met Frau Köhler until today - I had previously only known her from the plays and records."

She met the older man's gaze, then glanced aside to Neumann. The man was quick to cast doubt over the two Japanese representatives, and their history. Now, she was about to cast her curiosity on his own background. "Though, the two of you must be very well acquainted, even if you're fond of all your men. What made him stand out above your other choices? What made him your Spieß?"

Amelia was careful to avoid a direct question of war. She didn't want to irritate Richter, and of the two, getting information out of the older officer would likely be easier for her. Perhaps letting the Hauptfeldwebel's common nickname slip might even warm the conversation, even if the mention brought her own recollections to surface. A nickname in the German Heer, but a code, a target, to those who had opposed Germany.

Break the spear, and the army falls.