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Geoffrey Lee Walker

West Wind | Combat

0 · 1,184 views · located in The Joffre

a character in “The Weight of Soul”, as played by Talisman

Description

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        27 (JULY 17, 1914)xxxMxxx 【 WEST WIND / AUSTRALIA 】

        HT / 190 CMx WT / 95 KGx BUILT
        HAIR / BROWNx SKIN / WHITEx EYES / BROWN


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XXXXXKNOWLEDGE |x ◆◆◆◆◆xxxx■ Rank-B:xxxx2 YEARS
XUNDERSTANDING |x ◆◆◆◆◆
XXXXXXXXXCHARM |x ◆◆◆◆◆xxxx■ Artifact 1:xxxPETER ELKIN (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: 416 / MISSION SUCCESS RATE: 88%



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i. Religion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Animism.
ii. Birthplace . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Darwin, Australia.
iii. Occupation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Bush Pilot.
iv. Morality Alignment . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chaotic Neutral.

Identifying Trait: Unconscious tendency to hum.





I. SANIWA

THE SOUL OF A DREAMER.



xxxFrom the moment he inhaled his first breath, Lee was a natural born fighter. Kicking and screaming and giving the doctor who delivered him hell, it was immediately apparent he was going to be a strong and healthy child. Born in the Northern Territory of Australia, in the port town of Darwin, Lee was a handful even as a child. Gifted with an uncommon boldness and curiosity, Lee was the type of kid who always asked questions, but always wished to work things out on his own. Which is the polite way of saying he was stubborn and hardheaded. In his younger years, Lee had a tendency to wander and it wasn't that rare of an occasion for his mother or grandmother to look up to find Lee nowhere in sight. His mother had always joked that he'd had a pair of walking feet even before he was born, kicking endlessly in her belly.

xxxForever the adventurous type, Lee spent many a day wandering the streets near his home in Darwin, and before long he had his part of the city mapped out on the back of his hand. In his younger days, Lee was a hellion, often starting, and sometimes even finishing fights. There were many nights when he returned home with blood on his knuckles and a bruise on his cheek. He was invincible with a wild streak a mile wide. The only thing that could keep him still for long were the stories his Granna told him. His grandmother on his father's side was an woman by the name of Biralee, and Lee's namesake. Years before Lee was conceived, she had settled down in Darwin and started a family with a white man. His mixed ancestry was a point of contention with Lee, and he never let an insult toward it go unpunished.

xxxAs an aboriginal, his Granna had many songs and stories to pass to Lee. He was told of the creation of the world, songs of deities, morality, and the sense of right and wrong. These songs always resided in the “Dreamtime.” She told that during it was during the “Dreaming” that the ancestral spirits came to earth and created everything, from themselves, to the plants and animals, even the land they stood upon. She told many tales, from how dancing came to be, to the origin of fire, to how language came to be. In the end, it was the land that the Dreaming came from.

xxxIt was these songs and stories that cultivated a sense of love in artistry in the young boy. Despite initial reactions, Lee was no dumb brute, and loved the songs and stories he was told, often taking the time to commit some of his favorites to memory. In his tentative years, it was always his Granna who sang him to sleep, and as a side effect, music has a way of calming his wild heart. Over the years, Lee incrementally learned how to play various instruments, such as the harmonica, the guitar, the banjo, and, oddly enough, the didgeridoo.

xxxAs Lee got older, he took a job delivering the local newspaper while he helped his father with his own work. Lee's father was a World War I veteran, though he never spoke of it to Lee, and Lee knew better than to ask. While his father was a loving man, he was strict and there were many a time Lee caught a switch because of his antics. It built character, Lee'd say. Lee's father worked as a courier of sorts, delivering mail and goods into the more remote locations in the Australian Outback. Lee accompanied his father on many of these trips on horseback. It was during these trips that Lee began to appreciate the beauty and tranquility of the land, and also respect its savagery. The Australian Outback was a dangerous place, and could easily kill someone if caught unprepared.

xxxLee learned his way intimately around a firearm during these excursions. His father would see to it that his son would know how to defend himself, and began to teach him how to shoot long before he took him with him on one of his deliveries. He started with an old lever-action rifle and though he didn't immediately prove to be a natural, enough practice saw Lee become a an adequate shot. A good enough shot to hunt for food and to fend off predators at least. Lee's first kill was a snake, of all things, and a venomous one at that. A decent shot for a small creature that was wriggling its way toward him.

xxxLee was an adolescent when he got it into his head that he wanted to go on a “Walkabout.” Walkabouts were rites of passage for adolescent aboriginals, and raised on his Granna's stories of her own, Lee figured that it was time he followed suit. It was not one of his most intelligent decisions, and even now he'd state that it might have been one of the most foolish things he's done, even if it did lead him to where he is now. One morning, Lee just packed his saddlebags with a supple of food, water, and ammunition and just... headed into the bush. It took about two weeks before he almost died from dehydration. He would have too, had it not been for the timely intervention of something he called the “Wanderer.” He saw what seemed to be an aborigine watching him from atop a ridge. When Lee chased the figure and crested the ridge, the figure had moved too fast for it to be human in the distance. Regardless, Lee chased the figure, crying for help, until he quite literally tripped into a stream.

xxxWhatever the it was that he saw, it had saved him, and for a time Lee thought it was simple delirium from dehydration. At least, until he saw the figure watching him again, a few more weeks later. Every now and then, Lee could find the Wanderer watching him from the distance, always looking over him. Whenever Lee tried to follow the Wanderer, or get close to him, he'd always vanish. One time, however, when Lee chose to pursue the Wanderer, it began to lead him, and this time instead of tripping into a stream, he found a aboriginal tribe, the Yolngu. Fortunately, a few knew enough English, to communicate with the exhausted Lee. Unsurprisingly, they expressed surprise in seeing a white man like Lee run across them deep in the bush. When he told them that he was on a walkabout they... laughed and called him a fool.

xxxIt was from these people that he learned of the Wanderer. When Lee asked about the figure he had seen, they called him a dream of the land, a spirit that wanders the bush. They had also called Lee a Dreamer for being able to see the Wanderer, a term Lee has since equated with Saniwa. The tribe allowed Lee to travel with them for a time, if only to make sure that he wouldn't kill himself in the Outback. It was during this short time that Lee obtained a greater insight into the Dreamtime. His natural curiosity peaked, and he asked questions and observed these people as he traveled with them. While he was not allowed to take part, he did witness a few of the ceremonies of the tribe, and added a few songs and stories to his repertoire.

xxxHe also obtained what would later become his artifact from the Yolngu. During a game of dice, Lee bet his rifle against a eucalyptus didgeridoo and won. Lee only spent a week or two with the tribe, before he decided he should make his way home back through the Outback. With the experience and lessons he'd learned, he found the return trip to be easier, if not easy, than his initial foray. As he approached the city of Darwin, he caught a one last glimpse of the Wanderer before he vanished for the last time.

xxxHis excursion into the inhospitable Outback, and his experience went a long away toward mellowing Lee out. Upon his return, he seemed calmer and more thoughtful in his approach. His travels had deepened his respect for the land, and his near death experience had wisened him to the fact that, maybe he wasn't as invincible as he thought. However, Lee was still Lee, and and his underlying boldness would never truly go away, it only... dulled. He never fought as often, and was more willing to talk.

xxxOnce he walked through the door of his home, the immediate reaction from his family was relief that he was still alive. It didn't last for long, for as soon as that feeling died down, anger quickly replaced it. His father wore his hide out, and it was at least a few weeks before his mother would even look at him again. His Grandmother, however, found it hilarious, and was proud that he'd actually survived his so-called ”walkabout,” even if she thought he was an idiot for actually attempting it. She of course demanded that he tell her of his experiences, and Lee was happy to oblige. She was surprised to hear his tale of the Wanderer and the Yolngu, and even more surprised to hear that they had called him a Dreamer. She had heard of others in her own travels who'd been called Dreamers, and she gave Lee the names of the one she still kept in contact with. It was thus how Lee found his way into the House of Four Winds.

xxxHis Granna got in contact with one these individuals, and directed Lee his way. It was from the resulting conversation learned of the Saniwa, ghosts, and the House of Four Winds. The man he talked to was a West Wind spiritualist, with deep ties to the aboriginal culture. Lee learned that the Wanderer he'd seen was a ghost, a free-floating spirit that wandered the bush. Regardless, the spirit had saved Lee's life and he wanted to learn more. He was offered an apprenticeship with the Saniwa, which Lee readily accepted. His preliminary training was with this Saniwa along with a number of other prospect apprentices. Lee spent a time learning with the others under this man, before he enrolled into a nearby training center.

xxxIt was early on that Lee decided on his Artifact. He'd chose the eucalyptus didgeridoo that he had won. To Lee, the instrument symbolized the journey he had taken into the Outback and the path he had taken. He took a week to prepare himself for the ceremony, but before he could incarnate his Artifact, a North Wind Saniwa by the name of A.P. Elkin arrived to give a guest lecture on the aboriginal system of belief. Initially, Lee didn't think much of the lecture, but attended regardless if only to kill the time. It came as a surprise then, that the lecture resonated with him, and by the end of it had him sitting straight in his desk. It is due to this reason, Lee surmised, that his artifact looked so much like the man. So much so, that Lee actually gave him the man's name, Peter Elkin.

xxxLee continued his studies and developed a working relationship with his artifact, though his training proved to be slower than others. Along with Saniwa lessons, Lee held a full time job as a courier, and even began to take flying lessons, partly to become more efficient at reaching the more remote towns in the Northern Territory, but mostly because he though learning to fly would be an exhilarating experience. Peter as well accompanied his Saniwa on these lessons, and after accumulating enough flight time, both became certified pilots. It wasn't long afterward that Lee finally graduated and became a fully fledged Combat Saniwa. Lee has completed many missions since his graduation and proved himself to be a reliable, if a only a bit reckless in his approach. However, no one is able to argue with the results.



Skills:x Ranged Combat, Directional and Spatial Awareness, Multiple instruments, Singing, Grace under Pressure, Flight.
Known Languages:x English (fluent, Heavy Australian Accent), Multiple aboriginal dialects (varying).

Likes/Interests:x Drinking, Smoking, Shooting, Music, Reading, Rugby, Western Films, Traveling.
Dislikes:x Romance Novels/Films, Idle Hands, Being Lost.


__________

Faceclaim: Ryozo Nitta (Far East Canaan | é™ă‹ć‡ćœŸăźă‚«ăƒŠăƒł).
Image Sources: Author: Yuri Shibamura, Illustrator: Yoshinori Shizuma, Publisher: 星攷瀟FICTIONS





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 / 178 cm
WT / 80 kg
TYPE / COMBAT
AGE / 6 YEARS OLD

#7F462C / ♫

AWAKENED SKILL / "DREAMTIME"
Peter produces a low note that induces nearby soul-bound beings into a trance-like state. The strength and duration of his ability 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)

PETER ELKIN, A DREAM AWAKENED; A STORY TOLD.



xxxThe Dreaming is so much more than what the word can convey in simple English. The Dreams of each individual culture is different from the last, but all tell speak to the spirituality of its people and contain the faith and practices that derive from the stories of creation. These Dreams seep into all aspects of aboriginal life and inform the morality, behavior, and society of those believe in the Dream. The Dreamtime often refers to a time before creation, but can also be used to describe the various stories and songs passed down through the generations. These stories and songs encompass many things, from why a lake looks a specific way, to why a certain type of bird has a specific color, or how language was first created. Recently, there are even stories of the arrival of the first Europeans.

xxxDuring the Dreaming, spirits descended to Earth and created everything. There are stories detailing the travels these spirits, and describe the things they created as they moved through the land. The journeys of these Spirits are the Tracks of Life and are recorded in Dreaming tracks. One such spirit is the Rainbow Serpent, a large snake-like creature whose track is associated with bodies of water such as lakes, rivers, and billabongs. It controls the land's water, and as such it is seen as the source of life, and a protect of the land. However, like the water it created, the Serpent can also be a destructive force whom can take water as well as given and can be found to be dangerous to those who do not properly respect the land. The Rainbow Serpent, however, is only one of several of the Ancestor Spirit that created the land.

xxxThe stories of these Dreams influence present life and links the people who believe in them to the land. While the land itself may not possess a soul, the land can represent an idea or a deity from the Dreamtime. Aboriginal spirituality asserts a reverence for life as it is, or living in the moment. Life is both good and bad, where suffering and joy can be found in equal measure, but all is celebrated as sacred. People do not own the land, but rather, it is a part of them, and it is their responsibility to respect and watch over it. It is from the land, after all, that the Dream is birthed. Dreaming and other faiths are not mutually exclusive, and other faiths can easily fit into existing Dreams.

xxxThis was part of what the North Wind Saniwa, Adolphus Peter “A.P.” Elkin, an Anglican clergyman and Australian anthropologist, spoke of during his lecture to the Australian Saniwa. The lecture struck a chord with Lee, and where he initially believed the lecture was going to be long, dry, and drawn out, found himself leaning forward as the man spoke. The man managed to succinctly put to words what the stories and songs that his Granna had told him actually were and found a deeper understanding after the lecture. Since the lecture, Lee had actually went out and found a few of Elkin's papers and books on the matter.

xxxLee's incarnation of his Artifact came on the heels of this lecture, which helps explain the appearance of his Artifact. Though relatively early in Lee's training, he decided on a ceremony of sorts to go with Peter's incarnation. The process involved burning a number of herbs to produce various notes, with Lee singing the songs of the Dreamtime during his childhood and Walkabout over the eucalyptus digeridoo for an hour. After incarnation it came as an intial shock that Peter appeared as a younger version of the man who'd lectured earlier, but upon reflection, it was not entirely surprising, considering the impact and proximity of the event. Because of that reason, Lee decided to name the Artifact after the man.

xxxPeter proved to be the calmer of the two, though by this point in time, Lee had considerably mellowed. Regardless, Peter still became the more thoughtful of the two, prefering to maybe think for a moment before hopping directly into action. In the time they've spent together, they'd developed a friendly working relationship, with Lee often calling Peter his co-pilot-- literally, considering both now possess their pilot's license. Though there may be contention between Lee's brash nature and Peter's thoughtful approach, both men respect each other and consider each other friends. Peter also inherited a musical ability from either Lee or the instrument he was incarnated from, or maybe a little from both, but regardless Lee and Peter can perform great duet.



__________

Faceclaim: Miroku Fujima (Beyound the Boundary | ćąƒç•ŒăźćœŒæ–č).
Image Sources: Episode 3, Season 1




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. FACTION WORKS
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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



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Statusxxxxxxxxx.Geoffrey Lee Walker.
●●●●●●xxRESPECT
●●●●●●xxFONDNESS
●●●●●●xxRIVALRY
●●●●●●xxDISLIKE
●●●●●●xxROMANCE

TWoS

"The more ya know, the less ya need." | Lee is a man who is very comfortable in his own skin. He doesn't let the opinion of others change the way he sees himself. To him, the man in the mirror is exactly who he appears to be, and he is content with that. He understands his limits, and while unafraid to push them, knows when to stop. He is proud of who is is and where he comes from, and will not back away from those who challenge that.


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© TALISMAN / © CODE & TWoS BETHELIT & STAFFïŒé­‚ăźé‡ăżăƒ»THE WEIGHT OF SOUL PROJECT

So begins...

Geoffrey Lee Walker's Story

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Miyoshi Kazetani Character Portrait: Claire Stanfield Character Portrait: Geoffrey Lee Walker
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

“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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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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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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TWOSTWOS
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TWOSTWOS
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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: Cyril Noël Character Portrait: Maria Calag Character Portrait: Amelia Renard Character Portrait: Geoffrey Lee Walker
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Basilio leans against the window, his face devoid of emotion as he absorbs the scenery. He does not enjoy observing the fragile peace of the French countryside, but he forces his gaze to settle there. He avoids speech, lest he reveal his guise. Thankfully, no one does, as the rest of of the carriage is preoccupied with their own conversations.

Maria, seated in the booth behind him, makes small conversation with the man across her. He is German, proud of his heritage and another zealous in commending the FĂŒhrer in his efforts. His gaze studies Maria with curiosity and a hint of distance. She feels self-conscious, but pretends to look to the ground. Much like Basilio, she avoids eye contact, though her reasons were far simpler. Her irritation with her designated role as Gandor's 'exotic ward' would be all too visible.

"Is it true you all still wore rags and lived in small huts? His curiosity overrode his good manners and Maria fought the urge to punch his gut. She stalls, trying to gain some semblance of calm before replying. He realizes his overstep and smooths over by steering the conversation to lighter territory. "Your German is excellent, despite only learning for this trip. Your teacher was commendable.

"Danke." Her reply is curt but polite, able to keep her anger within the confines of her and Basilio's shared mind. "No, we -" She pauses, feels a note of discord in the train's spiritual harmony. "I'm sorry. If you'll excuse me, I feel a bit sick. I'm not used to trains."

He looks at her with concern, even offers to assist her (although learning she's Gandor's ward likely has a lot to do with it), but Maria refuses. As she stands, she surveys the cabin, and walks slowly, pretending to feel faint as she uses it as a chance to peruse for evidence. She finds the ghost. The Spiritualist pauses to 'regain her strength', but her dark brown eyes meet Samael's blue ones for a brief moment, then flick to the left to indicate the poltergeist.

As she enters the space that held the toilets and the door to the outside, Maria speaks to her Artifact. Basilio, there's a ghost near Albert Gammond. Search it of its intentions; I'll be informing Lee.

Do you need a distraction? Her next set of actions worries him, but he decides to follow his Saniwa.

That would be useful, yes. Almost immediately, she hears a clatter of books and papers. Basilio 'accidentally' spills the items on his lap, and takes the small commotion as her cue to quickly open and close the door behind her. The evening's cool breeze greets her first before her eyes acclimate to the darkness. Though seemingly tranquil, she knows just around the lefthand corner a ghost waits.

She breathes, feeling both blessed and cursed that she's unable to see the moving railings beneath her. A silent prayer passes her lips as she steps from one cabin to another, hoping that tonight's mission does not end simply because she slips. Thankfully, her feet find purchase, and she enters the sleeping carriage, with luck that no one notices her entrance.

The Spiritualist takes a brief moment to collect herself, hiding in the shadows of the carriage. Basilio, it was number two, correct? In this quiet space, that soft tug she feels as Basilio makes use of her spiritual power becomes evident.

Not now, Maria. But yes. The Saniwa feels sheepish at the reprimand, but it's enough to reassure her that she remembers the details well enough. She peeps through the door, taking care that no one else loitered around the walkway. Her steps are quiet, but quick, unsteady in their rhythm. Her heart accelerates with every squeak of the train, afraid that it could be the door of a booth.

It feels like years when she finally opens the door to booth two, with relief visible on her face as her gaze meets the West Wind's. "There's a poltergeist by Gammond." Her words are soft but harsh, easily conveying the urgency of her message. "It hasn't done anything yet, but I'm having Basilio check on him now."

Setting

Characters Present

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
Image


Every abrupt back and forth sway of the train effortlessly broke his concentration as he attempted to chew through the book in short, jutted, forced breaks. His inability to focus on the literature clenched so tightly between his hands that it looked like his fingers would burrow through book was also attributed to the girl to his side, who was currently acting under the feint of a better half. Scary thing is, she played the role with stunning finesse and authenticity, almost as if he true emotions had taken ahold of her heart and generated the words that gracefully left her mouth. The iconically sheepish Wulfetrud flawlessly put on the performance of a vivacious maiden, seeing the sights and sounds regardless of the wartime hindrances with her true love, a not-so sociable Belgian who far surpassed the level Stoic. ”Oh, I believe being reserved has more than just a few good qualities!” or ”He may seem a little standoffish, but he’s a softy at heart, really!”

She had rehearsed lines similar to those above in the case that somebody happened to note the apparent disparity between the two lovebirds, as any human being with even one partially operational eyeball would. Most would assume that not even love could overcome such a stark contrast, but- ”Why let love dictate who we harmonize with when we can just abide by our own hearts and minds?” Wulf couldn’t lie, she may have revised a certain statement Cyril had made about religion a few weeks prior, but as they say, cats never forget. If the duo hadn’t set themselves on the Combat faction, and Cyril was one to really let his personal stances bleed into his choices in the field, then surely Wulf would have force- nudged her partner to take part in Espionage, even though he had no tact when it came to, as he described them “life threatening social altercations”. Although Saniwa were clandestine by default, the artifact just relished the conception of her slipping her way into a corrupt organization’s numbers, or stealthily stealing high value information and sneaking past waves of guards. Of course, this reverie may have been a tad bit influenced by the array of spy and mystery books painstakingly organized in their flat’s bookshelves. It was one of the few things Cyril was earnestly attentive with.

But this mission more than sufficed. Yet the young girl couldn’t shake the underlying feeling that some other force made her carry herself and the act with such credibility. She didn’t have enough time to think before the words had already flew from her mouth. While Cyril dragged himself through an experience that could be likened to walking on glass, Wulf attempted to propagate some genial conversation with Samael and the unresponsive mass of disheveled and aged skin that was Albert Gammond, their VIP, a hazy visage of who was surely an astute and bright Saniwa. Was being the key word. For a man who had resigned himself unto the clutches of death, in Wulf’s eyes the person before her and the mental image she had manifested prior surely didn’t resonate. She at least expected him to be huffing on a death stick in silent acceptance, hell, maybe two or three at the same time just to express how done he was with living. A demeanor that fit with a phrase Cyril fancied, ”Gaze upon the field of fucks that I give, and see that it lay barren.” and then he would envelop himself in whatever he was reading just a moment prior, or rest in a pool of apathy. She felt like she was talking to a pair of brick walls, watching powerlessly as her words bounced off of their impermeable facades.

Soon enough Even Wulfetrud gave up and shot a giddy smile at Cyril, one that a lover overcome by infatuation and ardor would sport. She maintained the vibrant countenance, though she was forced to summon a fair amount of resistance to not reveal the internal turbulence she was currently experiencing. Although her eyes were undividedly locked on Cyril’s deadpan face, she could see an unfocused individual in the background, lying motionlessly on the other side of the window.

”It’s still there...” Wulfetrud whined over the mental connection they shared while she maintained her cool.

”Powerful observation.” The Saniwa coolly shot back as he narrowed the eyes that currently danced across the book’s page.

Flip

”Shouldn’t we
 deal with it?” Her voice was chocked full of perturbation, but the girl felt like she already knew the imminent answer.

”I’m still reading.” Cue internal sigh, followed by Wulf’s withering faith in humanity.

Flip

”And why should we ‘deal with it’? It’s not like it has lashed out at us or has given any visual sign of such intentions. For argument’s sake, say we did decide to engage it. It’s borderline impossible to do so from within the car should it decide to join us in here, and taking it on outside were draw just as much attention. On top of that, we would be limited to melee weapons since people would freak at a gunshot, and the last thing I want is a bunch of ticked of Nazis telling me to burn my books again. Even though the whole thing could potentially be written off as ‘Armed and crazed occult group dressed in black suits takes over the Joffre’, I don’t want to get an earful from the higher-ups. As my rule of thumb goes, no matter if its human or spirit, if you don’t regard its existence, it’s not there.”

Flip

He raised multiple good points, save for that expected endnote, but still it was a surprise that he could reason with her on a rational level and skim the pages at an almost inhuman speed. The Saniwa didn’t even cast his stray gaze over to the girl for even a moment.

”But rest assured if it does exhibit any hostile intentions towards Gammond, you and I will put it down. Sounds good? Ah, here it is.” Using the arm she was already tightly wrapped around as a support, she leaned over Cyril’s shoulder and peered down at the page he had finally came to a halt on. Turns out he was reading the extremely vital and pivotal compendium right in the open, just with a different cover to hide the far from nondescript rite on the front board. Wulf read at a pace nearly as fast as Cyril. Her past life as an abbess vied with her partner’s prowess in the world of literature digestion. She instantly put two and two together and connected the description on the page with the snapshot practically embedded into her mind.

”...So it’s not Sinterklaas.”

”Not funny.”

”I had a giggle. So, estranged lover
?’

Wulf’s perspective slowly panned up to Cyril’s blank expression.

”Cyri-”

”No.”

Well, it was clinging to their window for a reason. Samael didn't strike her as much of a romantic, so that left


”Not worth it. He’s already dead. I don’t think telling him that his lover’s ghost has come back to haunt him will make a difference, and besides, I’m sure he’s already aware of her presence, even in his current state.”

So that’s how it was? Two souls that had forced apart by unforeseen events, and after finally being given the chance to reunite they squander it? No. After tonight they would reunite, despite the ties they broke off. Gammond’s soul would leave the confines of his body, and Cyril and Wulf will put the poltergeist to rest, and only then would the two finally become whole again, even though they were parted of their own or one party's intentions.

”I know what you’re thinking. A happy ending, like a Gan Jiang and Mo Ye ending.” Cyril brought the two parts of the book together with a resounding clap and set it to his side, then fixed Wulf’s flat cap which had moved from its original place. Of course this was all speculation. Maybe Gammond and the glassy-eyed poltergeist hanging onto the window shared no connection at all, and this was but a happenstance event. But they didn’t know that, and really, they didn’t need to to finish the job.

”We’ll make it happen.” Cyril leaned on his seat, sinking into the lethargy he aligned himself with.

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.

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Characters Present

Character Portrait: Cyril Noël Character Portrait: Maria Calag Character Portrait: Geoffrey Lee Walker
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“Anything interestin'?” Lee asked as he played with the toy car Sterling had given him. Across the small table, Peter sat with one of the two-way radios granted to them by Gandor beside him. The artifact had the reciever pressed against his ear and pencil and pad nearby. Peter looked up from the pad with perhaps the most bored expression Lee had ever wittnessed on the man's face.

“Not unless you wanna know how big this drongo's like his tits,” Peter delivered in a deadpan. Lee chuckled and nodded, tapping the cigarette on the nearby ashtray before returning it to his mouth. “Big, if you're curious.” Peter added.

“Figured,” Lee answered. That was how it went for a large part of their trip. Mostly chatter from Germans who felt like they had nothing to fear. There were pieces of news that filtered through the radio, some moderately important commands that didn't effect them in the end. They'd been careful to always flip back to the frequency of the second radio just in case Amelia had need of them, but like the night, it was quiet. Lee had taken the lull to catch up on his reading as he drove the toy car back and forth on his side of the table. While he had accumulated a number of new westerns during the trip across America to meet with Gandor on the East Coast, most of the trip both to, and across America consisted of both Lee and Peter trying their best to learn enough German in a short amount of time. They'd become functional in the language, but there was no hiding that they were not natural born Germans.

Still, it wasn't anything they couldn't get around with some charm and a few witty lies. They were cameramen, after all, documenting the glorious rise of the Third Reich and the heroes who helped build her. It certainly helped explain away some of their equipment, such as the camera case that their radio sat in and the long tripod case that held their Gandor rifle.

Eventually, they heard someone at their door. In quick practiced motions, Peter dropped the receiver from his ear and flipped the top to the case the radio sat in, effectively hiding it from sight. All to naught, it appeared, as Maria entered the room instead. Lee and Peter exchanged glances before both visibly relaxed. They listened as she explained the situation, and at the end, Lee shrugged.

“Too much to hope for quiet night, huh?” He said rising. “Well, we can't leave it alone,” he added. It was their job as Combat Saniwa to deal with issues like these. Reaching down, Lee picked up his coat and swung it over his shoulders as Peter spoke.

“I ain't gonna be able to help mate. Someone's gotta man the fort,” he said, tapping the camera case hold the radio.

Lee nodded, and placed the cigarette back in his mouth and tucked Sterling's toy car into his shirt pocket. “Right, we'll just grab Cyril then. It's his job too,” Lee decided. After that, he took the Gandor pistol and hid it away behind him under his coat. Peter looked at it for a moment before glancing upward to Lee.

“Try not to use it, yeah? Shit's loud.”

Lee nodded, “I know. Just in case.” After flattening the collar of his coat, Lee turned toward Maria and nodded.

“Well. Let's get him.”

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Characters Present

Character Portrait: Cyril Noël Character Portrait: Maria Calag Character Portrait: Amelia Renard Character Portrait: Geoffrey Lee Walker
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"It's a woman." She pauses, trying to recall what few details she'd gleaned in her brief glance. "Long white dress, brown hair. I didn't get a good look." It troubles her that she failed to take note of more than that, but perhaps the information she would receive from her Artifact may wind up more useful than any physical description.

In the next carriage over, Basilio collects his things from the floor with the assistance of some strangers. Maria. The Saniwa gently severs the flow of power at being called, knowing he had finished his task. What he's learned troubles him, though his tone remains impassive as he relays the information. She can't be stronger than a rank C.

Maria holds a hand up, gesturing that Lee wait until she finishes her private conversation. She thinks for a moment, brows furrowing as she decides on how she feels about the new information. Her face turns to one of worry as she replies to her Artifact.

I should be relieved, but instead I feel it's a cause of concern.

It's suspicious. It relieves her that Basilio understands. Her brown eyes flick towards Peter for a moment before returning to Lee, the silence heavy as they await her response.

Finally, she opens her mouth to speak, her voice remaining hushed and almost afraid. And truthfully, she is. "Basilio estimates her to be around Rank C." Acknowledging the Poltergeist's presence only puts her one step closer to the dreaded outcome. "I don't think she's it, but she's connected in some way."

Abruptly, she straightens and squares her shoulders. It's best she does not dwell on the result, but instead ensure she does her job as well as she can. "I will tell Cyril and Wulf, though I'm afraid it might cause a few questions should they both disappear at the same time." Then she remembers their disguise, and a small smile forms on her lips despite the gravity of the situation. "Or maybe just a few raised eyebrows. Regardless one or both of them will join you."

"Lead the way, Sir Lee." As they exit the booth, they both make certain that the hall is empty before departing, walking as fast as their silent steps could carry them. They exit the carriage, and Maria crosses over to the next with considerably more confidence than before. She makes a silent gesture with her hand, indicating where Lee's target is.

A small, dark hand tightly grips the doorknob. Her slight form is hidden from view, at the risk of her current precarious position. Basilio, would it be safe to come in?

Inside, Basilio tilts his head just slightly left, taking into account the noise and the people. Not the best, but it should do. You'll gain more attention by being gone any longer. He would offer another distraction, but short of repeating the same, none came to mind. Maria understands this and she moves quickly, taking care to open the door only as large as she needed to minimize the noise. Thankfully, the train's precious cargo enables a slower pace; she re-enters the carriage, none the wiser.

Maria enters the toilets, washing her hands briefly before entering the civilian's gazes once again. Some look up at her arrival, but they quickly return to their own business. Most humans are self-absorbed creatures, and for now she thanks that fact. When she passes Wulf and Cyril, she leans in against their seat for a couple of seconds, as if steadying herself against the sway of the train. In that brief moment her hands move in a practiced gesture they'd agreed on before they'd even boarded.

With her task done, she returns to her seat. Basilio does not look at her even once. She fakes a smile at the gentleman she'd been conversing with a few minutes before, who looks at her with concern. He says as much, and Maria grips the fabric of her skirt. For now, her task is done and she congratulates herself briefly before entertaining the man's questions, as she likely would for the next half hour until she is needed again.

"Thank you, but I'm feeling much better now. What were we discussing before my stomach made an untimely upheaval?" The man is happy to take the bait. She makes herself comfortable, hopeful that her partners will accomplish their given tasks.


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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
Image


Cyril gaze lethargically oscillated starting from the late maiden who was the non-living embodiment of crippling depression, the scruffy old fart who was the living embodiment of crippling depression, and came to a halt at the Aussie, then continued to pan back. Rinse and repeat. All the while Wulf rested her chin on her Saniwa's rigid arm as she gradually caught up to him and began to put two and two together. This left the younger combat Saniwa adequate time to gauge how deep in shit mere happenstance had placed them. Had he not been in public, his head would have surely sagged into his palm out of anguish. Yes, he was already aware that the spirit had been screwed over by an estranged lover during her time in the world of the living. Aside from deep ravines that far surpassed the depth ordinary wrinkles, she was as much of a youthful flower as she was alive. Cyril continued to internally digest the situation, piecing together the jigsawed scenario with the powers of deduction and second rate glue.

She didn't gravitate to this section of the train car just out of a ghostly whim. Something tied to the poltergeist let her here like a bee to honey. Problem was, the honey was of an unexpected brand. He crossed himself out by default, which left the VIP and Cyril's comrade. In all honesty he had already narrowed down that the former was the honey. And he probably was in all actuality, given his current age and the fact that Lee didn't seem like the kind of guy to maintain a relationship to such a zenith, and then abruptly sever it. Yet low and behold, the maiden's vacant gaze didn't lie on the husk, but the guy blabbering about all of the shit that could kill other shit within the shit-colored outback. "...Tch. The Australians were originally Brits."

Wulf's cat nudged slightly, "Pardon? I don't quite fol- oh. Shit."

"Shit is right."

"Deep shit?"

"Unfortunately."

The two sighed heavily in unison, the girl's more pronounced and human than her partner's. Wulf's acute hearing picked up footsteps out of tune with the clashing of wheels and rails. (WIP)

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.