"I was a soldier," Connor said lamely. It was probably painfully evident from his red-and-black uniform that he was from the British Army, but then again, he was not so sure. The other two people - the gardener whose name Connor was not even going to try to pronounce and the writer - wore clothes that were completely unknown to him. Just by the presence of Suichiro, Connor was quite certain that they were all from different parts of the world. That was certainly going to make things difficult; it appeared that Suichiro could speak English, but Connor was not going to count on everyone knowing the language.

"Militia, to be specific. I'm actually an artist. Strictly amateur, but it makes enough money for me to get by." Connor corrected himself. "My regiment went on exercise the day before and I fell asleep as soon as I got home. Pity, I heard that the scenery would have been especially astounding today."

He turned to the writer. "A professional writer? You must be quite well-off, then. You certainly look a lot better than any of the others that I know of, though the Shetlands aren't exactly conducive for anyone hoping to be well-known. Have you written anything that I might have read?"