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[hr][center][h3]~1430 | PARIS | FASHION SHOW VENUE[/h3][/center][hr]

Noticing the resident encyclopedia wandering after the strange procession of undead with a stupid smile plastered on his face that she had learned to associate with matters of arcane academics and related projects sure to waste what little funding afforded to the Reapers, Vera muttered a string of silent curses. 

[color=#63B8FF]"Cheese boy,"[/color] she hissed at Lucian, as she moved to follow Edward. She did not trust the wizard on his own. The unwillingly deceased had little patience for art, much less hurried sketches.[color=#63B8FF]"Our friend who wears glasses goes, we should follow him, before he disturbs the caravan."[/color]

Silently shifting, Vera felt a hint of adrenaline. If Reapers still felt such things. She could taste tension in the air. She didn't like it. She didn't like the [i]civilians[/i]. She didn't like that the [i]civilians[/i] gathered around them. It was a danger. It was a problem. They would have to move carefully. They would have to move slowly. The ghosts would have to be dealt with, eventually.

The dragon.

The fucking skeletal dragon was a bigger problem. Where was St. George when you needed him?

Thinking on the matter, Vera considered, not for the first time, that the reapers were being criminally underpaid. Easy job. Easy job. Easy job was all Sigrun kept saying. Vera nursed a growing suspicion that easy meant something else to the administrative personal.