Derren Krenshaw

Masques and Daggers (Derren Krenshaw & Igraine)

Takahiro listened, intent on Galina's words, regarding the painting before them once more in light of her lilting words. In all honesty, he wasn't sure he saw the 'painting light' she spoke of, but that didn't change the fact it was a wonderful piece to look at. If the Claude Monet she spoke of painted works like this all the time, he had more than earned the right to say he created 'paintings of lights'.

"No need forgive. Answer... very good." He smiled over at Galina beside him, hoping to coax her from the embarrassment that seemed to have gripped her once more. "Sank you, Missu Demidova."

Takahiro examined the painting once more, Galina's comments fresh in his mind, the action allowing him to ponder his next move. She had admitted to liking artwork before -which had got them up the stairs in the first place- but that was different from watching and listening to her explain the work that was before them. She appreciated art, more than simply liking it. And surrounded by a gallery of works she likely knew far better than him, that provided an opportunity.

It meant taking advantage of the lady by his side a little bit longer. But if it was time they could both enjoy, then it was advantage well-taken.

Casting his gaze about the gallery surrounding them, Takahiro noted the various styles and themes, all seeming so alien to his countries own. It seemed much of the western world might be on display here, and as he turned back to Galina at his side, that thought gave him an idea.

"There is... very much here. All different from Nipp-... Ah... Jap-a-nese." Inclining his head politely to Galina at his side, he gestured towards the rest of the gallery to help accentuate the following question.

"I, not know ar- This art well. You have...ah... liking? Have... favorite? Here?"

If artwork animated her so, he should try to encourage that. The more they walked and spoke, the easier it was for him to explore this floor. The paintings around them provided a brilliant excuse to look around, though Takahiro made sure his gaze always returned to the lady beside him. More than an excuse to wander about freely, she was the one who would likely remember him best after this gathering was over. He had to ensure her time spent with him was a pleasant one, that in her mind, he was nothing more than a fellow lover of art from a foreign country.

While more difficult, he had to admit it was far more enjoyable than the simple conversations and trading of pleasantries he had endured earlier.

Masques and Daggers (Derren Krenshaw & Igraine)

There were far, far worse ways to climb a flight of stairs.

With his free hand, Takahiro pulled himself up the banister, his other arm entwined within that of his new companion as she helped his ascent. They moved with a casual, natural elegance, matching each other's step as if they had done this so many times before.

"Galina, Demidova..." He swirled the name over his tongue, smiling easily as they moved. "I am, Takahiro Souma." He offered a polite nod to accompany the words. "It is, pleasure, Missu Demidova."

It was the honest truth, not a hint of insincerity to find within his words or demeanor. Why should there have been? Climbing those steps with such a lady by his side, he felt truly pleased by this event for the first time since stepping through the door. Any concern he might have felt over her heritage -her name only enforced what he had believed- felt short when compared to the fortune her company provided. They were nothing more than guests enjoying the celebration and mansion around them. There was no reason for anyone to look at them twice, no cause for him to stand out. It was everything he had been looking for come true in wonderful fashion.

Who could blame him for enjoying their climb?

As they made their way as one to the second floor, a part of Takahiro's mind went over a mental list of tonight's goals. It was a fairly short list, simple points all, and a good number of them were checked off already. Getting to the third floor would be a little tricky, but there was no cause for rush just yet. The crowd would be thinner up here, easier to avoid or simply slip by, but he needed the right time. Until then, passing the moments by with the young Galina Demidova at his arm would be-... oh... well now...

After passing over the top of the stairs and joining those couples likewise gazing through the gallery, Takahiro had turned to give Galina his gratitude, and was stopped by a sight just beyond her. He had always been a fan of artwork -it had certainly been no lie when he told Galina that same thing- but he always remained partial to that of his own country. There was just something about the flowing way his kinsmen drew and painted, as if bringing color to a river that had until then remained unseen. That love was mirrored in the vibrant, if incomplete, tattoo that covered most of his chest and back, hidden now beneath layers of western fashion. Six years of work to create the tapestry upon his flesh, as many as ten more to go until it could be called 'complete'. There were few works that could rival such painstaking and masterful artistry... But the Winchester Gallery was up for the competition.

"You know, who made that?" The pause before he spoke was short, but noticeable. Takahiro recovering to catch his companion's eye before gesturing towards the work beside her. It depicted what might be a pond or lake, vines dangling from the upper boundaries of it's frame and water lilies flowering all across the water's surface. It seemed almost something his kin would paint, yet the way it was done was so very different... almost... refreshing?

"You know, who made that? Very, very good..."

Masques and Daggers (Derren Krenshaw & Igraine)

Seek fortune from the most unlikely places.

Takahiro spent his time by the stairs, entertaining those nearby while taking care to observe the flow of people around him. Doors that opened for servants were noted and memorized, the movements of guests telling him just where he could and couldn't go. Certainly, he wanted to be a memorable guest, to be spoken of fondly after this celebration was long over. It made things easier that way, both for tonight and in the future.

So he had to ensure that a charming and exotic guest was all they saw Takahiro as. It was easy enough for now, but there was a problem that had existed from the start, one he hadn't yet gotten around:

Going upstairs.

A limp man struggling up the steps stood out, and it wasn't a memory he wanted people to have of him. No doubt someone would rush to his aid, and he would find his climb made easier by willing hands, the damage would be done. His job was to fit in among the Western Elite, and learn from them what he could. Anything that might give them reason to look down on him was unacceptable, any pitying thought or memory one he had to avoid as best he could.

So an escort was his best option, and what would you know? It happened that a lovely young lady without a partner of her own decided to come right over in his time of need.

A young, Russian lady, if he placed the accent correctly. Unlikely places, indeed.

"Good, evening," Takahiro offered her a low bow, a comforting smile growing upon his lips as an embarrassed blush rose in her face. He spoke slowly, deliberately, as much to speak the foreign language correctly as to be sure she could understand him.

"Artu? Hai, very much." He followed her gaze to the gallery above, years of discipline hard at work to keep his features kind and polite. Could he have asked for an opportunity any more... perfect? "I, like to look closer... Demo..."

He gestured towards his cane and right leg, fidgeting slightly as he seemed to work up the nerve to ask his next question. It was hard to admit weakness after all, especially to such a lady who seemed so interested in sharing his company.

"Could you... help me there- to the art?"

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Orders, good. He could work with orders.

They didn't require thought or question, didn't invite conversation or explanation. Orders were spoken to be acted upon, to be followed, and nothing more.

At the moment, that was all Semyon wanted.

With a nod to Bain, the Wight offered only a brief, anguished glance towards Tamarind and the fallen Werewolf beside her, before turning to the gate. Thadd -it was Thadd, wasn't it?- was beside Tamarind now, tending a wound he hadn't even noticed she suffered, one that likely could have been fatal. A second mistake over the first, too blinded by action to have noticed her injuries sooner. It was a common mistake, the flow of combat often meaning you missed the injured and dying in pursuit of your quarry. Vision narrows with battle, and few can focus on both threats and allies at the same time. That was why you had to trust your comrades, hold faith they would see what you missed, as Thadd had.

The thought was small consolation. Semyon had fought for too long to have made a mistake like that. There had been someone to make up for it this time, but that said nothing of the next.

And to say nothing of the speech he had given the Young Reaper so recently. The sight of her charging into the gate room, and then vanishing completely, had driven a spike of dread through the Wight... and might also have quickened his pace through the waiting portal.

He almost laughed at himself as he stepped through the Shade Gate, the sight of the very circle they had begun these missions from seeming so very fitting to his current mood. Body loosening, he raised his weapon once more to take stock of the area, senses catching Miss Pavlenko's admission that their opponent had gotten away. A flick of his gaze noted the white hairs in her clutch, and it became apparent what a feat that escape truly meant. Beginning at the same point, she had not only beaten him to the gate, but she had also managed to nearly grab a fleeing werewolf who had held the head start.

Semyon watched the ground as he paced and thought, trying to catch sight of anything that might show where their opponent had gone. Tracks from his comrades -including his own- were scattered over the area, time not given the chance to erase them yet. It made any attempt to track difficult, but even still he should have been able to find more than nothing. Even if he hadn't been able to find where their quarry had run off to, he should have found some hint that he had been here in the first place. Nothing presented itself to that effect, not a single fallen hair or fresh print or newly-disturbed ground.

If any of his comrades were better trackers, he would have to ask them to check it over once they came through. But for now, signs pointed that the werewolf who had fled, had not been sent here.

"Atticus, Miss Pavlenko," Completing his circle, Semyon found himself beside the other two who had already gone through the gate, in a conversation of their own. Jumping in was rude, but remaining inactive right now was... not an option.

"I thought our opponent took something before he fled, do either of you know what it might be? Or why-... why only our werewolf comrades were targeted?"

Masques and Daggers (Derren Krenshaw & Igraine)

"Mister Takahiro."

The dark-haired gentleman bowed deeply to his hosts as they greeted him, the ghost of a smile playing across his lips. Before him, past his hosts, the swirling forms of well-dressed guests could just be spied inside. Behind, the line stretched out, more and more waiting to step inside and join the celebrations. Everyone worth knowing was here or soon to be here, all desiring to wish the Heiress well and to enjoy her hospitality on this evening.

In a way, Souma Takahiro desired just the same.

"Sank you," Clutching a cane of black-lacquered wood to steady himself, he rose to meet his hosts' eyes once more, offering compliments with heavy accent before passing inside.

He certainly looked like just the kind of guest who might be invited to such a Ball, dressed to the heights of western fashion. His dark suit appeared to fit quite well, hair revealed perfectly parted under the derby hat he now removed. The gold-plated chain of a watch could be seen leading to his waistcoat pocket, and even the man's usual walking cane had been traded up for one more in line with western sensibilities. Sure, his heritage was immediately apparent to all he met and spoke with, but that wasn't the point. As a dignitary from Japan, sent by the government to help better understand western culture, it was his job to fit in as best he could.

And Takahiro did his job very, very well.

Carefully balancing himself to place his gift upon the ever-growing pile just inside, he proceeded to make his stately way into the crowd itself. Dancing wasn't going to happen with his leg as it was, but charm and tact had never failed Takahiro before. He mingled among the elite with practiced ease, ingratiating himself through a mixture of well-placed compliments and respect duly given.

And they ate it up faster than the horderves offered by dressed-up servants, drank it down faster than the ever-filling glasses each held in one hand. Oh he was a charming fellow indeed, years of practice beguiling the nobles of his own land almost wasted on the crowd around him now. They ate from his hand gladly, enjoying all he offered and leaving satisfied when he moved past.

And if anyone should wonder why he seemed to remain close to the staircase... why should they? Except perhaps to lament at the chore such a climb would be to him, who must certainly be in awe of all that was around him. Of course he would be curious to tour it further. It was the Winchester estate after all, who wouldn't be?

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Things were going well for a moment.

Anastasia brought over a cloak, presumably retrieved from one of their attackers from before. Semyon didn't have the time to examine it -it seemed no one did- but no matter what it had been, now it was a rudimentary bandage, and that was all he needed to know. Giving a quick "Understood" to Atticus, he continued his watch, pacing around their group with gun drawn and gaze darting.

His eyes focused first on the 'hound' belonging to the Young Reaper, giving it wide berth as it went on its way. He hadn't interacted with it at all, but given it's owners current thoughts of him, he felt now wasn't the time to try. It seemed to be on a mission anyways, so Semyon counted it as a sign that the reaper was still well, and continued his watch.

The man named Gabriel was the next to be spotted, dashing over to them armed for war. Semyon absently noted the man's armaments once more, part of his mind filing away assumptions on Gabriel's fighting styles as he greeted the approaching man.

"If you can help Hoyle, you're needed there." He took a moment to gesture towards the injured Werewolf being carried by Atticus, just in time for the incubus to stagger under the weight. "Healing or helping carry him. Otherwise, we need to watch for assassins."

Another approached, the one who had spoken with the Young Reaper before, offering to help close Hoyle's wounds herself. That brought a sense of relief to Semyon, finally, the Wight giving her a polite nod as she finished speaking.

"That might be for the best, Miss." He continued his watch as he spoke. They couldn't afford to be ambushed, not this close to the gates. "Pain or no, it's better than dea-... No..."

Semyon froze for an instant, gaze locking upon the white-furred form that hadn't been there before. Ahead, he stood before Tamarind and the injured Werewolf she carried. He saw the figure leap back, something clutched in one hand...

...And a bloodied, silver sword in the other.

Semyon took off with a hoarse, desperate cry, legs launching him through the air. He covered the ground in bounding leaps, gaining speed every time his feet struck the floor. The attacker turned and leapt as well, aiming for the gate that still signaled safety, only now for the wrong party. Something cracked along his leg as Semyon drove every ounce of strength he could into the next leap. No clear shot presented itself, and the Wight's non-silver rounds wouldn't do enough to stop the fleeing form even if he had the chance. So he surged forwards, crossing the distance with impressive speed, aiming to latch himself upon the form and haul him away from the open gate.

But his quarry was a Werewolf, fast in its own right, and with less ground to cover. Semyon watched as the attacker got away, crossing through the gate even as he closed the gap, slamming to a stop against the gate's supports with nothing to show for his efforts at all.

" нет- Тьфу, пропасть!" The oath tore itself from Semyon's mouth in a snarling growl, the Wight snapping around to Tamarind and the one she carried. Blood was what he saw, the older werewolf's stomach open and spilling life from her form. Too much, far too much spilt, on top of a wound she had already suffered. Three centuries of existence told Semyon that her life was over, the look on her face one he had seen many times before.

So many, many times before.

" Тьфу, пропасть..." His voice grew quiet and cold, form slumping back against the gate's supports. How little time had passed since he had started this mission? And already one of their number was lost, one of his employers badly wounded, and the company main office under siege and failing.

Semyon's lips curled back in a feral snarl, even as his eyes cast themselves away from the bleeding form before him. His right hand remained locked around his weapon, but it hung limply at his side. Part of him knew he needed to move, other parts urged him to pursue the murderer, but he stayed still. He didn't want to move, not right now. He just wanted to stand there for a moment, doing nothing.

Not that doing something had helped at all, so far.

"... Боги ударить в этот день..."

(( **"No- Damn it all!" "Damn it all..." "... Gods strike this day..."
At least, that's what the translate says. ))

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

*urge to sing McFerrin intensifies*

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Quick note to say I will be gone starting tomorrow, and back tuesday in the evening, Eastern Time. I 'might' have the opportunity to write something up while I'm away? But likely not.

Steampunk, Airplanes, Pirates, Political Intrigue, War, and (perhaps) Magic? Yummy.

Color me interested. Of your options, #2 really catches my eye, but in general it sounds like you have a neat little world you're developing here, so I'm up for any storyline that lets us play around in it.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Semyon surrendered the burden of carrying Hoyle to Atticus and took guard once more, newfound freedom of movement allowing him to fully watch their backs as they moved towards the shade gates. His frowning visage deepened with every step, pale eyes straining to catch sight of a foe he wasn't sure they'd be able to see, especially as they moved out of the hall itself. The real risk was here now, on the way to the gates, if any of the assassins had managed to slip past before.

Unfortunately, it seemed he didn't have a way to really see if any had slipped past. They had taken out some in the hall, Nestor's 'rain' turning that short fight firmly in their favor. They wouldn't risk moving through it now, not if they still valued stealth, and it could be they had taken out all who had snuck in.

Not that he would relax his guard at the thought. No reason to invite disaster when it seemed plenty capable of coming along on its own.

At Atticus' words, Semyon ducked down by Hoyle's side as the demon dragged him along, eyeing his employer's wound. It was... bad. Probably. The fact it wasn't healing implied silver, and the wound itself rendered the leg all-but useless. It was a clean cut, though, which meant he could easily clean and stitch it back together. Hoyle probably wouldn't be able to walk even then, but at least Semyon could stop the man from bleeding and ease the pain a bit, given time.

But time was the problem. If they needed to reach the gates quickly, they couldn't afford to pause long enough for the Wight to tend to the wound. Such a pause would make them perfect targets as well... which led to the possibility of baiting an attack...

"Crippling wound. I can dress it when we stop." Back-stepping to stay alongside Atticus while still watching behind them, Semyon spared a moment to catch his eye as he spoke. "Unless someone else can tend him on the move, our options are limited."