Gabriel returned his greeting courteously -if somewhat reluctantly- the man appearing more distracted than anything else. Semyon decided not to press, stepping back as Nestor spoke to him next, mulling over the man's question.
Would Bain and Hoyle come down to speak with them? It seemed odd they hadn't, especially considering what they were facing this time. Though perhaps if they were waiting for more to show up? Build up their force before holding a meeting? It sounded plausible, at least.
"You should have time to get some air." The Wight offered Gabriel a slight bow to accompany the words, hand moving to signal down a nearby hallway. "But if you want to stow your luggage, rooms are that way. Just pick one that looks empty."
Deciding to take his own advice, Semyon excused himself and headed down that very hall, walking a ways down before choosing a door. There was no sign anyone else had claimed it, and so he moved in, dropping his pack on the bed before opening it up once more. Carefully shifting it's contents around, he pulled out the ammo case stored within, and set to reloading the magazine he had expended earlier.
It would help to have a better idea of what they would be facing -had the other werewolf been mentioning that to Tamarind? He should have kept a better ear out. As it was, there was no telling if any 'specialized' rounds he chose would work.
There were other rounds that proved deadly to certain beings of the veiled world... but you had to be sure you were up against those beings. Silver was great if you were hunting werewolves, but you'll get laughed at by the Fae. Armor-piercing was about all you could use to bring down golems or other constructs, but most undead wouldn't even slow down from the neat little holes you punched through them. It became something of a chore to try and keep the proper rounds on hand for whatever may come up, and while Tamarind had the mind -and the gun- for that task, Semyon opted for a different route: 'Veiled World Special'.
Hollow points, with every third round an incendiary, were loaded in with careful hands. They might not prove fatal to whatever they faced, but if nothing else, Semyon would make sure that each pull of the trigger would not be ignored. Most beings had eyes, joints, or both, places any bullet could easily lodge itself. The brief skirmish against those constructs in the library had already shown that even regular rounds could be effective, but with Ragnarok now looming ahead, the insurance of a little extra firepower seemed a good idea.
It was while he was absorbed in those thoughts, silently preparing himself for the coming mission, that the Wight's phone began to quietly buzz within his coat. Setting down the magazine he had only just picked up, Semyon surrendered finally to its demands, flipping the phone open as he brought it up to his ear.
"Semyon Makarov here-"
"Makarov!" The voice on the other side was familiar, feminine, and in a hurry. "It's about time, we've been trying to reach you."
"Romanoff? You know I'm-"
"Yes I know, I know. But this is important, Mikhail found the Ranofsky's and-"
"Wait." Semyon's voice went cold, the Wight sitting, unmoving, a hollow point rolling out of his hand. "What do you mean, 'found'?"
"They've been missing for almost two months, Mikhail told you during the last mission."
"..."
"...He... Didn't, did he?"
"... ..."
"Gods..." He could almost hear her covering her face with her hand. "Alright, that doesn't matter right now. They're back, but they're going feral. I can't... I can slow it down, I AM slowing it down, but it's a losing fight."
"They're all going feral?"
"All the ones that were brought back... Ira and Mal were already gone."
Semyon dropped his head into his own hand, eyes closing as he sat there.
"Makarov?"
...
"...Semyon?"
"I'm... here."
"Mikhail mentioned something about books. He went to your place but said they weren't there, I'm guessing you have them with you?"
"Yes. I'm not leaving them behind."
"He thinks there's something in there that can help, if you can bring them back an-"
"No. I can't."
"You can't... Semyon, you're going to lose FOUR more Wights if you don't"
"I CAN'T." His voice grew hard, rising almost to a yell before he managed to reign himself in. "That... isn't an option, Islava."
"...The company mission is that important?"
"More than you think."
"Gods... Okay then." In an instant she was all business. Semyon mouthed a small blessing, finding some measure of strength in the sorceress' ability to remain calm. "So it's hailing with a chance of meteors, can you think of anything that can help? At least until we can get those books?"
"Find some needles."
"Needles? Wait, are you suggesting-"
"Yes." Composed once more, Semyon stood, tone calm. "Mikhail knows the tale better than the rest of us, and has done the most research into the matter. You might be able to keep them stable, or even help them recover completely."
"And otherwise...?"
"We end up back were we are now."
"Alright. Needles and chicken eggs. If I sent someone for the books, can you pass them on?"
"If there's time. I can leave them with Cornelius as well."
"That works, that works." Something like relief echoed in her voice. "Thank you, Semyon. Good luck."
"You too, stay safe."
Semyon hung up and stored his phone, calmly resisting the urge to simply throw it away. First Ragnarok was threatening everything, and now problems were rising on the home front as well. He had to stay here, nothing would matter if the world ended. But that thought really didn't help, not with anything.
Running a hand across his head for far too many times in one day, the Wight returned to his recently-claimed bed, and buried himself in the task of loading his magazines for the missions to come.