Just Another Spooky Thursday

Just Another Spooky Thursday
Date of Scene:	14 March 2013
Location:	Traverse Town - District 2
Synopsis:	When an old run down house in the older parts of town begins to emit strange noises the locals fear an infestation of ghosts or worse. Eager to get out and about after several months of preparation, a young woman who specializes in such threats responds to the call for aid.
Cast of Characters:	Artyom W. Valodjn, Ophelia

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Artyom W. Valodjn has posed:
Traverse town has grown in the past few months. An influx of refugees has caused the city's population to swell, and while some have moved out into the World of Ruin and other regions connected to Tracerse by its space port, many have decided to settle in the dim hamlet permanently- or at least, until someone discovers a way to bring them home again.

But as the population has shot up, Traverse has been pressed to find new places for people to stay. It's rather difficult when you've a rather limited land area. As a solution, some of the old, run-down buildings toward the less reputable parts of town have begun to see- or renovation- in order to house the rising number of refugees. Of course, this presents a few problems. Shadows lurk in dark, abandoned places, and many of the buildings are simply far too decrepit to be put back into use.

At least one has been called 'haunted.'

This is one such building.

It is, in essence, a townhouse. Three stories in height, two lots in width. The facade, once vibrant and lively, has become an abstract mosaic of cracked plaster and graffiti. Two of its windows are shattered, revealing a musty interior within. Great, yellowing sheets cover what rotting furniture remains inside the once lavish home.

There have been rumors of strange noises coming from the home- rattling chains and unearthly screams. Footsteps are heard on its upper floors, even though nobody has been seen living in the home for years. And so, a job posting was set- searching for a specialist to come investigate the haunting.

But so far, nobody has come to collect.

Ophelia has posed:
Until now that is.

The dusty ramshackle buildings that fill this section of town create an atmosphere of grunge and poverty that is not unlike some of the older less fortunate areas of the city of Manhattan from which many of the refuges who now live here hail from. This somewhat dour similarity provides an unusual sense of belonging and familiarity. To a people who's entire world has been turned upside-down anything that rings of home is precious and even these dismal living conditions are better than sleeping in the streets where Heartless can rise at any time to prey upon the unwary.

The striking scarlet armor of the young woman who makes her way through the slums is completely at odds with the dirty and disheveled appearance of the bulk of people who live in this squalor. Her hair is short and neat and the light tint of her skin in unblemished by the touch of dirt or grime which causes her to practically shine against the backdrop of rust and crumbling wood.

Ophelia strides confidently ahead without fear of any danger this place might have to offer. The half dozen or so swords strapped to her belt and back criss-cross in an odd but practical fashion that allows her to reach any of the myriad weapons with ease and do not hamper her agility in any meaningful way despite the absurdity of lugging around so many blades at once. Any would-be thieves or cutthroats lurking in the shadows quickly reconsider the wisdom of attempting to take on this particular target upon seeing the steel glint in her crimson eyes as if simply gazing upon those willful windows into her soul allowed them to see the folly of such actions.

Naturally, the destitute beggars, upon seeing someone of obvious wealth, attempt to approach her with the thought of asking for coin. Any who actually work up the courage to face the warrior are met only with a tilt of her head and a disapproving glare that can only pass between one of noble lineage looking upon a peasant as if they were little more than an insect. No words need be spoken to transmit her disdain and the people of this place quickly go about their business, leaving Ophelia to tend to her own.

After several minutes of walking she finds herself in an even darker and more abysmal setting than before. The buildings here are clearly too old or run-down for use which makes them the obvious place for desperate thieves or foolish orphans to make their homes. That is what she expects to find here today, in truth. Unlike foolish peasant superstitions, ghosts have better things to do than float about in empty houses rattling chains and bemoaning their fates.

Still, it never hurt to be sure. The snicker of metal on metal rings out as the young samurai flicks her thumb, lifting the hilt of her primary blade from its sheath. In the span of a single breath blink of the eye, the sword carves a shimmering arc through the air that is almost too fast to trace and returns to roost in its lacquered case.

Ophelia stares at the wooden door before her and as she slides the final inch of the weapon into its casing with a loud click the rotten wood explodes inwards as if hit by a hammer and she steps into the ruined entryway with little regard for stealth or caution.

Artyom W. Valodjn has posed:
Splinters of shattered wood blasts out from the bisected door. A small handful bury into the hardwood floors, creating a small, prickly garden of miniscule stakes. From an alleyway squeezed between this building and its neighbor, a particularly raggedy looking man jolts rigid, and quietly reconsiders tempting fate and fortune this night.

As appropriate for these sorts of things, the sliced door produced very little in the way of a response from whatever might be lurking inside the decrepit home. Not even a muffled clamoring of distant chains. Instead, a thin layer of dust stirs from the walls and drifts onto the floorboards.

It is very dark in here- one might note. And, very quiet. The door opens immediately into a short corridor- there's a closet nearby for keeping coats, umbrellas and other necessities for venturing outside. Ahead, the path curves to the left and up a stairwell, or proceeds straight, into what appears to be a living room. At the corridor's end, there are two sets of doors- one is shut, the other is ever so slightly ajar, revealing a tiled floor over the threshold, possibly a kitchen.

All seems quiet- but, out of the corner of her eye, Ophelia might spy a shadow bolting up a nearby stairwell. Another springs into the kitchen, quick as lightning.

Wood creaks heavily somewhere nearby.

Ophelia has posed:
The young woman pauses on the threshold of the run-down building and lets her senses unfold to take a preliminary reading of the general surroundings. Her eyes, already an unnatural red, begin to glow faintly as her supernatural powers stretch out like a web into the nooks and crannies of the darkness. Invisible tendrils of power snake into the closed rooms and up the stairs, seeking out any hint of life or unlife that might be lurking in wait.

Ophelia is not a patient person, however. The moment her eyes take note of the darting shapes she abandons the more subtle methods in favor of a direct approach. A grin of delight immediately spreads across her thin lips as she rushes down the hall in pursuit of the figure that darted into the larger room on the first floor. Something is here and even if it isn't a ghost she might get some entertainment out of running it down.

Her weapon remains sheathed, though her hand rests lightly about the hilt of the katana at her waist as she steps into the kitchen. The door bursts inwards ahead of her, propelled clean off its rusted hinges by a powerful kick. Her gaze sweeps back and forth across the dirty old counters and cabinets, seeking out the source of the movement with predatory intensity.

"Come out, come out, wherever you aaare..." Ophelia's singsong voice lilts gently through the musty air as she moves boldly into the room.

Artyom W. Valodjn has posed:
The door is kicked down! It launches boldly across the kitchen, soaring through the air like a wooden missile! With a satisfying crunch of rotten wood, it collides with the opposite wall and falls right to pieces. The hinges were clearly only hanging on by a thread.

Inside, there is a relatively spacious kitchen. A covered dining table sits in one corner of the room, separated from the cooking equipment by an old, but still quite in-tact granite counter. Everything in here looks relatively nice, actually. If... Old. And broken, in places.

Something jingles nearby, and the tinkle of a piece of glass falling onto the floor can be heard from the next room. Along with something... Else.

It sounds as though part of the wall is coming away. The footsteps are heavy, causing the floorboards to creak and groan as whatever-that-is sets its weight onto the rotten wood and rusting nails. Something else /thuds/ soon afterwards.

Could this place really have a ghost!?

Ophelia has posed:
Ophelia pays the damage she does to this place no mind. From the looks of it the building was already too decrepit to be renovated and the claims of ghosts aren't what's keeping people from living here. Infact, this provides a rare opportunity for the young girl: she gets to smash things without her mentor getting all huffy about being held responsible for paying for damages!

Holding out her hand, Ophelia wanders over to the granite counter and wander down its length. The crook of her outstretched arm gathers up the various old rusted cooking utensils and pots that have been left lying about since this home was abandoned and as she comes to the end of the flat surface, she sends them all flying into the wall with an incredible clatter. "Ah. It felts quite wonderful to be able to vent some frustration after being cooped up for so long."

The girl wanders across the room over to the dining table, clearly intent on giving it the same treatment but the groaning rumble of heavy object in the nearby room gives her a moment's pause. "Oh? Is there someone here after all? How exciting. I should introduce myself."

Stalking over to the next door with surprising stealth considering the armor and weapons strapped to her body, Ophelia waits until the shifting creak of floorboards is roughly right on the other side. Applying her much less sneaky door-opening method once more, her foot sends the ancient door flying into splinters and she rushes to meet the mystery apparition with her blade already sailing out in a deadly arc.

Artyom W. Valodjn has posed:
Someone has been enjoying a nice, long nap. Artyom has spent a long time wandering around Traverse, searching for a good place to spend his evenings in peace and quiet. The town bustles at almost all hours of the day, and though the alleyways can provide some respite, it's nothing quite like having a nice roof over his head. A few days ago, he happened upon an old, abandoned house by following the neighborhood cats to its location. Broken windows and doors left ajar have made the old place pretty much perfect for the furtive felines. In fact, Artyom is pretty sure one of the cats around this particular house might be the Boss of this entire city!

Unless that one lives on top of the mayor's house, or something.

For a good while, he had been enjoying his rest in one of the back rooms of the old, abandoned home. His dreams were pleasant- of the old mountain, and all the people and places he had left behind. And then, something very loud explodes into Artyom's otherwise pleasant evening and throws it all right to hell.

At first, he thought it only to be one of the neighborhood toughs. But when more things began... Breaking, it became clear that this was not your ordinary burglar.

This was someone out to destroy the home. Set it on fire. The cats would stand no chance! And so, someone has to stand for the cats.

That someone is Artyom.

The foot slams through the door. The door stops almost immediately. So does her foot. It in fact stops on something very hard, but not quite like rock. There's something else that is like rock. Her sword produces a sharp -clink!- as as it smashes into a bulwark it probably has no business cutting. Piercing, yellow eyes glare out from underneath the massive, earthen weapon. "You," Artyom rumbles. "What are you doing in this house?"

Ophelia has posed:
The look on Ophelia's face as her foot simply stops is one of utter confusion that is rivaled only by the wince of pain that mars her pretty features when the blade of her katana slams into the rugged rocky bulwark. The impact sends a jarring reverberation through the weapon that rattles her bones and forces her to take a few steps backwards to get her bearings.

Upon seeing the face of a human, albeit a very large and unusual one, she quickly suppresses her powers and the faint nimbus of light from her eyes vanishes suddenly. She stares at Artyom, sizing him up from the ground up until her eyes settle on his own rugged features. There is a long moment of silence between them as the ruined remains of the door crumble away from him.

Finally, Ophelia sheathes her weapon with a look of supreme dignity and grace, standing up straight as she brushes some wooden fragments from the hem of her skirt. And then all of that composure and nobility goes flying out in the window as she gives him a big goofy grin and rubs the back of her head sheepishly.

"Um... you're not a ghost by chance, are you? Ahahaha..."

Artyom W. Valodjn has posed:
Artyom's gaze remains fixed onto the (relatively) diminutive woman. There was a strange light about this girl's... Everything. A bizarre, ominous light. Maybe it was just a trick of the dim light in this room? His weapon is held at the ready up until Ophelia goes to re-sheathe her weapon. Then, the mountain of a man makes a subtle gesture with one hand. A cloth wrapped, covered in dust and topsoil snakes its way across the floorboards before wrapping up around the business end of his 'sword.' Geomancy is awfully useful when there's enough dirt on something that you can move it around with the right spell.

Or when you're mining. Artyom hasn't found a decent deposit yet, though. That might soon change!

He quietly, discretely judges Ophelia- She is armored, he notes, and rather heavily armed besides. She came here to... fight something? "I do not believe that I am a ghost," Artyom replies, resting his weapon onto one shoulder. He makes a bemused sound at the girl's sudden shift in tone, disguising it with a heavy shrug, "Or at least, I don't recall dying anytime recently."

"I could be wrong," he grunts, "I might have lost my head and my memories with it, but I'm fairly certain it's still attached." One hand rubs at his chin, before drooping to brush the dust from where Ophelia's heel had met his torso. "So," his eyes drift toward the mess of cookery now scattered all over the kitchen floor, "Do ghosts normally haunt dishware?"

Ophelia has posed:
"Hmm, a shame." She shrugs at him dismissively and the tone of her voice takes on a sarcastic but playful note. "Perhaps I could remedy that for you. One pass of my blade and then your earthly suffering shall be naught but dreams and dust. Oh but ofcourse you will need some reason to linger after you pass on. Perhaps a debt left unpaid or anger at your parents. Oh...! Maybe an illicit affair with an appealing young temptress leaves you stricken with grief and remorse for your lovely bride at home, hmm?"

She slides up next to Artyom like a conspirator and elbows him in the ribs a few times. "Hmm? Hmm? No?" His answer is irrelevant to her dramatic act and she continues without giving him much of a chance. "Alas, I came to this place hoping to remedy the streak of misfortune that has plagued my house since the strange convalescence known as the Heartless ripped the land of my birth away and deposited me in this bizarre amalgamation of worlds."

She pauses and glances over at the pile of cookery and silverware scattered about by her earlier attempt at amusement and grins again, making very sure that her lips remain firmly pressed together in the process to conceal her teeth. "Oh but ghosts can haunt any manner of object, my good sir! Why this entire house could be the unfortunate victim of paranormal infestation."

Her gaze drifts down to the ground as one of the cats who claimed ownership of the building grew enough to approach. She blinks for a moment then makes a quick realization which causes her to give a heavy overly dramatic sigh. "Ah. Well it would seem that such is not the case in this particular abode. Tis likely that the strange bedlam that caused the locals to suspect a ghostly presence is the work of these furry little miscreants."

Artyom W. Valodjn has posed:
There is something direly wrong with this situation, Artyom thinks. This girl is... Bubbly. Dramatic. Overly friendly. She reminds him of some of the more energetic Efreeti from back at the academy, except somehow even more... Friendly? How do you go from accidentally almost cutting someone in half to jokingly trying to convince them to fall on your sword?

This girl, Artyom thinks, is kind of strange.

But not in a bad way. He's seen bad-crazy.

Ugh.

"I'm not exactly suffering much. And I'm a bachelor." Artyom replies with an expression that couldn't get more deadpan if you tried to exorcise a pot. "And I'm not sure what kind of curse you'd be breaking by upsetting the cats. They haven't caused anyone any trouble, recently. As far as I know." One of the fuzzy creatures makes a leap from a cupboard-top to the tip of Artyom's covered sword. "I'm... Fairly certain they aren't ghosts."

There could be ghosts here, though. Artyom hadn't thought of that. Can his sword cut through ghosts? He hasn't ever really had to learn.

"...You're just a bit energetic, huh?" Artyom says, after a long moment. The cat on his club had migrated to cross his broad shoulders for a quick stretch. "I was worried that you were here to... Do untoward things, to these poor, homeless creatures. I suppose it's a good thing that you're just chasing phantoms, hm?"

Ophelia has posed:
Ophelia clucks her tongue and looks away in disappointment. Oh well it looks like she's not going to be getting any bounty from this particular mission. Though she might be able to squeeze a little something out of the people who put up the notice for proving that it wasn't ghosts. Or... maybe it /was/ ghosts. Who is going to be able to tell the difference?

At the mention of her excessive energy the girl merely giggles a little. "You must forgive my capricious nature. I fear I am cursed with a terrible lack of self control and a boisterous nature energy that simply must be allowed to run free whilst it has the chance. My master is a rather firm adherent to strict discipline and his rules are simply stifling at times."

A slender hand is waved at him dismissively at the mention of the cats and her intentions towards them. "What? Nonsense, who would harm such adorable and friendly little-" Ophelia reaches down to pet on of the bolder cats who has drawn close to inspect the intruder in its home. However the move surprises the animal, more so than might be normal, and it hisses sharply while wildly flailing a claw at the outstretched fingers. The curved talon rips through the skin of her hand and a thin trickle of blood splatters across the floor as she yanks it back in surprise.

"-horrible mangy abominations!" The samurai's foot sweeps out at the fleeing feline but the fuzzball is swift and leaps to safety, tearing away down the hallway before she can move to give chase. "Grrr...."

Turning back to Artyom, Ophelia gives an indignant snort then smiles broadly at him once more, continuing as if nothing happened. "Ah, but surely you must count yourself fortunate to be without troubles in these dark times, good sir. Might I guess that from the looks of your impressive physique, grand weapon, and lack of companionship that you are in fact a mercenary?"

Artyom W. Valodjn has posed:
"You have to be gentle with them," Artyom says with a long sigh. He shakes his head slowly as the cat on his shoulders arcs its back against the nape of his neck, before settling down like a very small mink scarf. It may just be that Artyom happens to smell somewhat like a good place to lay down on- such things come with having elemental earth running through your veins. "Cats like to come to people on their own terms, mmn? They're always in charge, anywhere they go." Unless there are things that will kill and eat them around. Then they'd much rather run the hell away!

This is not one of those times, however.

"Honestly," the mountain of a man chuckles, patting the creature on his shoulders, "Maybe they're reacting poorly to all of that enthusiasm, mn? Or maybe they saw you kicking through the doors. Though I can understand wanting to take a break from... Work, whenever you can."

"...My employer can get a bit unreasonable sometimes, as well." Being a vassal to the great Murasame family means that you have a number of obligations, after all.

"...And I'm certainly not exactly without misfortune. Though I suppose I'm a bit luckier than others." He cranes his neck, stretching the muscles along his back, "I do occasionally perform-- mercenary work. It's not exactly my profession. Did you have a business proposal?"

Ophelia has posed:
A sly look crosses over Ophelia's face, one that speaks of a spark of intelligence behind the pomp and glamor. She ignores the talk of cats and their preferences. It matters nothing at all to her that this is technically their home now since the humans that once lived here have obviously long since abandoned it. Animals are animals and humans will always be above them. And as for herself? Well she's even higher up the food chain than that.

"Hmmm. Well, I must confess that I do find myself in a rather strange situation here. I came to this dismal festering pile of wood and mortar at the behest of the local residents who feared there were spectral beings haunting it." She gestures at the cats, wrinkling her nose in disdain. "Clearly that is not the case."

"However, the organization which I represent is in dire need of... hmmhmm... new blood. " A strangely amused smile accompanies this declaration as if she knows something entertaining that he does not. "Our world's strange metamorphosis into the folds of this new land has severed the country of my birth and our considerable assets from our reach."

Ophelia moves over to the now empty surface of the granite counter and hops up onto it, crossing her legs demurely as she sits down. Her hands rest on the surface of her knees, the blood from the minor scratch she received still dripping between her fingers to stain the floor in tiny circular spots. "I will admit, you seem quite well prepared for battle but the task to which my life has been slaved is one of incredible importance. Danger and death are my companions and the darkest holes of the world filled with monstrosities most foul compose the quarry of my dire hunts."

Her head tilts to the side and she gives him another coy disarming smile. "Interested?"

Artyom W. Valodjn has posed:
Contrary to popular belief, cats can in fact get pretty spectral. Ghost cats can and do exist in some places, and they are terrible indeed! With awful, forked tails and the propensity to claim someone's lap and life force for themselves! Of course, they do tend to try and strike a balance so that their bed doesn't get too cold too quickly. Death is a good way to lose a home, after all.

"I see," Artyom replies evenly, distantly. He lifts his chin slightly to avoid allowing his eyes to drift anywhere that would compromise his situation. Negotiations like these leave very little room to... be distracted. He's relatively certain this girl knows it, too.

But even so, something about this seems... Odd. A strange feeling pulses down his spine. She's not being completely honest- or maybe she's deliberately omitting details?

"Well," Artyom says at last. "I am certainly used to risking my life for the sake of another's profit. In fact, you could say that I do it quite frequently. Hunting monsters, traveling to places no man should tread- I'm relatively certain that I'm fairly well experienced in these." Thanks to Dungeon Crawling 301, back at Alexander Academy! Artyom did quite well in that class, in fact. Something about being paired up with a black mage who sat on his shoulders and used him as a mobile shield-slash-artillery-piece.

Not that Art didn't do his share of the fighting.

"I suppose I could lend your organization my assistance," Artyom concludes. "I suppose we'll be working together, then. And that there will be... Paperwork to sign."

Ophelia has posed:
Ophelia shakes her head slowly, never losing her amused smirk. "Oh no no, quite the contrary. Paperwork just tends to get in the way. We prefer things to be a little more... direct." And by 'we' she means herself and her master, though he was a fair bit more reserved than the young girl. Neither of them cared for the constant prodding of their religious sponsors for details regarding their work.

Hunting down demons was messy business and often required them to do things that were rather extreme, things that might not be looked upon in a favorable light by the stuffy self-important figureheads who had not the slightlest clue what was required to put down a spawn of evil. Pampered nobles and naive priests, none of them ever had to do anything to get their hands dirty but their kind were always the first to cast judgement on those who took that burden upon themselves.

"Our... organization is... well we are rather selective about the types of people we allow to join. There will be a period of evaluation before you get to see any of the /really/ entertaining things we do. We will also require a sense of discretion from you. It would make our job unnecessarily difficult it everyone knew what we are about, you see. We are... hmm... well I guess you could say we deal with the things that people would rather not know about."

Ophelia's legs uncross and then recross the other direction as she deliberately tries to toy with him, having noticed his stoic attempt to remain courteous. That only made her want to tease him further, ofcourse. "Oh but silly me! I have completely forgotten one of the most important steps. If we are to work together we shall naturally need to know each other's names, mm?"

She flutters her hand through the air with a flourish, giving him an elaborate bow while still sitting down somehow. "I am Ophelia Rosai Lovett. I hail from the grand country of Ordallia, and though its beautiful plains and wondrous cities may be lost to the darkness, I welcome you with all of the warmth that my customs can offer."

Artyom W. Valodjn has posed:
"Well, not /that/ kind of paperwork," Artyom explains with a slight chuckle. This girl may be... Energetic- and blunt as a club, not to mention violent and capricious, but she's not really done too many of these negotiations before, has she? "I mean a contract. It's very rare that someone would engage in mercenary work without a drafted and signed agreement between the two parties- to seal the deal, and set terms, you know."

Because while hunting monsters is a risky business, so too is navigating the shark-pit that is the legal system. A good contract saves /everyone/ a whole lot of trouble. "You know, back where I am from," Artyom explains, "The God, Carbuncle, was said to oversee the rule of law and agreements between business partners. It was quite important, at home."

He crosses his arms over his weapon, leaning on its crossguard. The floorboards creak dangerously underneath its tip. "Naturally, I am willing to keep my silence about your organization. Such things are nobody's business but your own, after all." Though the monsters he hunts and the things he sees on the way are, presumably, fair game- as long as he doesn't mentions who he works for or why. "I presume, though, that I can speak of at least the broad strokes of my personal work, as long as it does not compromise the security of your organization?"

"But I think I am getting ahead of myself--"

Artyom straightens, standing at his full height. His hair nearly brushes the kitchen's ceiling. On his shoulder, the cat stretches and yawns, shifting to accommodate its broader perch. "I am Artyom Wojciech Valodjn, Titanic of Galianda, Son of the Mountain, Geomancer and Magic Knight. Most call me Frank, as I'm told that my name is somehow difficult to pronounce." And also spell. "It is an honor to meet your acquaintance, Lady Lovett."

Ophelia has posed:
"Frank, huh." Ophelia straightens and pushes off the edge of the counter. A finger goes to the side of her face, tapping away as she ponders his nickname with a clearly thoughtful look in her 'wear your thoughts on your sleeve' manner. "Mmm, no, I think I prefer Artyom. It has a more... sophisticated sound to it." Meaning anything hard to pronounce probably originates from nobility and she rather enjoys high-class things.

A wistful sigh fills the air between them as she draws close once more, peering up at him. "Very well, Artyom. If you wish a formal declaration of terms and payment then I am sure something can be arranged. Honestly, you mercenaries cling to your contracts like priests to their scriptures," Ophelia says.

She waggles a finger back and forth at him as she continues, addressing his other concern. "I am afraid that our work must be held in the utmost secrecy. Even the nature of the things we wage war with could compromise the integrity of our organization. You will understand - if you get that far, hmmhmmhmm."

Artyom W. Valodjn has posed:
"Call me either of those names," Artyom responds with a stoic shrug of his shoulders. "They are both technically my name, after all. It's what people call me. Though I do somewhat prefer my birth-name." Even if 'Artyom' is technically even harder to write in Titanic Script. He has a stamp for these kinds of things.

"I hope you understand, though. This is to protect you as well. Contracts are important- it means that everything's set in stone. To a mercenary, adventure might be their profession, but it's the money from their employers that keeps food in the belly." Not that Artyom is going to be using his money for food, necessarily.

There are... Other purchases he needs to make.

"We'll work out the fine details of what I am and am not allowed to do once it actually becomes relevant. As you say, that's still a little ways off from now." Artyom rubs at his chin. He'd just need to think on this little problem for a bit. "So, you say you hunt things that ordinary people would rather not bear witness to?"

"Mmn. Sounds familiar."

Ophelia has posed:
"Hmm hmm hmm," Ophelia gives him a muted but amused chuckle. "You will find, Artyom, that I am quite capable of protecting myself, though your thoughts are appreciated." Ophelia claps her hands together once and smiles up at him cheerfully. "Well then. It seems that we have all of the important details sorted for the time being."

Since her work here was done, that freed the young samurai from her duties. Naturally she will have to report back that their first mission since coming here was nothing but a wild goose chase (or cat chase in this case) but that can wait until morning. The neon lights and shopping districts of Traverse Town were calling her name!

"When you are prepared to begin your initiation with us, merely come to the great cathedral in Mullonde and ask for my name." She digs in one of the small satchel pouches and withdraws a small square of paper, handing it over to him. One side is covered with a hand-painted sigil of some sort that resembles a coat of arms. A sword thrust point down through a snake that has coiled about the blade. Below the symbol is written three words in flowery elaborate script.

Dei Sumus Gladius

Artyom W. Valodjn has posed:
"I will trust your word, then," Artyom says with a slight smile. There are smaller girls who've proved to be much stronger than they appear. And at least one has a demon inside of her, or something! "I'm certain that, if they sent you here alone, you're more than strong enough to handle yourself."

He receives the card, eyes flitting over the text on its face. And of course, the symbol. His brow furrows slightly at the motto. That's a language he isn't... too familiar with. But, Mullonde. A Great Cathedral? Artyom glances up at her, one brow quirking, "I see. Mullonde, and at a cathedral? I have encountered a... follower of one of the faiths in these myriad worlds. Some worshiper of Fahram- he seemed to get quite testy with me. I don't suppose visiting will result in the lay clergy attempting to convert me, will it?"

He frowns, "I am quite secure in my own faith, you know."

Ophelia has posed:
Ophelia snickers loudly as she turns away, waving a hand in the air over her shoulder at him. "Hmm, no promises! I cannot speak for the clergy but I for one shall respect your choice of which gods suit you best. You may find that many of the Glabados faith are... less accepting of diverse points of view, however. A hazard of the job, I am afraid."

"Farewell until then, Artyom Wojciech Valodjn." The young woman stalks out of the dusty room, her hips swaying back and forth in a manner much too outlandish for any nun or priestess. She turns slightly as she vanishes around the corner of the hallway, giving him a sly wink and a final flutter of her fingers as she waves goodbye.

Artyom W. Valodjn has posed:
"Indeed," the Titanic rests himself on his weapon again, arms crossing lazily over the colossal cross-guard. Today, he concludes, has certainly been much more interesting than he had first imagined it would be.

...

Artyom does not watch Ophelia as she leaves. That would be rude.

But he can't help it if he happens to catch sight of her as he waits for her to leave.