04-27-2015, 12:33 PM
Armande watched her leave, the excitement plain. He shook his head. He hoped that she would prove herself worthy. At the very least, she seemed to have no reservations about the purpose of the Order. He was not a fool. He knew that many among the Atharim had grown soft. They did not have the stomach for their true purpose. While it disgusted him, a purge was not necessary. There were plenty of threats for the weak-hearted to hunt. While the reborn gods were the greatest enemy, that did not mean that the dreyken or the oni had disappeared. No, if anything, such creatures were on the rise. There were even hints of something new in the tunnels.
He had not seen anything like that the last time he had been down there. His lip twisted at the memory. He had allowed a Naga to live. In the order of things, the Naga were far lower in their danger. But still, the action had left a bad taste in his mouth. That student had asked for there to be trade. Idly, he wondered if the man had survived. His wounds had been deep. Not that it mattered. There was plenty for the milk-hearted among them to hunt. The hard wood, the core of the Atharim, would focus on the greatest danger.
The man who walked in was dressed in traditional Japanese Samurai garb, his swords plain. Armande's eyes narrowed. The fact that the man was armed didn't cause alarm. And yet, such a bold thing, to enter his presence in such a way. It betrayed his state of mind. As did his clothing. The man deliberately sought to stand out here in Moscow. Or else gave no thought to the efficacy of their work. Traditionally garbed and armed Samurai walking the Moscow streets would not be circumspect. The fact that the man did not consider any of this bespoke his blindness and provincial nature.
Very likely family honor was at the core of this man. Would that be a help or a hindrance? The man bowed low and then greeted him, humility a vestment like his robes, a superficial affectation. He nodded to the chair, watching the man carefully.
"Indeed, Mr. Yoshimura. And yet I did not call for you. Which begs the question, why are you here?" If the man wanted something, he would have to be up front about it. One did not travel around the world simply to offer to serve in any capacity. Hiding ambition behind his robes would do him no good here.
He had not seen anything like that the last time he had been down there. His lip twisted at the memory. He had allowed a Naga to live. In the order of things, the Naga were far lower in their danger. But still, the action had left a bad taste in his mouth. That student had asked for there to be trade. Idly, he wondered if the man had survived. His wounds had been deep. Not that it mattered. There was plenty for the milk-hearted among them to hunt. The hard wood, the core of the Atharim, would focus on the greatest danger.
The man who walked in was dressed in traditional Japanese Samurai garb, his swords plain. Armande's eyes narrowed. The fact that the man was armed didn't cause alarm. And yet, such a bold thing, to enter his presence in such a way. It betrayed his state of mind. As did his clothing. The man deliberately sought to stand out here in Moscow. Or else gave no thought to the efficacy of their work. Traditionally garbed and armed Samurai walking the Moscow streets would not be circumspect. The fact that the man did not consider any of this bespoke his blindness and provincial nature.
Very likely family honor was at the core of this man. Would that be a help or a hindrance? The man bowed low and then greeted him, humility a vestment like his robes, a superficial affectation. He nodded to the chair, watching the man carefully.
"Indeed, Mr. Yoshimura. And yet I did not call for you. Which begs the question, why are you here?" If the man wanted something, he would have to be up front about it. One did not travel around the world simply to offer to serve in any capacity. Hiding ambition behind his robes would do him no good here.