Blank Period: Into the Witching Glass

This article, Blank Period: Into the Witching Glass, is part of Bleach: War for the King's Seal, which continues on from the opening segments of the site's former Fanon Canon project. Use of this page's contents is determined by the author of this page, unless otherwise specified.

This article, Blank Period: Into the Witching Glass, was added by ShonenChicoBoy who determines its usage on this wiki.

Facing the Gallows, II

𝔇usty light filtered in through the large windows along one wall of Wolfgang Slashhaut's shadowy office. Ladd stood in front of the firmly shut doors, trying not to squirm in his own skin. He looked around him, delaying eye contact for as long as possible.

The office said very little about the leader of the Gallows himself except that he was a staunch traditionalist. Dark wood wainscoting conveyed the solemness of a reliquary, while the greenish light from the banker's lamp on the desk, along with floor to ceiling shelves filled with thick, leather-bound tomes, only added weight to the ponderous atmosphere in the room.
To Ladd's right, the pendulums of a grandfather clock measured the seconds, marching back and forth in silent cadence. But the only sound was the click of the ceiling fan overhead.
Wolfgang Slashhaut lurked behind his desk, fingers knit in front of his chiseled chin, plaid overcoat draped over his broad, haunched shoulders. He stared at Ladd over the sturdy rings he wore, his brow furrowed above violet-tinted glasses. A long, gray mane of hair tufted into two peaks behind his ears, and his thick mustache completed the picture of an imposing beast—one who had trapped Ladd under his hardened-slate gaze.
A petite woman in a lab coat stood to one side of the solid mahogany desk, barely noticeable next to Wolfgang. Ladd recognized her from his last trip to Wing Bind's headquarters, but he couldn't remember her name. She was from the Patchworks. Her brunette hair was tucked neatly into a bun on top of her head, but the dark circles under her eyes—as opposed to matching Ladd's—looked more like a permanently disheveled aspect of her features.

At last, Wolfgang broached the subject of Ladd's presence in his office. "Have a seat," he said, with a gruff nod towards one of the huge leather couches in front of his desk. Ladd obeyed, but only dared to perch stiffly on the edge of the cushion.
"Before we begin, Ms. James will conduct a quick medical analysis." He tilted his head towards Ladd, giving her the go-ahead.
"Right. Let's get this over with quickly," she said, her voice lacking any sign of enthusiasm. She set a briefcase down on the coffee table, snapped it open, and put on latex gloves. Then she strapped on a pair of goggles and a face mask—extra precautions against any dragonclad contagion. Ladd's stomach finally stopped its whirlwind holiday around his insides, settling like a stone near the bottom of his level of confidence.
"First, I'll need to check your dragotoxin levels. Lick this please," she instructed. Ladd swallowed nervously before placing his tongue on the screen of the hand-held device. The scanner flashed green, then beeped. James studied the numbers and jotted something into her clipboard. As she flipped through the pages, Ladd caught a glance of his mugshot from the last time he had undergone a Wing Bind medical examination, back when he had first been taken into custody by the Sabres. Unpleasant memories rose, like bile in the back of his throat. At least this time he wasn't in handcuffs.
"1.7 milicrests," she reported, and Ladd let out the breath he had been holding in. It was below a 2. He was in the clear—for now.
"Hmph. Dangerously close to the threshold," Wolfgang muttered.

James took his temperature and pulse, then checked his eyes and ears. "The sweater needs to come off," she stated with exactly the same level of sympathy as when she had read out the milicrests earlier: none.
With some difficulty, Ladd removed his sling and pulled the hoodie over his head. The draconic arm, now fully exposed, gleamed cunningly in the dim light inside the office.
Ladd's new appendage was more weapon than arm. It was covered in a sleek, black carapace that seemed to have the durability—and weight—of steel armor. Crimson spikes jutted from under the metallic "pauldron" of the shoulder, matching the color of the segmented, spiny plates that ran down the back of the arm. Another spike protruded from the elbow, and a red vein extended from its base along the length of his forearm. There were small boreholes at the elbow and shoulder, gaping like darkened eyes: or perhaps tiny vents. Yet Ladd wasn't entirely sure what was under the red mesh of scales that lay beneath the dragon-steel armor. Bones of steel as well?
In any case, even though he could extend and retract the fingers (or rather, claws) at will, he didn't feel that the arm was actually his. It was something attached to him, like a parasite... or a curse.
James began to poke and prod. "The skin's healed over. Scarring seems to be minimal. You haven't been using your arm at all, have you?"
Ladd shook his head. "No, ma'am." Of course he hadn't been using it: not when it felt like jagged shards of glass digging into his shoulder socket each time me moved his fingers.
"And the pain?"
"It's fine." The knuckles of his human hand turned white as he balled the fabric of his hoodie, which was folded neatly in his lap, into his fist.
The pain hadn't really gotten better, he had just gotten used to it. There was a constant ache deep within the marrow of the severed bone: where painkillers couldn't reach. It had flared up again after climbing the academy steeple earlier that morning. Fiery pincers clamped in a ring around the base of the arm: across his collarbone, shoulder blade, and ribcage. Then there was the phantom pain too: sometimes the constant throb would tighten, like razor wire winding tighter and tighter around his missing upper arm, without relent.
"Hmm." It was the first time James had expressed any emotion: and the emotion was skepticism. She jerked the arm to the side to extend it before Ladd could brace himself, and he choked off a yelp. He had tried to hide it, but his eyes squeezed shut, his expression crumpling.
"You said it was fine," James said, flatly.
"It's better than it was a week ago... I think."

Wolfgang stood, and as he stalked over to the coffee table he pulled on a pair of black leather gloves. He sat across from Ladd, the couch sagging under his weight, and placed the small case that he had removed from his desk drawer on the table between them. It contained a dozen or so vials of blueish liquid, with gleaming metal needles next to them. Ladd immediately recognized them: tranquilizer darts. His body stiffened, and Wolfgang must have noticed his alarm.
"These are slightly different than the one's you're familiar with," he explained off-handedly. "The serum suppresses dragon mana, and I had a pain killer added to it as well."
James took one of the vials from the case. "Watch closely: Here's how you attach the needle." She showed him, then disassembled it so that Ladd could try himself. He nearly fumbled the vial, but managed to screw on the needle by propping it between the claws of the dragon arm. He bit back his frustration at his own clumsiness as James waited patiently. Then, she showed him where to insert the needle near the joint of the elbow, one of the only gaps in the armor. "These are very sharp. They have to penetrate the scales," she explained. "Have you seen an Epipen before?" Ladd shook his head. "You jab it in like this." She shoved the needle in with a quick, strong movement, and Ladd doubled over his knees. This time, his cry of pain escaped. But soon after the dose went in, the constant throb began to subside. He straightened up, breathing a little easier, and felt the tension in his shoulder begin to dissipate.
"Try moving your fingers."
Ladd opened and closed his claws, gingerly at first. Then he made a fist. Slowly, he bent his elbow.
"You can't use these everyday: just when you need them most. And when you do use it, no more than once per day. Got it?"
Ladd nodded.
"Take the case with you. And don't lose it."

Ladd suddenly remembered what his mother had said earlier. "Where am I going?" he asked, finally speaking up.
Wolfgang traded glances with James, then met Ladd's gaze evenly. He leaned forward, his eyes glinting. Ladd swallowed again. It took complete mental concentration to resist fidgeting with the hoodie in his hand.

Finally, Wolfgang began.

"Against my better judgment, you'll be participating in the cultural exchange initiative as an international student in the East Branch." He paused, as if the words themselves held some portent meaning. When Ladd didn't react he added, as more of a reprimand than a question: "I trust you read the dossier Squire gave you?"
"... Sorry?" Ladd's mind went as blank as the expression Wolfgang gave him. The old man sighed, passing his gloved hand over his face. Ladd thought back.
"Do you mean the pamphlets?" He vaguely recalled being handed a stack of information brochures as he left the hospital: tour guides, maps of Reverse London, along with an overly-cheerful "welcome to Wing Bind" flier printed on glossy card stock. He had glanced over them, but could only remember some of the more unusual dragons pictured in the "Wing Bind Dragon Academy: Year 1 Catalogue of Species, Mallory, 2005, abridged."

Meatball.

Did they really serve those things on kebabs?

To his horror, Ladd's thoroughly empty stomach growled.

"At any rate, I have neither the time nor the patience to explain. Two weeks of negligence can't be rectified in our conversation here," Wolfgang growled. Ladd had a feeling "negligence" was one of his most frequently used words. "So," he continued, "When you meet with your chaperone, you'll have to rectify that ignorance."
"My chaperone?" Ladd repeated before he could stop himself.
"Normally, children your age have already had years of training in the magic arts by the time they enter Wing Bind's academy. However, since you're a... rarity, I've assigned a special mentor to accompany you. He's a Quincy who allegedly lost most of his powers, so he should be able to provide some insight into your own lack of mana. Maybe by the end of the exchange, you'll be able to cast a spell or two."
The explanation was a slap across the jaw. Ladd felt his face flush, but if Wolfgang noticed his discomfort, he ignored it.
"Of course, he'll be supervising your classmates as well."
Ladd nodded, sullenly. Wolfgang seemed unsatisfied, so he added a meek "Yes, sir," for good measure.
"Back to the matter at hand, while in the East Branch your main task will be to serve as the eyes of the Gallows. If anything you notice seems suspicious, you will report directly to me."
Ladd refrained from asking what exactly were the Gallows, and why he was being given such a macabre job title. Instead he asked: "How will I know if something's suspicious... sir?"
The crags of Wolfgang's face finally seemed to relax. "The Langdon aren't the only peers of the realm taking part in this initiative," he said cryptically, "Squire and I both have our suspicions, so you are to closely observe your fellow students for hints regarding their family's true plans in the East Branch."
Somewhat lost, Ladd decided he'd just go along with whatever Wolfgang told him for now.
"Secondly, you are to observe, if at all possible, the inner-workings of the East's organization. We haven't had contact with our sister branch in nearly 100 years. I want you to get as close as possible to their division leaders. Glean what you can. It hardly needs to be stated, but under no circumstances are you to reveal any information about this to anyone else besides me or Squire."
Sensing a contradiction, Ladd began to ask "But what about..."
"James is already aware of your nature as a dragonclad. You needn't worry about her." James, still in the face mask and goggles, nodded tacitly.

"Speaking of which," Wolfgang pronounced. "You are strictly prohibited from divulging any information about your dragonclad arm. You are also forbidden from mentioning anything related to your older brother."
You don't have to tell me that, Ladd's bitterness sharpened into anger. "Isn't that my choice?" he muttered.

Wolfgang rapped his knuckles into the hard wood of the table, and Ladd jumped.

"Let me be absolutely clear, "laddie,"" Wolfgang's voice betrayed the hint of a northerner's accent that underscored his threat: "You don't have a personal directive in this. Nay, this is an order."

The conversation lapsed into uneasy silence. The ceiling fan clicked overhead, and Ladd stared hard at the floor between his feet. He blinked, hard, to clear the stinging in his eyes.

After a moment that lasted far too long, Wolfgang heaved a sigh. "I hate to do this to you, but I can't take any chances. Not with two other close calls within the last six months." He took off his glove, laying it gently on the table. Wolfgang then extended his fist, and the violet gemstone on one of his rings began to glow. Ladd had an uncomfortable sensation in his mouth as his tongue started to feel fuzzy and numb.

"Magic number negative 99: Omertà."

A Lingering Request

Despite its name, the Red Dragon was a small cafe in Front London. Formerly a pub, due to various complaints from the local council and school board (perhaps an oddity itself for London, but puritanical social reforms tended to regurgitate in cycles, Dresden had noticed), the pub had converted its doors into tall panes of sheet glass instead of shuttering them entirely. The end result was a recreated upscale locale that catered to the wandering souls of artists and hipsters. Dresden supposed it made sense that Griffin had chosen it to be their meeting place.

Glancing over the various leaflets for alternative folk and jazz concerts tacked to the glass of the front door, Dresden pushed it open and stepped inside the shop. A bright bell announced his entrance, and his gaze swept quickly over the interior before landing on the young man seated near a window. As expected, Griffin had picked a table at a sunlight-flooded booth overgrown with potted plants: they hung from the ceiling and spilled over the shelves, framing his pale hair in a halo of greenery.
"An unconventional place," Dresden said as he took a seat across from him. "Very bohemian." He nodded at the music posters before realizing, with a jolt, that they were now considered "vintage." Once again, he found himself wondering how decades could slip past so imperceptibly.
A grin toyed at the corners of Griffin's mouth. "You've done your research," he pointed out. "‘Bohemian?'" He raised the white coffee cup, a twinkle of amusement in his eye.
Dresden grunted in response. He still read the daily paper, if anything just to keep up on modern terminology. Even now, he had resisted the urge to pick up the one lying on the table next to Griffin. The smell of coffee grounds had already triggered a very brief desire for the sharp taste of tobacco and nicotine in his mouth. Old habits had a way of lingering, like trails of smoke from the cigarette stub of a friend who was just leaving.

A slender waiter who wore a bowtie (an actual bowtie, he noticed) placed an americano in front of Dresden. At that moment, he realized that Griffin had most likely picked the cafe because he thought Dresden would like it.
"I took the liberty of ordering something for you, I hope you don't mind," Griffin explained.
"Not at all," Dresden blew the steam off the coffee and sampled it appreciatively. Then, he folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. "So, master Griffin, what was it you wanted to discuss?"
"Before that, what's your opinion?" Griffin nodded towards the barista with dark brown curls who stood behind the counter. "Single?"
Dresden raised an eyebrow. On second thought, maybe the choice of cafe hadn't been so selfless after all.
"I'd like to ask him out," Griffin admitted.
Now, it was Dresden's turn to smile. He raised his hand in a dramatic gesture. "As your loyal regent, you have my blessing." He chuckled. "Good luck."
"Please," Griffin brushed Dresden's antics aside by taking another sip of coffee as a form of a sigh. "Well then, on to less important matters."

Setting the cup down in its saucer, he pointed his chin at the newspaper.
"Have you seen the news?"
"Which side?"
"Reverse."
Dresden reached for the paper. With a spark of spiritual energy, a blue line of light trailed his thumb across the headline, and the words on the page blurred and shifted.
"Page 6," Griffin instructed.

Apparently, the story about a strange new species of dragon found near Rutherford street hadn't been attention-grabbing enough to make it onto the front-page, which instead featured some hear-say about the now defunct Cecile Die Twice getting back together in Reverse. Since when had the Times become a tabloid? Disgruntled, Dresden continued reading the report, which had barely been given any authorial thought. Shoved under a traffic report about a recent over-turning of a fertilizer truck on High Street, the basic facts were listed succinctly and without flare: The "Rutherford Dragon," according to witnesses, had emerged suddenly from a pool of shadows around 3pm on Sunday afternoon. There had been a hole where its heart should have been, and immediately after its appearance the Sabres had placed the area into lockdown, allowing no one—not even the reporters—to enter, or to ask any further questions. Without a doubt, the incident must be related to the recent appearance of the Märchen Cinderella in the City, read the only line of conjecture in the article. A post stamp-sized, blurry photograph revealed the "dragon's" skull-like face, and Dresden's eyes widened.
"Why is there a Hollow in Reverse London?"
"I was hoping that you had an explanation for that," Griffin said. "Have you heard anything from Wing Bind related to it?"
Dresden folded the newspaper, creasing the edges. "My only theory," he began, weighing his words carefully, "Is that this has something to do with the ‘cultural exchange initiative' they recently put together."
"Ah, that international study program designed by Slashhaut?" Griffin asked. "You'll have to enlighten me: I haven't been keeping up on Reverse affairs."
"Understandably," Dresden pointed out. Although, in reality, he knew that Griffin was perfectly capable of balancing his graduate studies and duties as Head of the Ravenskraft. Having Dresden handle things for him in Reverse was, in reality, a mere formality.
"At least I don't have to write my thesis by hand," Griffen ribbed.
"Neither did I; that was your grandfather," Dresden corrected. "Although he tried to convince me to edit it." He frowned as he drank his coffee. "Actually, it's good that I refused, since my English wasn't the best at the time."
"And it is now?"
Dresden shot him a sharp look over the rim of the cup.
"Anyway," Griffin continued, undeterred, "I've heard that they're bringing in experts from East Branch to deal with the Hollow problem. They're called Soul Eaters?"
"Shinigami. Or Soul Reapers, if you like."
"A bit pretentious."
Dresden shrugged without offering a comment on their name. "It seems like you've heard a lot already." He set the coffee cup on the table and returned his arms to their folded position. "I know you're trying to pry more information out of me, Griffin Ravenskraft, but you probably already know more than I do about this." Dresden leveled his steady gaze at Griffin. "What did Slashhaut tell you?"

For a moment, the Head of the Ravenskraft was caught off guard. His eyes gleamed like silver, and the sunlight in the window seemed to darken by one shade. Then, the moment was gone: released by his sigh.
"Was I that obvious?" he asked.
Dresden decided he wouldn't mince words. "To any leader of the Seven Houses, you would have been. Curiosity is your weakness. It's fine to be eager, but if they catch wind that you've got your nose where it doesn't belong..."
Had he been younger, Griffin would have shown his disappointment at once again having failed to fool Dresden by slouching back in his wheelchair. Instead, he calmly raised his coffee cup and finished the last of his cappuccino.
"Thanks for the advice, uncle Dres."
Dresden harrumphed with fondness at the old name.
"So now, what did you want to see me about?"

Griffin told him that Wolfgang Slashhaut had approached him a few days before the Rutherford Hollow's appearance. He explained it was because Slashhaut believed the sudden interest the Pendragon and Tristan families had taken in the cultural exchange program (practically jumping at the chance to enroll their students), had deeper political roots which hadn't yet broken the surface. Knowing Slashhaut, the information came as a shock to Dresden, but even more shocking was what Griffin told him next:
"He requested that you accompany the first group of students, as a sort of "liaison" or chaperone."
Dresden didn't miss a beat. "I don't train children," he stated crisply.
"You made an exception for me," Griffin reminded, more gently.
"Only because your grandfather asked," Dresden retorted, but he was unable to completely edge the regret from his voice. "Besides, Quincy and Soul Reapers don't mix."
Griffin nodded. "I thought you'd say that." He ran his fingers through his almost silvery white hair, pushing it to the other side of his undercut.
As Griffin had grown older, Dresden was increasingly struck by just how much he resembled Lenuel. The old Quincy felt a pull at his chest: the familiarity of missing an old friend. The stern lines of his face softened, somewhat.
"The truth is," Griffin admitted. "This is also my own request: There's a boy that Slashhaut's just recently drawn into the Gallows: Ladd Langdon."
"From the House Langdon?" Dresden asked, remembering how the family had tragically lost their oldest son and heir to a dragon a few months back. Griffin nodded.
"Lance... He was my friend. We were mates in secondary, before I moved frontside."
This was news to Dresden. Suddenly, he could guess at where Griffin was headed. He also knew that, despite all his protests to the contrary, he wouldn't be able to refuse what he was asking for.
"Ladd is his younger brother, by five years if I recall. He can't use magic, and so Slashhaut asked if I could find someone to catch him up to speed before he officially enters the Gallows. Because by then..." Griffin didn't finish the thought, and instead said: "I thought of you."
Damn it all, Dresden grumbled to himself. It was happening again. It always did. Then, offering him a sad smile instead of a smirk, Griffin turned the tables:
"After all, compassion was always your greatest weakness."
Dresden refrained from muttering a curse at him. Du kleines Rotzlöffel, he thought. But he reached over the table instead, placing his hand on Griffin's shoulder.
"Just this once, because you asked. I'll go."
Griffin reached up and grabbed his hand, his pale-gray eyes completely sincere.
"Thank you."

Facing the Gallows, III

As the missive came in, Arthur was just waking up. Realizing he and Aurora had been called to Wolfgang's office with the Gallows both scared and intimidated him. He was never fond of the Gallows or their magical counter-measures. As he snapped his fingers, his enchanted wardrobe walked towards him. As he cycled through his potential outfits, he heard a scream as Aurora who was down the hall tripped over their pet cat and almost fell down the stairs.

"TSUKINA!" She called out as the feline ignored her and went about it's way. Aurora was already dressed and wearing her favorite blue dress and leggings. Her hair was tied back into a ponytail and she burst into her brother's room.

"Arte, come on, we're going to be late, didn't you get the message?" She asked as she plopped on the end of his bed. "Is this about the initiative thing?" She pondered as she fixed her bangs.

"I don't know, the Gallows weren't on the manifest I received from Squire, but we may be meeting the other candidates," Arthur said to her.

"I hope they're nice," Aurora said as she went to leave the room. "Breakfast?" She asked as Arthur smiled at her and nodded.

Putting on a blazer over his casual attire, Arthur wore a button down shirt and slacks. He was as stylish as a wet noodle as stated by his sister but he didn't care. The entire outfit was enchanted and functional. He left his room and walked to the dinning room where their attendant waited with breakfast.

"So I heard the argument between you and Auntie last night, it got pretty heated," Aurora said between bites of her toast.

"She simply doesn't want me out of her sight since she had discovered that we were both still alive and that mom gave me the Ancestral Contract. We all know she wanted it for Riley or Chelsea, it's a power struggle situation but I don't care, you read the news about that dragon with the white mask, it sounded like those Hollows dad would speak about from his youth in Japan," Arthur said calmly. "Besides Uther wants me to go, the more I learn the stronger he becomes for the next vessel," Arthur said smugly as he finished his tea.

The Pendragons were notorious for their internal civil wars, dating back to when their ancestor rejected his son Mordred, the family line has been cursed to squabble over the right to rule.

As the two finished eating, Arthur took out a small coin with strange runes on it. It was very old and had belonged to their grandfather Gregorovitch, flipping it off his thumb, he opened a Coin Gate to the Gallows HQ, before extending his hand to his now shy sister. "It's going to be ok, I'm sure you'll be friends with the other candidates," he said as they stepped into the light tunnel and appeared outside the massive building.

Once they were out of the Coin Gate, Aurora froze. She didn't like the oppressive atmosphere pouring off the HQ like a weighted blanket. She clung to her brothers left arm as they entered the building.

Walking to the front desk Arthur spoke, "Piper, 1st Order Conservation Ranger, Arthur Pendragon VII and Anthem, 4th Order Herald, Aurora Pendragon, here to meet with Director Wolfgang."

The front desk attendant smiled and handed him two visitors badges. "He is expecting you, right this way," she said as Arthur bowed and led his sister to the lift. Arriving at the floor, they both stepped out and instantly Arthur felt something was off, as he neared the door he sensed the magical power of the director but he felt something else from the other resident in the room.

Knocking respectfully, he awaited the response to enter. Upon hearing the deep voice beckon them, the two entered the office. "Director Wolfgang, You called for us?" Arthur said as he bowed politely. Standing next to Ladd he noticed the arm but refused to give it too much attention as it was the source of his unease. Aurora was still clinging to her brothers arm as the meeting started.

Facing the Gallows IV

“To hell with whoever <hic> decided the Director needs to have his office <hic> on the top floor,”

Gareth, due to the unforeseen appearance and rapid disappearance of a small Dragon, found the elevators sadly out of commission “for at least another hour”. So there he was, head swimming and stomach roiling, forced to climb the stairs. “Fashionably late” was swiftly transitioning into plain “late”.

By the time he arrived outside the door, he heard a quiet discussion on the other side. Realizing they had started without him, he rapped the door once and stepped inside.

The window of Wolfgang’s office was open, and that horrendous smell from before was wafting in on the breeze. The aroma mixed with the cologne and perfume of the people already present, resulting in quite the unique nasal assault. Once more Gareth’s stomach performed a series of somersaults, but he managed to endure.

“Gareth <hic> Tristan,” he stammered. “Sabre trainee, reporting <hic> as ordered,”

Now that he was here, sickened, and sweating from the effort of keeping his breakfast down, Gareth shuffled over to stand beside a young man roughly his age, who wore some kind of cool-looking armour on his arm. Standing further up the column was a young woman, who peeked in his direction. She was likely clairvoyant, because whilst the young man beside him barely batted an eyelid, she looked like she was a hairsbreadth away from fleeing. She kept stealing sideways glances in Gareth’s direction, who, unfortunately, was now clutching his stomach in agony.

He had stopped short of dropping into the fetal position.

Gareth had barely said a word since his arrival, only quietly announcing his name and trainee status within the Sabres Division, and was largely ignorant of the conversation that followed.

He finally reached the end of his reservoir of willpower.

The gates opened at the same time his mouth did, and the woman standing near Wolfgang, who looked like a nurse, had her feet, ankles, shins, and knees covered in the barely digested breakfast Gareth had hastily consumed before Kenji the Grim Reaper ran him through the air slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes! The smell that permeated the room afterwards was, quite frankly, far worse than the scent wafting in the open window.

“Aww, that’s sooooo much better!” He exclaimed.

Seeing the young man lose his meal unsettled Aurora more than she could handle and in a burst of magical energy she used Hirenkyaku to elevate herself to the ceiling to avoid the foul smelling bile. Holding her hand to her mouth and nose to avoid smelling the barf she almost lost her own breakfast.

Arthur chuckled as he also levitated off the floor just enough to avoid the vomit but had a different reaction to his sisters. Both using Hirenkyaku, they awaited what would happen during the rest of the meeting, but being the kind hearted individual, he handed a hanky to Gareth.

"Whew, thanks," Gareth, accepting the hanky, said.

There was a brief flash of magic, centred on Gareth's mouth. When next he spoke, his breath betrayed none of the telltale aroma of one who had just been sick. Rather, there was a hint of minty freshness. The gall was impressive, if for no other reason that Gareth now appeared completely at his ease. Other than the sweat at his brow, which seemed to be more to do with the height of the building than anything else, he didn't appear to have a care nor a worry in the world now that his stomach wasn't tumbling this way and that.

He looked fully expectant of the meeting to continue as if nothing had happened.

Next to him, the young man in the red hoodie, who had been struggling to fit the armored, mechanical-looking hand into a sling, gave Gareth a forlorn look. He sympathized with Gareth—to the point where he started to gag as well. He clapped his non-slinged hand over his mouth and nose to smother the impulse.

The director of the Gallows reacted with the composure of a hardened veteran facing the gore of a battlefield. Calmly, he reached under his desk and switched on the intercom.
"Gertrude, would you mind sending up a Hoover Vume?" he asked, referring to the floor-cleaning dragon species. "There's been a… spill."
The woman next to Wolfgang took the barf in stride. As a member of the Patchworks, she had seen more than her fair share of innards. Brushing off the worst of it from her lab coat with her gloved hands, she shot Wolfgang a meaningful look.
"I'd best hear something about a raise for all this."
"My apologies, Susan," Wolfgang muttered out of protocol. A vein bulged between the wrinkles carved into his temples, and his veneer of restraint nearly cracked. He stood from his desk abruptly.
"Gareth Tristan, you've marred the already deplorable impression made by your tardiness," Wolfgang told him sternly. "The cost of cleaning my rug is going to come out of your first stipend."
The boy in the red hoodie seemed to perk up at that. They could practically read his unspoken question ("Stipend?") by his expression: as if it were the first good news he had heard all day.
"Now, as I was saying." Wolfgang cleared his throat, his aquiline nose wrinkling with a snarl. "Sullivan Squire should have been the one briefing you all, but she was occupied elsewhere. Her counterpart in the East Branch—by which I mean your liaison—is one "Shoe-hay Hisagi," the leader of the Ninth Division. He'll contact you once you reach the other side."

Wolfgang's gaze swept over them. He glanced up at Aurora on the ceiling, and his wiry eyebrows pushed up into a visible sigh of resignation.
"While there, I expect you all to represent Wing Bind by demonstrating the upmost decorum: both personally and as an entity. Aside from Arthur, you'll be supervised by another chaperone who's already arrived in the East Branch to finalize your arrangements—a representative from the Ravenskraft." He said it pointedly, directing the last part of his statement towards the heir of the Pendragon.

Gareth, having dispensed his breakfast in the most immediate manner, was altogether more alert than he had been. So when Wolfgang spoke, he identified the implications all too well.
"The old bastard," and he said this loud enough for everyone to hear. "Not you." He added the last for Wolfgang personally.
There was something eating at him, but he wasn't being forthcoming. At present, all he did was look angry and clench his fists.

For his part, Wolfgang ignored him entirely.
"Finally, although you'll be attending the East's academy, I expect that you won't neglect your own training. Especially you, Ladd."
The lad, Ladd, looked between the Pendragon siblings and Gareth as if to ask, "what training?" He wasn't offered an answer.
"I trust there are no further questions," Wolfgang stated without room for discussion. Then, with a crisp pronouncement, he concluded their meeting: "You are dismissed."

End.