[h3] Sonja Wickler[/h3][hr]

It wasn't the sort of place Sonja would typically put herself. Though that could be said of most places she found herself lately. Her path followed that of information, or justice, on days she was trying to convince herself of virtue. The cabaret bar filled with smoke, music, and the light sounds of dancer's shoes on the stage was not an environment made for the likes of Sonja to enjoy. Perhaps when she was younger the dancers wouldn't have sounded so needlessly risque, the whispered conversations less vacuous, the drinks worth buying. But she had become an old woman, an unpleasant reminder of time’s effect in places of the young living fast in a perpetual present. She kept herself small, waiting at the far side of the bar, ridged and ignored well past the show's end. From there she remained watching as a handful of guests made their way to a side door, easy to miss but for the muscle guarding it. Only when the disorganized queue had all but disappeared did Sonja stand, invitation in hand, and followed suit.

She still wasn't the last to enter. A youthful eastern woman stumbled in just as Sonja had divested herself of gloves and overcoat, and folded them over the back of her chosen seat. The majority of the diverse group were quite young. A handful looked barely more than children; the easterner, a wisp of a soldier, two small girls, and a foreign urchin. Sonja's frown deepened; attempting to puzzle out some unseen commonality amongst the invitees before the Englishman began speaking.

More of their group made their introductions after the welcoming. Some to the room, others to neighbours. Sonja simply watched, attempting to commit faces to memory. At least three performers among them. A good number of soldier's too, she suspected. The urchin spoke in an accent impossible to place, and the holy man remained as reserved as Sonja. Her right hand itched to find her journal and mark observations down, but she was reluctant to bring any attention to herself. Instead she accepted an offered drink of port, only to spin the glass between her fingers. It didn't take long for their group to divide, a handful choosing to take the initiative to investigate the graveyard that very night. Sonja only waved a hand in goodbye at their parting. The only mysteries she cared for remained in the small smoking room.

It eventually quieted again for Temple's story. Further fanciful nonsense, but Sonja listened attentively all the same, eyes distant as she searched for some hidden metaphor that might infer the “Night Watch's” alignment or ambitions. Ungodliness, ghosts, demons, and priests. Metaphors or no, there was a commonality there at least. Though it seemed unlikely for Catholic propagandists to select an Englishman as their spokesperson.

Eventually, when it became clear no further light would be shed on the invitations' backers, Sonja stopped spinning her untouched drink and stood. "I thank you for a most interesting evening Mr. Temple," She began with the up-most politeness as she tugged her gloves and coat back on. "and greatly look forward to what the light of day sheds on your peculiar investigation."

Her smile was tight, but genuine enough from curiosity if nothing else. She gave a final nod to the others that remained "Adieu, until the morning." A knock on the door, and it was opened by the bouncer on the other side, allowing Sonja to pass towards the exit and Munich streets.