One night ago, Cykes had been a city of progress and rationality, one of scholarly thought and cool-headed debates. But now, the academic capital of Dansila was anything put rational. For it was the city in which all were welcome, casualties caused by that night time raid did not simply end at those of Dansilan citizenship, but civilians of Astopol and Illiserev as well. Aspiring priests and nuns who pursued theological and philosophical studies now dampened the roads with their blood. The sons of nobles and merchants flowed as freely as their money, sprawled out on the floor. It was only the Talze Uterans who were spared from the massacre, but through a logical, objective standpoint, that would most definitely be simply due to how few of them there were in the first place.

Yet the injured mob would not be satisfied with merely a rational decision. While the families of those who suffered cried in overcrowded hospitals or amongst orderly rows of corpses, hidden by stained, white blankets, those who were untouched, who had no crushing grief to overwhelm their anger, took to the streets. They wanted a scapegoat, and the few Talze Uterans who were in the city made the perfect target. After all, by morning, it was clear that the monsters of the night were summoned, not rift-beasts. And the only beings who exclusively used summons were the witches, those belonging of Talze Utera. That rage at their own powerlessness was what caused those who could move to protest, to march and yell and vandalize until the ruined buildings shook with the stomps of their feet.

[i][b]“DEATH TO THE MONSTER! WAR TO TALZE UTERA!”[/b][/i]

That tribal, primal cry for vengeance was loud, so loud that it even made its way into the confined meeting room of the Sidosa Board...or, at least, it's remaining members. Three were hospitalized. Two were dead. The minority remained, and they too have suffered during the unexpected attack. They too were not thinking with a clear mind.

And in that tense, nervous silence, one man, an elf elder, coughed and said, [b]“Gentlemen, it's clear that Talze Utera is responsible for this attack. So...”[/b]

He clenched his gnarly fist. It was a mistake, setting up a meeting this early, when emotions were still running rampant. It was a mistake, but he couldn't stop himself now. Blood must be paid with blood. That was the simplest, truest, and most difficult law in the world.

[b]“...let's hunt down every one of those fucking bastards.”[/b]
---
The brunette, Fion Meyer, nodded slightly at that affirmation of known knowledge. Except...why did she know that? Moments ago, she only knew him as a person who appeared once in awhile, but now that name brought forth deja vu. Was it familiar because it was her own name? No, that wasn't it. The name seemed to fit that person as well, in an incomprehensible manner, as if calling him by any other name would just be odd.

[b]“Fion...”[/b]

So that was his name, and so was her's.

Fion of the Seyour family, a child who lost his arm and regained a new one, before being known as a man capable of using magic. With that ability, he was quickly recognized as a prodigy, but his personality made him more than simply unlikable to people. Other than his mother, his whole family holds varying degrees of hatred towards him, but at the same time, they can't beat him, simply because he is THAT powerful of a Sword Arts user.

Yet, how did she know all this? How did she know what Sword Arts were? How did she look into his past so easily? And more importantly...how did she only start knowing this now, after making contact with him? Who was he?

And...who was she?

The woman was aware that she was born, but she knew not the full details of her life, even though she could recall his memories as vividly as if they were her own. Could the same apply to him then? Could he recall her own memories?

[b]“Do you know what my life was like, Fion who isn't myself? Because I don't know myself, yet I know you.”[/b]
---
Truly, the goddess of fortune must be smiling upon him if it was this easy to find Rilolia. He would have expected that a former vampire noble would have wished for a better transportation vehicle than this rusty backwater airship, but it seemed that she was in too much of a rush to care. She even hired a drunkard of a manservant. Thoroughly amusing, the differences between a high-class vampire elder and a runaway former noble.

Hiding his thoughts under an obedient mask, one that he had to wear so much more often these days, the gray-haired man bowed once more, this time a bow that brought him to form a perfect right angle. His long hair swinging downwards, brushing against his earrings, the servant said, [b]“My deepest apologies for not noticing your noble vampire blood amongst these mundanes, Lady Lorchais. Though I have been formally task by Master Lorchais to help you in your goal of rescuing the swordsman Vance Warren, it is truly on the authority of the Scarlet Court that I act. It would appear that the Elders are quite interested in this individual, mi'lady.”

“Ah, and you may address me as Lenz Blanc, or anything else you feel fit to call me.”[/b]