The flowery scent of a candle wafted around a 21 year old woman, sticking to her fitted leather cloak with a row of buckles down the middle to which specks of white horse hair would cling to it.
“Victor”, Ingrid mumbled, her voice rich with disappointment while setting down the candle next to his pot a tea. Sky blue eyes flicked downwards, spotting the book of mummies he read between white-blonde bangs. The ends of Ingrid’s coat would be crusted with drying mud, one of the evidences of her swift travel back to the headquarters. “The others of the patrol have found trouble, as evidence by a rather loud scream of a young woman. I was planning to ride quickly there but after a year of chasing things, a scream always meant too late, try again if you may… I believe they wish they ran into a mummy.” She pauses, the end of her sentence dancing with humor, words proceeding after that would have no humor, but desperation. “Instead of the ripper. That is what else is out there, I wonder if this library has any well written records of him, as far as we know all of his victims are torn to pieces. You should consider coming on patrol with us, your knowledge will be helpful on the go.” Ingrid scowled, her lips in a small frown that swarmed with a French accent, she waltzed over to occupy an empty couch, staring at a painted portrait of the order’s leader.” Que Dieu Soit avec eux ( French: May god be with them), .”