Sorry for the delay...I needed some time to think up a character for Kartik, beyond what we see in the books. I now have a general idea of a plausible personality. Happy days! Enjoy!

Victoria Station is a crowded ordeal. I find myself in doubt that I can locate Miss Doyle and this mindset only further distracts me from my purpose. Buck up, Kartik! How hard can it be to find a girl? Quite hard, if you consider the sheer volume of the crowds and the unfortunate fact that the girl does not happen to be anything out of the ordinary. If she was six feet tall, perhaps, or morbidly obese, then I'm sure I could point her out in a heartbeat. However, she is not. She is a needle in a haystack.

I pause for a moment next to an information kiosk, where a man is complaining about lost luggage. I wish I could complain as well. Excuse me sir, but I seem to have lost my priestess. Can you help me find her? Ah yes, that's her. Dreadfully sorry, I should have warned you that she kicks.

Ridiculous.

The man with the lost luggage is angry. It seems no one at the kiosk is able to help him. He thrusts his umbrella under his arm angrily and speeds off without a word. I watch disinterestedly as he bumps into a girl quite hard. She whips her head around to get a look at her disturber. I know that sullen face. I could leap for joy.

I dart behind the kiosk to avoid being seen as she scans the platform, but I fear she has caught sight of me. She steps a bit closer, searching, until her brother calls her away.

"May I help you, sir?" The man at the kiosk addresses me boorishly. I know that he sees only my skin color, and that is reason enough to treat me as if I am inferior. If only he knew of my true caste, part of the ancient brotherhood that infiltrates all of the powerful positions all over the world. Instead of righting the situation, and putting him in his place, I shrug, feigning no knowledge of the English language.

Miss Doyle and her brother have just secured a hansom. Much as I enjoy being belittled by my English superiors (hah!), I must be on my way.

I follow the carriage through the exhaustive passage that is London, East London, and beyond. I am thankful for daylight, and for my cricket bat, which I still keep with me.

Just in case.

There is in fact an instance in Whitechapel when I fear I might need to use it. The carriage stops as a disgustingly intoxicated man and his whore insist on being taken to Buckingham Palace. What began as a drunken joke quickly turns into a heated argument between the carousers and the cab driver.

I am reaching new levels of unease that have nothing to do with the way the inebriate gestures to what is presumably Miss Doyle. I can sense something happening, something paranormal and frightful. My most recent levels of training within the Rakshana have harbored somewhat of a sixth sense within me, an increased sensitivity to things beyond the realm of reality.

Of course, it is not necessarily a gift, but an execution of discipline. I have taught my senses to be this way, and so they shall be. It just so happens that I was among the few lucky enough to hone this beneficial ability, and thus I was paired with such a priestess. I shall know when something strange is afoot, and something strange is definitely occurring now.

Not that I know how to react, unfortunately. I can't very well knock on the door of the carriage and ask her to stop all witchery, now can I? I must speak to her alone, but until I find that chance, I must follow her, watch her every move.

I do hope she isn't dull.

"Get out of the bloody way – now!"

Suddenly the horse lets out a scream of a whinny and breaks into a nervous canter. I run after the speeding carriage with but one thought – that this girl shall not be dull, but perhaps quite interesting, for any "proper" English girl that has the daring to not only kick and scream like a banshee, but also swear and whip a horse into a fearsome gallop is definitely deserving of my respect.

The carriage and I part ways just as Spence Academy for Young Ladies comes into view. I duck off into the forest to watch as an elderly Gypsy woman stops the carriage. She speaks to Miss Doyle, but I cannot hear what words are exchanged. Instead, I study Miss Doyle's face, the moonlight giving her the appearance of an apparition, so white is her skin.

It is the first chance I get to openly stare, confident she cannot see me as I do. Her features are typical of many English girls, fine and fair, nothing spectacularly remarkable or distinguishing. But her eyes…

She withdraws back as the horse picks up a jaunty trot once more. I do not follow, but instead approach the Gypsy woman, certain I will find the camp I am to stay with. I am not within ten feet of her when she speaks.

"The Eastern Star shines brightly upon you, my son."

At first I fear I don't hear her correctly. A direct reference to the Rakshana was not something I had expected. "Good evening," I say politely. "My name is Kartik."

"I know who you are." She reaches out a withered hand and touches the middle of my forehead. "The Eastern Star…so bright, so bright. But all stars must die. It shall fade within you."

I feel my eyes widen. This woman, whomever she is, must be mad. Aside from referring to the Eastern Star, I've not a clue what she is talking about. I begin to feel wary about staying with a bunch of Gypsies, especially if they all prove to be as odd and cryptic as this woman. But I do not have any other choices, so I must.

"I was wondering if I may stay with your caravan for awhile, madam."

She eyes me suspiciously, the glazed look gone from her face. "But what do you offer?"

"Offer?" I falter. For a wild moment I picture offerings of blood or animal sacrifices. Tales of Circe and her wicked ways have resounded in my core, giving me fleeting images of dark magic at the most inopportune moments. No doubt I shall have trouble sleeping in the presence of such oddities, especially as I am not far from the girl who has the potential to unleash evil spirits into the world.

The Gypsy woman reaches within her colorful skirts and withdraws a small leather pouch that jingles from the coins inside. I nearly laugh with relief and at my ridiculous fears. She means offerings of money – payment for a place within her caravan.

I withdraw a few coins from my limited reserve of wealth and hand them to her. She fingers them intently, and then pockets them. Satisfied, she smiles, revealing a broken row of brown teeth.

"Come, child. You are welcome here."

There is already a large campfire lit within the clearing of the caravan. Several Gypsies sit around it, drinking and telling stories to one another. I can only catch a few sentences here and there amidst the drunken slurs and my limited knowledge of Romanian. A few look up in interest as I pass; one even inquires to the old woman about me.

They exchange words rapidly so that I understand nothing. The woman pats my arm and gestures to the young man that has sidled up to me. She walks off without a word of farewell, and I am left with this fellow. He appears to be about my age, perhaps a year older, but we do not resemble each other in the slightest, aside from perhaps our dark coloring. While I am tall and somewhat gangly (though I am well filled-out in terms of physique), he is also tall, but built more solidly.

"You wish to disguise yourself among us?" he asks, amused. "Mother Elena told me to help you. I am Ithal." His accent is thick, but I am grateful he speaks English at all.

"I'm Kartik," I say, holding out my hand in greeting.

Ithal glances at it and frowns. I withdraw it quickly, trying desperately to remember Gypsy etiquette. I haven't covered their kind since I was thirteen, and my memory fails me.

His thick eyebrows furrow as he sizes me up. "You'll need new clothes. No use hiding among us if you look like a gadje."

"Gadje?" I ask. I desperately wish for my old text books. I can recall scanning translations quickly, remembering just enough to pass the exam, but not enough to commit to memory. When the curriculum calls for learning languages such as French, Latin, German, and Italian, one tends to skim over less common languages such as Romanian.

"Yes, gadje. One who is not of our kind. An outsider."

"I see," I say lamely.

"We must work on your language as well," Ithal says, laughing.

"I know a bit," I say defensively. I don't like how he blatantly shows his superiority in the matter.

"Not enough!"

I bite my tongue; my pride may be injured but I need his help.

In just an hour's time, I emerge from a brightly lit Vardo, transformed from an unremarkable Indian in English clothing to a Gypsy, complete with vest and kerchief. I retain my black traveler's cloak, refusing to give it up despite the disguise flaws. It is a symbol of my brotherhood and my brother, not to mention it is damn useful in harsh weather conditions.

Ithal leaves me once I am dressed in disguise. It is late, and I am not captivating enough to keep him from the lure of fire and drink. I do not mind the privacy in the slightest, and welcome his dismissal with more enthusiasm than I've shown all evening. It gives me ample time to construct myself a bender tent, and also to think.

Before he left, Ithal showed me to a reserve of hazel branches and canvas, from which I could construct a shelter. Part of me wonders at the hospitality of the Gypsies, until I count the funds I have left and realize that the coins I bequeathed to Mother Elena were pounds and not pence. A small loss, considering my gain.

I build my tent skillfully and quickly, having practiced many times in my training for living in the wilderness. The result is a roomy, comfortable living space. With privacy. Ignoring the drunken delight of the Gypsy men, I duck into my tent to be alone.

There. I am alone.

All alone.

I've hit another part in my journey where I am at a loss. I have nothing left to do. I'm bored. Perhaps solitude isn't what I truly want. Summoning as much confidence as I can, I step outside and join Ithal at the campfire.

Notes! Gadje really does mean anyone who is not a gypsy. I looked it up. Also, a Vardo is pretty much a carriage. And a bender tent is really what the gypsies constructed. Hah! Research!

Hmm, I wonder what will happen at the campfire. And did I detect a note of male hormones when Kartik was thinking about Gemma? Don't get me wrong, he is NOT smitten...yet.

Explains herself too much,
LunaEquus

I love story the most out of all my fics, so you should review it the most of all my fics. CONCRIT, PLEASE! Constructive criticism makes me way better. I swear it. So please review! And to emphasize that I am doing this for the fandom and not necessarily for myself, I won't update until I have 15 reviews. This protects me from taking time out of studying to do something for nothing. Or something like that. Oi.