The clouds of seaside morning quickly evaporated under the pressure of eager late-spring sun. The direct light seared into the back of Ren's neck as he climbed his way back along the broken seawall; the wide brim of his hat proving chancy in the billowing gusts of coastal wind. Progress was slow, but the choppy swell still seemed empty of ships and coastal patrol boats, so as far as Ren could tell, his passage back was as unobserved as his approach.

But he was hungry. He was tired. His body was heavy. His movements felt stiff. And the slick stones, wet with salt spray, provided only a chancy grip. Prudent caution against falling and drowning were as necessary now as earlier this morning, doubly so due to fatigue and adversity. The sun was high above by the time Ren reached the secluded outcropping wherein he'd stashed his horse. He mounted quickly and set off at a steady trot that, Ren hoped, bore the appearance of mundane urgency.

The climb back had taken maybe… two hours? Maybe just less? Were men in offices receiving reports about surprising events in a certain mansion near the coast? Were they considering the mystery of a black-clad man who could evade guards, break limbs, and burst through the sides of buildings- to then escape into broad daylight? Have they, perhaps, read any of the many newspapers which gossiped about a certain dhampir? The only one legally allowed to be in the city?

Or was Ren being paranoid? Was there the possibility the leathermen would not report this morning's events? Might their field leader be someone who would want to save face by not reporting the escape of an intruder? That seemed possible. And in such a situation, Ren would likely remain anonymous- with only the one leatherman unit itself aware of this morning's events and potentially none of them with the breadth of knowledge to think of Ren the dhampir.

The way back into the populous areas of the city passed through a region of warehouses and other large structures which supported the port and the trade which occurred therein. It was a bustling place, especially in the morning, so Ren avoided the main road and weaved slowly through the haphazard street along the sheer coastline- ramshackle huts and houses squeezed amongst each other, sandwiched between muddy path and a rocky shoreline- small canoes and fishing paraphernalia were stashed under most of the homes, or within the narrow alleyways. A poor fishing community; the men already having fished the early dawn and now likely resting through mid-day. A few women and children were active in the street or on small stoops, but when Ren passed, the women averted their eyes in abrupt discomfort and pulled their children to their side.

Ren doubted they recognized his half-blood nature. His wide-brimmed hat providing a sort of privacy shield to most of his face. But there was danger in the world that was not related to vampires. Ren realized he must appear a rather threatening individual; black clothing, black horse, a plainly visible sword and gun, and perhaps the vague sense of wealth which might allow him to act with impunity against such permanent squatters as lived in this place. Mothers looked at him and sensed danger.

The idea that Ren would face no repercussions seemed suddenly ridiculous. One could not hide broken bones. One could not prevent the gossip of an entire unit of men, no matter how loyal. Someone would get drunk. Someone would have a friend they could "trust with a secret." Any commander would realize that concealment was hopeless. So how else could one save face? Exaggerate. The enemy had been ten feet tall, bit swords in half with his teeth, and moved too fast to shoot! How could the leathermen be blamed for being defeated by an enemy so monstrous?!

That seemed likely. Too likely. The story of the leathermen's defeat would became a tall-tale of inhuman ability and magical menace, so twisted with the desire to hide shame that the report might bare no real resemblance to what actually happened this morning. That would mean-

Ren tugged his horse to a sudden stop. That would probably cause the authorities to think of him even faster: a human could not do such things, but could not a dhampir? Could not Niijima's Dog do these things? Should we not have a suspect arrested if/when the press might catch wind of a story? That was certainly possible, and it made Ren feel very conspicuous. When he felt like this in the past, he took his horse and rode out of the human settlement and didn't come back. It was probably time to do the same now. Leave Tock-Yo before it was too late.

Conflict with the local human authorities was undesirable. There were enough of them to be a legitimate physical threat, but the irreversible social damage would be a disaster. If he came to fatal blows with policemen, he would never be able to return to Tock-Yo. He would never see Niijima Makoto again- a realization which Ren instantly decided was unacceptable, though he didn't let himself really look at that decision in the face. He didn't know why and he didn't ask. It just was unthinkable that he would not be able to see her.

But he knew! He knew! He should just leave the city! Right now! He should hide out somewhere and climb the wall tonight. Come back in a year, maybe. That would be wisest.

But leave without making sure Makoto was well? Leave Morgana behind without a word? No. He couldn't do that. Damn. He had to get back into Niijima Manor, one way or another.

And there was still the possibility he was being paranoid and he was under no additional suspicion now than he was before! Should he at least try to confirm that before running himself out of the city?

The illogical side of Ren's mind decided that idea had logical merit; His heart, muted and subtle, quietly voiced its support. Together, they tuned out the alarms ringing through Ren's intellect; effectively silencing years of experience and training.

He couldn't leave so suddenly. He simply could not.

Ren's eyes settled upon the side of a nearby fisherman's hut- quaint, quiet, and worn. But along its edge, a ragged straw hat hung above a tattered mino cloak. It was rainware made from the dried stalks of rice plants. Such things were common amongst fishermen and farmers alike- not so common in Tock-Yo as the cotton and wool clothing of merchants and laborers, but the city walls were wide and the encompassed land was huge. There were sections of the city wherein one might see a great many people in straw hats and cloaks, and those folk sometimes had need to venture to other parts of the city.

It was certainly less conspicuous than black leather and silver sword.

Niijima Makoto floated through billowing curtains of red, the faint sensation of velvet just grazing the skin of her cheeks. She could almost feel it with tantalizing intensity. The ethereal nature of the sensation made it seem somehow corporeal, as if the anticipation it created evoked it into creation.

"You're repairing nicely," said a high-pitched voice.

Makoto opened her eyes. Red velvet curtains again. But these hung calmly from the frame of a four-post bed. She recognized this place, and she recognized this voice. She'd been here before.

"Igor?" said Makoto, and heard a wheezing sort of laugh in response.

"Yes. It is I. So, you remember, I see? Good! That is good. Unexpected. But good."

Makoto turned her head towards the source of the voice, but the red curtains of her bed were an opaque wall to anything outside the border of her mattress. She checked to confirm that yes, she was indeed wearing a suitably modest sleeping gown- then pushed open the bed curtain.

An odd, old man with a beaky nose sat upon a divan in the center of a room. The place seemed more office than bedroom, really- the bed Makoto was in was the item most out of place. Behind the thin man: an empty desk and some bookshelves. Before him: a coffee table of blackish wood.

"Coffee?" said Igor, waving a hand over the currently empty table. "Tea?"

"Umm," said Makoto, feeling faint misgivings over the situation. But then again, this was a dream, wasn't it? And she had a feeling that this man had helped her in some way. And he certainly didn't seem dangerous. Regardless, could she just shut the curtain and ignore him? How awkward!

Makoto climbed out of the bed with as much dignity as she could manage. There were slippers on the floor. Made of red velvet.

"Tea," said Makoto. "Please."

Igor's grin widened slightly in pleasure. "Green, I presume? Or could I tempt you with something somewhat… exotic?"

Exotic? Tea? Makoto frowned in consideration as she approached Igor, genteelly setting herself in the divan opposite the beaky man- a low chair of baroque wood and red cushion. Tea was just tea, and this was just a dream. So, why not?

"All right. I'll try it."

Igor wheezed a short guffaw and snapped his fingers. "Lavenza!"

A door opened at the far end of the room. A wheeled service tray of brilliant silver entered the room, a diminutive woman in a ruffled red dress pushing, her blond head barely taller than the cart itself. She entered, briefly abandoned the cart to close the door and then bow towards Igor and Makoto. The cart then made a smooth passage to the center of the room, and Lavenza, a golden-eyed maid, meekly poured tea into two cups.

Lavenza then gazed into Makoto's eyes, her eyes startlingly gold. "Milk? Sugar?"

Makoto was taken aback. "What?"

Lavenza's polite visage wavered slightly in confusion. "Do you want either? In your tea?"

Makoto was more taken aback. "What?"

Igor wheezed a low bit of laughter, and Makoto's face went warm as she realized she was somehow embarrassing herself. Milk? Sugar? In tea?! This was certainly an odd dream!

"Um," said Makoto, pushing back some hair behind her own ear, "I'll have it like my host."

Lavenza seemed satisfied with that direction and refocused on her preparations. Meanwhile, Igor stared at Makoto with a mix of interest and amusement, though his slightly too-large eyes made it difficult to return the gaze. Makoto deferred to the demure, downward focus that was expected of formal high-society women. Sometimes that particular social norm had its advantages.

Lavenza served Igor first, implying that he was of a high enough social rank which trumped the common precedence of guest before host- or perhaps that Makoto was not, in fact, a guest. Makoto received her own cup with polite gratitude. A pristine porcelain cup sat upon a saucer which was textured like a pinwheel. The cup contained a light brown substance that looked more akin to coffee than tea. It smelled rich, and strangely like a confectionery.

"In the human tongue, it is called chai," said Igor. "It uses the same herb as a base as you are used to, but dried. And then there are various additions. It is quite good with milk, I've found."

If this was a dream, it was marvelously inventive. Makoto sipped at the brown liquid and found it thinner than she expected, indeed more like tea than coffee- but a melody of sweetly spices rolled upon her pallet and within her nose. It was indeed exotic seeming, and entirely different from the mellow green teas to which she was accustomed- but actually… quite delightful.

"It's very good," said Makoto. "Thank you."

Igor let out a soft giggle as he sipped his own cup. Makoto interpreted that as some sort of positive response. She took another sip, exploring the smell of the spices. She really had never had tea like this before, nor had she smelled these scents before. It didn't make any sense.

"How can I taste this?," said Makoto, "when I have never tasted this before? Shouldn't I only dream of normal tea?"

"Are human dreams such logical places? Does the sleeping mind only venture in the familiar?"

Makoto could vaguely remember some outlandish dreams- including some involving Ren and her doing… actions she certainly had never attempted in reality.

"I suppose not," said Makoto.

"And are you sure you are dreaming now?" said Igor.

"Surely, I am," said Makoto, looking directly at an outlandish man in an outlandishly red velvet room. "I'm asleep in my home. I'm sure if it."

"Indeed," said Igor, his smile widening. "But you are also in here, in my Velvet Room. Or perhaps more accurately, my Velvet Room is in you!"

"How could that be?"

"Let's assume that it doesn't matter. And let's assume you can taste that tea because I have tasted that tea- long ago and in a very different place."

"But how-"

"Let's assume- also: that I know a great deal about you, Ms. Niijima Makoto of Tock-Yo, younger daughter of Saito Niijima, the famed vampire hunter."

Igor set down his cup and leaned forward, hands clasped, his nose pointing at Makoto like a long knife. "Let's assume I know you take no pleasure in violence. That despite how monstrous you find your foes, if you didn't feel the obligation to kill them, you would not."

Makoto hadn't thought about it like that before, but she didn't feel an immediate impulse to contradict that claim. She simply looked at Igor, curious at what this dream was trying to tell her. Igor's toothy grin widened slightly.

"Let's assume- that I know what you really want, Niijima Makoto. What you really desire: To know why the world is like it is. Why you humans are so weak and the monsters so strong. Why you must cower together behind walls. Why you seem to be trapped in a distorted world, playing an unfair game in the ruin of something greater."

Makoto stared down the length of Igor's nose and into his slightly bulging eyes. Every hair of her body suddenly standing on end. For some reason, nothing about this dream was nearly so strange as that statement. She'd never put that desire to words, never knew it well enough herself to even whisper it to herself within her own mind. But she did want that. She wanted that a great deal. But who was this strange man to tell her so?

"What are you?" said Makoto, fear shaking her voice slightly. "What is this?"

Igor wheezed his high laugh, grinned toothily, and did not answer.

Knock-knock.

"Knock-knock," said Igor. "I think it's for you."

Makoto's eyes shot open, her breath fast, goosebumps prickling her skin. Late-morning sun blazed through the thin sheer of her bedroom's window curtains. Her heart raced in her chest. She slapped a surprised hand to it- gasped as the blow caused pain to radiate through her body

God! Right! She'd been shot last night! But! God! A bizarre dream!

Makoto let her head back down to her pillow and took a deep, calming breath. Igor's laughter still seemed to echo in her ears, half-lost in the dull pulsing fuzz that was the sound of a silent room. Her pulse was like the sound of a distant ocean.

Knock-knock

Makoto shot up for the second time, her chest objecting with another dull stab of discomfort. The sound was coming from outside her eastern window, the one currently shaded from the sun by the contours of the mansion's roof.

…I think it's for you.

She tore open the drawer of the bedside table, pulling out the backup pistol she stashed there. It was for bumps in the night- but after that dream, even full sunlight seemed to hold ominous menace. She checked the chamber, confirmed it was ready, and then slid out of bed- noting she was not wearing anything but underwear and some of Dr. Takemi's enthusiastic bandaging. But with the gun in her hand, she didn't feel naked. Makoto quick stepped to the side of the window, pressed herself against the wall, and used her spare hand to move the window curtain slightly away to allow her to peek out.

Couched outside her window was man in straw hat and cloak, and she very nearly shot him out of shock- but he looked up at the slight movement of her curtain, and Makoto found herself staring into the anxious grey eyes of-

"Ren!?"