((Talking to just one admin about it doesn't cut it. Keep the dragon, lose the double personality crap, and stick to one goddamn storyline. I'm seriously frustrated at this point. Also...keep note and keep track of whatever the hell is going on with your character. If you all of a sudden have some awesome cool power, make a note of it in your bio or updates, and then make a note of which admin approved this or ran the scene. This is utter bullshit.))

((Correct. Yume's other personality. These are things that seriously need to be run by the admins before you do something like it. It's not really kosher for you to have a double quite like this. You're manifesting new and crazy powers, and in some ways, acting outside your role as a player. You shouldn't be playing your own NPCs, you shouldn't just be manifesting random powers and random new things. Develop story, please. And if they're things like this, speak to the admins. It's what we're here for. Remember my warnings.))

Hunter led her to the car, opening her door for her, and handing her into the seat. The vehicle was a well cared for black luxury car, the interior spotless and carrying the scent of some spice or another. It was also quietly purring as it ran, and the inside was warm and comfortable. He waited until she was settled, closing her door behind her. Moving to the driver's side, he slid into the seat as if it had been made for him.

After waiting for her seatbelt to be fastened, and doing so with his own, his hands settled themselves, first sliding the stickshift into gear. Soft strings poured from the quiet speakers, to be joined by a weeping piano, as well. "How was your day today, little angel?" He asked, his green eyes moving to her briefly before they settled back on the road ahead of them. The huntsman's hands moved with an economy of motion and experience, though who knew where he'd learned to drive a stickshift.

He relaxed slightly, looking down at Mika as he nodded. He'd gotten better with people. The only exception had become one that took him by surprise. He looked around at the various faces that had joined them, his eyes finding exactly where Shinji stood. It may have surprised the younger boy, the next action Hunter took. The man raised his hand, beckoning the mage closer. They'd never be friends, but comrades fighting for the same cause was just fine.

His arm remained around Mika as she moved closer to him, the stroke of a thumb a subtle enough comforting gesture for him to make for her. The observant green eyes scanned around, alighting on Yume on her branch. His head tilted slightly at a curious angle, before he raised his hand again, gesturing silently to her. As he waited for Yume to join them, he looked again at Yami. "Your name is Yami. What do you do?" He asked directly. Perhaps a bit abruptly, even.

((I'm just going to use Hunter's account for now, so that I'm not having to switch logins.))

The parchment of the pages is old, but seems well taken care of. The pages are not brittle, but they are delicate. The scripted writing is of a flowing and smooth hand, not quite feminine, but of practiced penmanship. Someone took pride in their writing. Still, something about the bold strokes speaks of masculinity.

The first thing written, an entry, is dated 45 BC. It is difficult to tell the actual date beyond the year, as it is written strangely. The book is a journal of some sort. Shinji's eyes register that this is written in an ancient and unused form of Latin, and that he cannot make heads or tails of it. Then, before him, he watches the entry become clear and unmistakeable English.

'Beware, beware the Ides of March.' The lady has spoken. A warning to our great emperor. One he has not heeded. He still continues with this fool's mission. He believes, with the sorceresss at his side, that he is invincible. That this is his destiny. Even she tried to warn him, for all the good it has done. His men seek to betray him. His pride will be his downfall.

I do not wish to see such things befall my emperor. So I went to the Lake. I did not know the direction I need to go. But I knew that the witch could be found on her Isle of Apples. Avalon, I have heard it called. It is a place of dark and witchcraft, but I am willing to risk my immortal soul that I might seek her help. She knows. She can tell me.

The next entry is shorter, by far. It's tone is of terror.

I went in search of Avalon. Three days I have been in these Mists. Lost, with naught to do but pray. I hear the bells of Glastonbury. I cannot even find those blessed shores. That bell, it's infernal ringing, is driving me mad. Where is the Lady of the Lake? What does she want from me? Why will she not show me the way?

He stood straight, stepping forward. "Bring them with you. They are meant to keep well until tomorrow, when they will have to be placed in water, like any other bouquet. Tonight though, they will remain in their state of lovely perfection. As will you in memory." His hands, an artist's sensitive ones, took the jeweler's box of pearls from her.

Stepping behind her, those fingers slid the hair from her nape, brushing her skin lightly. The pearls settled cool and smooth, encircling her neck. Hunter lightly kissed the top of her head, before reaching past to grab the peacoat that hung. Offered so to her, he waited for Mika to step into it, then settled it fully about her. Waiting for the door to be shut, and her things to be gathered, he offered his arm to escort her. "Shall we, little angel?"

In a clearing deep in the woods stood a man. Tall, rangy, dark of hair and patient of eye. He'd scribed sigils into the trees that encircled the clearing. A fire had been built at the center, far from the flammable foliage, and he waited. White sage, mint, cedar and lavender were tossed into the fire casually, the smoke rising toward the sky.

Out it floated, catching the noses and hearts of those that leaned more toward the pure and the good. It drew at them, like the warmest of memories and the most beloved of things.

Hunter arrived, looking a bit like this, in the same cool greys and blacks. His cuff links are clearly antique, perhaps even belonging to his father. The intricate working matches the clasp upon the pearls. He's clean shaven and smells faintly of that sandelwood and cedar scent she'd come to associate with him. He knocks on the door firmly, and stands with his hands behind his back, hair tamed for the evening. The healthy tan of his face is only heightened by the dove grey collar.

He's managing to not look overly nervous or anxious despite certainly feeling that way. He carries a bouquet of flowers in his hands consisting of creamy ivory oleander, Angelwing jasmine, and noticeably three ivory rosebuds and one deep purple rosebud that had an almost burgundy sheen upon it, yet still managed to remain that royal shade. The ferns and baby's breath are spare and tasteful, and the stems have been wrapped in a white silk. He had one more bloom in their conveyance, but he wasn't yet sure about giving that one.