The detective stared at the painting for longer than he intended. It was an extravagant design, several figures crowed around a central focal point; a man standing in fire. His horns gave a good idea of what he was. The crowd bearing weapons and farming tools gave a better idea of what they intended. It was a wonder that such a painting existed.

It was my favourite jacket. There were tears here and there or perhaps a red stain on the pale sleeves, but it was my favourite jacket always. It fitted me so well, it was light and comfortable. For all these reasons I couldn’t imagine doing anything without it. It spoke to me almost as much as the mask did. The mask was another story; I didn’t like it as much as the jacket, but it was also very necessary for my work. It allowed me to be more professional as well as release my emotions.

I boarded the train and immediately started coughing. I buckled over, coughing into my hand and retching up the dregs at the back of my throat. It was a painful experience that made it impossible for me to breathe. There was one other passenger in the compartment and he ignored me plainly, staring at his newspaper.

The world was broken long time ago with the class of powerful magic. There once stood a king who ruled over his subjects with a gentle heart and steadfast power. The many that looked up to him also vouched their lives for the kingdom, to protect it with body and soul. Of course, this kindness was only a façade created by the king. His son, who had desire of such power, wished to usurp the throne from the king.

Grigory placed the tin cup of poor quality coffee in front of me. True, it was the best we could get with War going on, but in the end it was like drinking muddy water. The winter was harsh this year, harsher than it has ever been and neither I nor Grigory expected an officer to visit us with two over his thugs. Still, that didn’t stop them from barging in through the door to let the cold in.