The Universe's Mixer

Xanadu had come to the shop early only to discover at some point in time, the door had been busted open. A quick check of the inventory and nothing appeared to be missing, though quite a bit of it had been moved around. Cleaning up the inside of the shop had been easy enough. The door, however? She had difficulty determining the full extend of the damage and how badly the paint had chipped on the molding. One call to a lock smith later and Xanadu decided to keep the door propped open until it could be repaired. She debated on calling The City PD to file a report. While seeing a certain detective again would have been nice, the seer decided to look into the matter in her own way.

Until then? Xanadu sat behind the register and worked on crafting a set of ruins. She took special care in carving each piece evenly, but occasionally pricked her fingers with the blade in her hands. On purpose or accident, she didn't appear bothered by it and continued working regardless.

In the aftermath of the Undead Plague, Xanadu no longer wore the extravagant silks or intricate hair ornaments in theme with the rest of the shop. She wore plain sunglasses to cover her eyes, stuck to jeans, an oversized sweatshirt with the neck cut out so her shoulder peeked from the opening and a pair of smart looking athletic shoes so she would be ready to run in case of the next disaster. Coupled with her apparent youth Xanadu hardly resembled the store's image or the name on her own business card.

Lost; out of the seemingly infinite words to be found within the English language, only this one was capable of explaining the situation that faced him. In one syllable his entire life had been summed up. Gone was the cathedral with its antiquated stones; a long with it the numerous leather-bound volumes which pertained to one singular subject. St. Dumas himself or the actions that had been carried out in his name. Somewhere among the immeasurable amount of pages that had been swept away, perhaps even transcribed in a foreign language, had been the answers to the mystery that was Jean-Paul Valley.

The archaic building which served as home for the last two weeks had seemingly been put through a miraculous transformation to become the contemporary apartment complex it was now. Bitterly cold winds lashed at his cheeks, and despite his underdressed appearance, an urge to find warmth had yet to exist within him. Instead the young man was rooted in place, eyes gazing up at the unfamiliar structure, a storm of emotions raging inside his blue orbs.

The sole personal belonging which had made the journey now lay idly at his feet. From an outer perspective it seemed nothing extraordinary or special. It was a simple green backpack, one that very easily could have been found at an assortment of department stores, or slung around the shoulder of any given student. The contents of the bag were a different story all together. Contained within were the vestigial garments of Azrael; the avenging angel and primary enforcer for the Order of St. Dumas. An angel, that under the Order's rule, was meant to punish and kill, one wing always dipped in blood.
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