words: 751


Caleb was an inspiration that she was neither willing to forget nor let pass into obscurity without action on her part. He had made haven of his home and company. He’d made it clear that he had done so on other occasions as well. Not just herself, but other agents throughout his tenure as one of the Reborn. Reformed? A new title would still take some work. Maybe another trip to the library to erect herself a throne of paper and ink, armed with the scepter of etymology to strike at the demons of Onomastics that plagued their advertising and conversion. But that was beside the point now.

Stroud hefted up her newest finished piece, a personal project just for the occasion- it was a six panel Japanese Byobu from the mid 1800s. It was just before the boom of interest in the ‘orient’ where the imperialists of Britain and the wealthy of America clamoured and imported anything and everything that could be construed as originating or being inspired by cultures outside the occident. She had liked the motif when she saw the worn, stained, faded piece at estate auction- six Falcons in different poses, each representing keen vision, speed, and determination, elegance. It was a hope for an eyrie to collect of her own, a haven to make. If she could help even six of other agents, then that would be a good start and a good goal to have kept. She had hand-soaked the silks, careful of the differences in paint and stains, sanded, detailed and re-stained the wood, rebacked the screens, built up a secondary, buffer byobu of plain cypress to raise the original by a foot as well as on retractable casters for easy moving. All told, each of the six sections measured 22 1/2 inches wide and six and a half feet tall. Stroud set up the piece to cordon off a generous ‘room’ within the expanse that was the factory loft studio she called her own. It was near windows for easy entry and exit by powered guests, hid a set up of plush rugs and cushions, low futons and a low table to support a hookah and samovar. There was room enough for only three, really, if they actually used the bedding. If people didn’t mind the floor it was double that count.

It wasn’t as cozy, in a way, being unusual decor compared to a couch, a throw blanket and a t-shirt. It took voices to fill voids with echoes, the sweat of bodies, the wear of feet and hands and use. Buildings were like living bodies that way. In short time, denied all, they grew derelict, confused, cold and finally ruined. She wondered how hard it would be to bring life again to the derelict halls of what they all named the Rift. It surely had other name once for its high courts and stately walls. Ways and depths they none of them delved too deep alone, and only a few in supportive groups like archaeologists sifting dust and sand for shards of memory. If there could be any large scale rotation of inhabitation requirements established? There were barracks, yes, She supposed it was something.

But before she went trying to repopulate the Rift, which was so full of unchained youma it wasn’t feasible anyway, she had to see to helping out other agents. Making herself available to teach them formally in groups about flow, about energy transfer in the sense of martial arts, and about the martial art itself. Meditation and grounding would do them all a load of good. Doing it IN the rift, given the previously stated dangers, seemed a liability that way for basic introductions. Getting jumped would be fine and applicable for advanced practice, but distracting and counterproductive otherwise. There was still plenty of space beyond the work area, her sleeping space and this area that was open floor- she could get flooring and invite prospective students to stay with her while they had lesson sessions to allow them full ten hour blocks and meditations on waking and before sleep. She’d need to start keeping more groceries around to support it, ready and available on the ‘just in case’ basis regardless of if or when someone actually took her up on it. She’d have to relay it over the communicators and post it where people could see.
She hoped someone would.

More than just Spazzite trying to be Jackie Chan.