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Dusk and Dawn in Trifas are prolonged affairs, and at this time of year, viciously autumnal. Even the crypt Shishigou has made his headquarters is chilly. The smell of a burning cigarette promises warmth. It also confuses Shishigou, who is not half awake. The possibility that it is smoldering in his own hand jolts him and he sits up.
A clove cigarette, no filter. Where did she get that? The Knight of Betrayal had been full of surprises since she drove her foot down onto the fragment of wood that had summoned her. Seeing her master awake, she shorts the cigarette and tucks it behind her ear like a true warrior. As if in response, Shishigou slips his sunglasses on, yes, even in the half-light of the crypt-- why not?
When they first met he remarked on her gender. "Don't bring that up again," she admonished, reluctant to even name the subject, to voice the word "woman." Her helm had kept her face hidden and her secret safe. Perhaps she was worried because, even today, to be a woman warrior is to be an object of curiosity and derision. Perhaps she was worried about her master's romantic inclinations-- a laughable concern, but how could she know? And there there were plenty of reasons besides why a medieval knight-- or anyone, during wartime-- would be reticent about personal aberration.
Shishigou takes stock of his materials. The whole time he can feel his mind trying to wander.
He finds himself thinking about islands and beaches, about the confused grey sky outside, about the equinox, about eclipses, homunculi, his own undead, and viruses and crossroads, and other somethings which surely are but which, in particulars, fail to be anything.
He does not want to presume common ground, and put down his foot into a vacuum. And besides, they are warriors, and this is wartime.