What can I say of the same girl that met me at the W & L? She is Phillipino-Korean. She is Chinese as well. The rest of East Asia and Southeast as well, jabbed into a small frame that I only know Sarah Blue to have, right before the car crashed into the side, the rest of her life after high school encased in a wheelchair. Sarah Blue was short, cute, the look of a Japanese school girl with a peace sign, and that plaid skirt hiding nothing. That is what Sarah Blue was. I have never seen her.

This is Jane Eos Henril Vaclav – a woman that captures the definitions of supple and lithe in the same breath. Her black hair spills down to her shoulder blades, tied in a queue of yesteryear, a body all men wish to caress their hand and say to God – "Thank you a thousand times for this present to our ego". But she is dressed in clashing colors. She is wearing a sleeveless blue top, a Schutztruppe uniform coat over that with no markings, and white slacks you would see at a store outfitting for safari.

Her blue eyes stand out as my complexion does in the presence of actual mercenaries of the highest order. She is beautiful. She is wonderful. She is of the steel that S. was, the size of M. is, and here she sits in front of a desk. She smiles so dear. She is the ideal. The one thing that is jarring is her humanity. She is soft as a crow feather, softly to sex, but the sharp dirk jabbing in ones spine, twisting, thrusting, and the corpse falls to the floor, bleeding.

"So – Georg you’re here" she says in a Northumbrian accent, the music of Hawai’i against my ears, and the question stands on if I am making this up.

No I am not.

"Yeah – I am." I say.

She’s leaning on the corner of her desk, languid, lethargic, and I do not miss my dog at all.

"You’ve met my sister" she says, holding the papers that the Viscount gave her, with a bow, a vassal to his lord, down on one knee that has only been seen in my dreams.

"I don’t suppose they were your bodyguards…"

"I saved Midgard. You buy an egg and you get eleven" she says with a grin.

M. is here, right before me, but certainly not Phillipino.

"I’m going on a limb and say that you certainly don’t need me."

"Life isn’t always a story" she says, twisting, a geisha to the highest degree, and turning back to me, a Principal or French teacher, and I’m not sitting behind a desk.