(10:45am - At a London coffee shop near King's Cross)

Baggy-eyed and with the hunched over stance of one who'd gotten up far too early for her age, the tall, slender brunette tugged the coffee house door open and slipped inside.  With a creaky bang, the door bounced against the well-packed backpack slung over the girl's shoulders before falling shut behind her.  She'd had to set her alarm for 4:30 that morning in order to catch the 6:30 train to Brussels and Jacoba now had a couple hours before catching the next train further north.  A good, strong cup of coffee had always seemed particularly challenging to find on British soil but the caffeine was bordering on necessity. 

"Just a regular drip coffee," Jacoba requested as she stepped up to the counter.  The guttural rolled "R"s and the rounded vowels readily betrayed the germanic influence on her accent.  "And a croissant." 

From amongst a handful of mixed pound and euro coins, Jacoba fished out enough for the breakfast and exchanged it for the coffee and pastry.  Grasping the hot, full cup of coffee with one hand and the plate with the other, Jacoba weaved her way between the tables, doing her best to avoid knocking any of the other customers with her backpack.  She found her way, without incident, to a tall counter along the front window of the coffee shop and set her food down in front of an empty stool.

She was eager to wolf down her food and get to her train.  Really - the less time she spent in London, the better.  She really hoped to get away and out before running into anyone she recognized - or who recognized her.  There were a handful of old classmates she might not have minded running into but she'd kept touch with very few of them since she'd been sent away to school.  Chances were slim that anyone would recognize her unless they were family - and that, really, was the primary concern.

With a heave, Jacoba let the backpack drop from her shoulders, trying to catch it.  But, the weight of the backpack got away with her, dropping into the chair of the table behind her.  "Ahh, sorry," she said, grasping the backpack by the top and hoisting it towards the corner.  "Are you alright?" she asked, patting the inhabitant of the chair apologetically.

The coffee shop seemed pleased to have acquired a new patron. Dreogan came by to the Muggle coffee shop -- Akiva's former favourite -- every chance that he got.

But it wasn't for the coffee. Or the servers and barristas, who seemed to look at him through their lashes from time to time.

Dreogan had found it difficult to keep an eye out for suspicious servers and goings-on while yet managing to avoid eyecontact with any of them. He didn't want to give the wrong impression. And yet they couldn't help but catch him looking in the direction of the counter from time to time.

Today, however, there was a chance today that Akiva might be joining him. He didn't particularly want to have to deal with flirtacious barristas at the moment and so he sat with his back to the counter. Which, unfortuately, had left him woefully unprepared for what took place shortly after he had unfurled his London Times.

He was jostled with a light blow as a -- a backpack tried to vie for his seat. The backpack nearly won but he was able to keep his seat, but not his coffee which, in an effort to grip the table, had been knocked over. He quickly righted it and wished that he might fix it all easily with a wand.

Alas. He reached for napkins as he felt the equally unexpected pat on his shoulder.

He could not help but laugh as he craned his neck to see who would execute such a gesture. Jarringly friendly.

"I'm fine," he said with a smile, trying to fold his coffee'd Times so she might not see the damage. "Not to worry."

Despite her efforts to catch it, the wayward bag had done more damage than expected.  At first, the fellow's reassurance and the strategically placed newspaper concealing the ebbing line of coffee had, effectively hid the spilled drink from Jacoba's line of sight.  However, the barrista who'd come towards the table with a dish towel in hand had been harder to conceal. 

"Ah, scheiß," she offered, again, apologetically.  After propping the offending backpack against the window, she nodded gratefully to the barrista before fishing out a few more coins from her pocket.  "If you could bring a replacement?" she asked, offering the curly-haired fellow a  characteristic sheepish grin.  At least it didn't appear the mutinying coffee had damaged his work clothes.  Jacoba wasn't sure she'd be able to replace those. 

"She should be bringing you another," she offered.  "I suppose I should have seen it coming, though.  But, again, I do apologize." 

Finally, Jacoba managed to seat herself on the stool just behind the fellows table without further incident.  She leaned over and fished a rolled up piece of parchment - yes parchment - from the top pocket of her backpack.  She'd had enough fieldtrips to the old
monastaries near Munich to readily recognize the parchment - though why it was being used in a letter, she couldn't guess.  Perhaps it was, simply, just part of the props.  In which case, the lengths these people were going was quite impressive.  She couldn't tell if it was truly goat skin, though ...

With a sigh, she settled into rereading the letter though she held out little hope that it'd offer more clues as to what she was supposed to do when she got to Scotland.  The mountains of Scotland was where the trail ended in the letter.  So far, the youth hostel in Aviemore was the end of her currently planned road.  From there - well, she really wasn't sure.

"No, no! It's fine, really," Dreogan professed as she produced money to buy a replacement. Despite this, the barrista nodded and shuffled away. Dreogan sighed and gave a feeble smile. "It was almost gone anyhow. . ."

He shook his wrist, bringing his watch down beneath the sleeve of his coat and frowned. He didn't have much time anyhow.

The girl was seated, back to him now, and he surveyed her a moment from over his shoulder. She was German. Young. Clumsy. He shook his head and was about to go back to his paper -- or . . . blotting his paper -- when he noticed what she was reading.

That didn't look like a very Muggle-y thing to be reading. Dreogan was curious. "So, ah," he said quietly -- she seemed to be reading and he didn't really want to interrupt if it would be unwanted. "You're not from around here. . ." He pointed to the unfurled scroll which, to someone else might appear to be some kind of map. "Planning a trip?"

No.  Rereading the letter did little to illuminate Jacoba.  The text of the letter, itself, was in German.  The diagram small, detailed but still too crude to be of much use.  At least after she found herself in Scotland.  She just hoped she'd find someone who could offer some further guidance. 

The owner of the toppled coffee cup spoke up, referring to the bit of parchment.  Jacoba swiveled on the stool to face the fellow, the letter in her hand.  She grinned, sheepishly, before shrugging.  Was she from around here?  In some ways, yes.  In some ways, no. 

"I was born in East Berlin - well, then it was.  I've been living in Amsterdam but I grew up in London - Kensington, mostly.  So, I suppose I'm more 'from around here' than I usually care to admit."   

He motioned towards the parchment and, without a second thought, Jacoba held it out to fellow.  She didn't see any reason why the slip of paper should be held in secret.  "Planning would be a bit of an overstatement.  I'm just checking up on family.  It's kind of strange circumstances."

"East Berlin?" Dreogan asked, fascinated. "I went there. 1990," he said with a bit of a smile, hesitant to appear too enthusiastic. He didn't know who, exactly, he was dealing with. "It was wonderful to be there." He'd been there with his father and Adon. And Aleron, though his family had not come. His father -- he had never seen him smile quite so big or stand so tall as he had on that trip.

"I once lived in Bayswater area," he said with a smile. "We might have been neighbours," he said, smiling at the thought that they had only had Hyde Park between them.

He frowned thoughtfully as the parchment was handed over to him and he took it into his hand, eyes glossing over it and looking at the precise, littled diagram. He then read the first word -- Jacoba-- and, eyebrows raised, remained silent for some time, eyes still on the parchment while yet in fact not reading any of the words.

Dreogan was thinking of what he might say.

"Jacoba . . ." he said, gaze still directed to the parchment as he glossed over the words now. Sasha sounded nervous. He sounded as vague and excited and confused as when they had spoken at the Lake a litte over a week ago. "My name is Dreogan Eleor and, I think . . ." he now looked up. "We have a mutual acquaintance. I first met him at his school when he launched a football -- accidentally -- at my head. Is this a family trait?" he asked, teasingly. Surely the Schlagenweits could not have an inborn desire to throw objects on or upon him. But it was an odd coincidence.

And endearing, somehow.

"So you are going to see Sasha at school? Does he know where or when you will meet him?" Dreogan did not say "how" yet knew for a fact that Sasha could not even obtain permission to visit Hogsmeade. He was not sure how the Ravenclaw -- however clever -- could manage to visit an entirely Muggle community unbeknownst to the now watchful Headmistress Snark.

Jacoba offered a pleasant, though slightly tolerant smile, taking the opportunity to sip her coffee.  Perhaps, East Berlin had been more fascinating for visitors - granted she'd still been quite young at the time but what little she remembered wasn't always the most cheerful.  But, then, she'd always recognized the likelihood that her perspective had been skewed. 

"It was interesting," she offered, vaguely, in recognition.  "I prefer Amsterdam, though." 

Jacoba's grin grew more genuine and she nodded her head.  Living in Kensington had been the highlight of Jacoba's time in London - the friction just seemed to grow when they'd relocated to the estate out in Guildford.  "We'd lived right on the park for a couple years - it was nice." 

At first, Jacoba's eyes narrowed uneasily as the man introduced himself and claimed to be an acquaintance of the family.  His was an odd name - odd enough that it was unlikely the man was an acquaintance of her father's but it wasn't until Dreogan commented on the football that her concerns were settled.  "You know Sasha?"  She asked, to confirm.  As much as he approved of the sport, her father wasn't one who'd be playing the game himself. 

Was this man involved in all of this?  Whatever this was.  Which she hadn't, yet, figured out. 

"At ... the school?"  Jacoba repeated, slightly skeptical.  "Is that what he's doing?  Or -"  She took possession of the letter, again, rereading it.  As if, somehow, the fact that someone had found some semblance of reason in the letter might make it easier for her to do so.  "So - this ... D&D cult, or group, or whatever ... has a school?"  She asked, quietly, so her voice wouldn't carry.  Now that they were including names, she wasn't keen on any family colleagues overhearing too much of the conversation.  Without invitation, she slipped into a chair at the fellow's table. 

Slowly, she shook her head.  "I always wondered he'd crack one day - but even I never thought he'd be this creative about it."

Dreogan watched her face carefully as she seemed to be restraining something. He nodded. Perhaps his exuberance at the fall of the wall was uncalled for. "Amsterdam is nice; I didn't spend much time there." Her response reminded him of Sasha -- she was directing, subtly, the course of conversation. Dreogan had no qualms.

"Yes. Sasha and I met just before the holidays; we corresponded over the summer and have spoken a few times since."

"Yes; you've heard of his school? He's studying. And, I'd like to add, is excelling in his classes." Dreogan thought, from what he had gathered in Sasha's description of his family, academic excellence held much weight. He would start there. With the easily comprehensible.

Unfortunately, not all that she was saying was equally clear. "D&D?" Dreogan asked, puzzled and slightly perturbed. He'd like to know what that meant before he made a proper response. It was, no doubt, something Muggle. Something he'd not encountered before. "Well, it isn't a cult by any means. That would be a creed-based culture or organisation and while we certainly have our own culture, it's not independent of yours. It's an ability-based system. It's like.  . ." He grinned. He had started watching more and more movies with Akiva and had picked one that seemed pertinent in inter-cultural engagement and relations. "Have you seen any of the X-Men films?" he asked. "Now, don't get me wrong," he quickly intervened on his own words, "I'm not saying," he lowered his voice. "I don't think there are such things as mutants in that sense, but if you can imagine a culture based upon super-natural ability, you might be arriving at some notion of it . . ."

If he could have, he would have shown her a bit now. "I'm sure that Sasha likely demonstrated some . . . abilities as a child?" This was not the sort of thing he wanted to be talking about in a coffee shop, but knew that a woman with good sense would not accept an offer from a near-stranger and a, no doubt seemingly, strange man to go back to his apartment. And he couldn't exactly cast a sound barrier as he had with Sasha in a Muggle establishment. "Perhaps," Dreogan said, looking at her pastry and drink, "we might take this to go? You have somewhere to be, I'd imagine?"

Jacoba nodded, politely but impatiently.  Now that it became apparent this fellow knew her brother, neither a no longer existing political state nor a city she'd just left held her interest.  She'd chosen Amsterdam on a whim, just as she'd chosen Krakow a few months before then. 

"Before the holidays?"  Jacoba asked, curiously, slightly confused.  "You mean the summer break?"  She had to assume that's what the fellow meant. 

More of Jacoba's confusion and some of her frustration showed as she shook her head.  "All I know is what's in this letter," Jacoba clarified, just in case that point was missed.  "That my brother is - has never been to school in Switzerland.  And, he's joined some other "school" where he's learning to be a wizard."  A slight snort and a grin flickered at the side of her mouth.  "And, that my father doesn't know and I shouldn't tell him.  Which, really, goes without saying."  Like she'd be the one to tell him what the boy had gotten himself wrapped up in.  Even with being gone for two years, he'd probably find a way to blame her.

Jacoba's eyebrow twitched and she gazed at the fellow incredulously.  Sure, there weren't that many that actually played the game.  But, surely, most had heard of it.  "Dungeons and Dragons?"  She asked, hoping that'd make sense.  "It's a game.  People pretend to be medieval creatures?"  Surely, it must strike a bell?

Jacoba nodded.  So, it was a mutant-based game rather than a D&D based one.  It seemed a minor detail.  "Abilities?  You mean like - "  Was this man being serious?  But, now that he mentioned it.  There had been ... well strange occurrences over the years.  However, blaming them on Sasha seemed far-fetched.  There wasn't anyway he could be responsible for them.  "What, exactly, do you mean by abilities?" 

Jacoba considered the fellow's offer, trying to gauge how foolish it'd be to take him up on his offer and follow.  "Not really," she confessed.  "I need to catch a train up north but, beyond that - I'm not actually sure."  And, truth be told, if this fellow did, indeed, know Sasha, he seemed her best bet to finding her brother.  "Alright," she agreed, taking the croissant from the plate.

"It's a game.  People pretend to be medieval creatures?"  

Dreogan gave a snort of laughter, somewhat guiltily. Images of men in dragon suits. Unicorn suits. . . "Ah. . . medieval creatures?" That was what she meant by that? "I -- no. I've not heard of it, I must say. Sounds. . . fun." He rubbed the back of his neck. She'd not buy that for a second. "I'd prefer football, to be honest."

He left a tip on the table and waited for Jacoba to gather her things before ushering her out to the street. "Ah, I feel a bit . . . uncomfortable talking about your brother's life in public like this. Do you maybe --" he stopped. This sounded very inappropriate. Especially from a stranger. "If you wouldn't mind, we could perhaps discuss these matters at my home. Or," he offered, thinking perhaps the second option might be less . . .  shady . . . "my mother lives off the District & Circle line, which is not too far. I just --" he looked around, "think it would be most discreet."

After heaving the backpack to her shoulders, Jacoba made her way out the door to the street, managing to make her way without further incident.  "Yeah," Jacoba confirmed, nodding her head.  It was remarkable, in this day and age, that anyone wouldn't know of the game.  Even those that swore they'd never play would know of it.  "Orcs and goblins and the sort?"  Football?  So, he was a sport jock?  Strange - he didn't look the part.  She shook her head. 

Jacoba drew up, staring at the fellow.  This stranger was asking her to follow him to his place?  To discuss his brother being a wizard ... in whatever Sasha was wrapped up in.  "You're ..."  Jacoba hesitated.  What had her brother gotten into? 

"Discreet?"  There was clear suspicion in her voice.  "Why do we need to be discreet?  What are you all doing with my brother?  How do I know if he's safe?  And, how do I know I can trust you?" 

From bad to worse. Game-playing to . . . Dreogan didn't even want to address her insinuations. He endeavoured his best to hide the affront and insult that such a thing could be implied.

"Discrete because that is what one must be whenever one is unravelling deceptions. Your brothers' letter -- I believe he was trying to do just that but might not feel at liberty to do so. It's not safe. For reasons I oughtn't discuss right here." He gave another light sigh. "The park then? Coram's Fields is not far." It was a large, but little known park. Perhaps they'd have some privacy there.  

"I am not doing anything with your brother beyond the few letters we have exchanged and conversations over football," he said blandly, unable to infuse it with emotion and satisfied only to keep the affront out of it. "He's at school and, to my knowledge, as safe as any other child at a boarding school there. I do not see him with any regularity. Hopefully he'll be making a trip to London next weekend or perhaps the one following -- you'll likely have an opportunity to see visit him before then, though."

He looked at Jacoba levelly.  "But you may be right in suspecting that there is no way to truly produce empirical evidence of a person's trustworthiness. That is, in sum, an emotional decision and I'd rather not have you rely on me for that, as we know so little of each other. It is nearly impossible to do. But if you trust your brother, perhaps I can help you make some light of his letter there. If you'll tell me a bit more about it." It was, he decided, the best policy: Jacoba would believe her brothers' words, if she understood them, before she would trust any of his.

He continued walking, motioning to the visible park along St Pancras Street. "What did he say exactly? My German is rudimentary."

"Deceptions?"  Still clearly suspicious, Jacoba's voice grew a little quieter as she regarded the fellow.  She looked down at the letter still folded in her hand and looked back up, considering her options.  What deception was he referring to?  Sasha's?  His own?  "My brother's easily deceived," she stated, unabashedly.  It might have been a harsh criticism but, in her experience, it was true.  "Him falling for it doesn't, exactly, ensure it's not insane." 

However, it was clear the fellow wasn't going to offer her any answers here.  Whether it was for a legitimate reason to be discrete or not was irrelevant.   In the end, this fellow claimed to know where Sasha was.  The most Jacoba knew was Northern Scotland.  It didn't, exactly, narrow things down.  But, he knew her brother and he was offering an opportunity to see the boy.  "The park then," Jacoba agreed, reluctantly, nodding her head in concession and turning to follow. 

She walked in silence for a few paces as she busied herself with hoisting the backpack up and tightening the waist belt to take more of the weight off her shoulders.  "So, he's alright," she finally asked.  That question had, after all, been the primary reason she'd left Holland.  "And, this ... school.  Are you a teacher there?  What are you to my Sasha?"  Unfolding the letter, Jacoba read over the content once more before offering a translation. 

"I know it has been a couple years since we've talked.  Neither mother nor father knew where you went after you left the University and they weren't exactly, thrilled when I'd ask.  I know neither of them would have given you the specifics of where, exactly, in Switzerland I go to school - we both know they'd rather you didn't visit.  So, I didn't know where to send letters though I'm not sure what I would have said if I did. 

It's probably for the best that they didn't tell you where I was - since I'm not actually there.  They don't know, but I attend a school for young witches and wizards in Northern Scotland.  As, I'm sure you can guess, it's probably best that mother and father don't know about it.  But, I know you're unlikely to tell them so I figured I should send you a letter.  It has been a long time and I miss you. 

I hope you are doing well.  And ... yadda yadda, he thinks I should go back to school," Jacoba finished, skipping over he last bit.  It hardly seemed relevant.  "Which is no surprise coming from him."  She glanced sideways at the fellow.  "So, light?"

Dreogan gave a wry smile at her assessment of Sasha's abilities and the situation but answered only, "Well, there may be some empirical evidence to prove the deception. We'll get to that."

"Yes-- he's fine," Dreogan reassured with a smile. Poor girl was worried sick about him. "If you'd like, you can write him today and likely get a response by tonight. Mobiles aren't permitted at his school -- it gets no reception -- so it does make correspondence a bit more difficult, but we'll can work around that."

What was he to Sasha? It was an interesting -- and valid -- question. "I'm not a teacher at his school, actually. Though I have a couple of colleagues who are. I was a professor of international and intercultural relations in California -- America -- and Sasha seems to have taken a bit of interest in the subject, so I've been talking to him about that. Some advice here and there." He smiled more broadly now. "And a bit of advice about girls. I'm not sure how qualified I am to give advice on that; we'd have to ask my girlfriend for my credentials in that." A momentary panic and his eyes widened. He reached into his blazer pocket to tug out his mobile. "Oh! . . . I was going to meet her in the coffee shop . . ." He bit his lip as he thought. "Ah . . . but. . ." he seemed hesitant. He did not want to postpone this conversation. And perhaps Akiva had been held up. It was not a set date, after all. "She can call me, I suppose, if she gets there and is waiting."

Dreogan did not know why, but the thought that Jacoba might know he had a girlfriend, that he was in fact interested in women and not on the prowl, made him somewhat more easy. It fit several social norms that were required of most males his age. Compulsory heterosexuality. And success in social competency. And perhaps then she'd stop giving those piercing glances that, to Dreogan, seemed filled with hidden meanings and questions.

He listened to her translation of the letter and nodded. Now arrived at the park, he pointed to a bench alongside a wrought-iron fence keeping visitors a safe distance by some bronze historical figure. Statues like that, Dreogan thought, were erected so you didn't have to remember who they were. Statues remembered for you. You paid due respect, due tax money, and you were done with it. The great cleansing of conscience, annaled history.

"Light," Dreogan said, still smiling as he settled onto the bench, delicately setting his briefcase down beside him. He could not help but think of his house at his school: Beit Or. The house of light. This was to be his specialty, then. "The school he goes to is, as he says, for wizards and witches. For the purposes of discussion, we'll call witches and wizards -- the term varies according to region -- as those who demonstrate preternatural abilities. Most wizards or witches at a young age show an ability, as I said. Things shake when they are angry. They are able to get out of impossibly tight situations. Some have dreams that come true within a few days. Most things are not explainable by modern science but are by magical standards. At school, these talented youth hone their abilities, containing them and applying them to practical fields."

He shifted. "How familiar are you with Early Modern European history? We're talking concrete history, not ah. . . Dungeons and Dragons, necessarily." Because that wasn't truly "medieval," it didn't sound. Though the fact that magical creatures were associated with the time immediately preceding the Statue of Secrecy was not coincidental. "You may remember in the time between the Reformation and the Thirty Years' War the series of witch hunts, the wild and speculative accusations that led to countless deaths. The raizing of monasteries and persecution of gypsies. Not too unlike some of the 'witch-hunts' we've seen in modern times." Search for Communists in the Cold War. The Holocaust. Ethnic genocides. . .

He waited to see if she was still following.

There was really no logical reason why this stranger repeating, once again, that Sasha was okay would do anything to settle Jacoba's unease.  It wasn't as if asking someone the third or the fourth time would make them more willing to confess to a lie.  But, for some however illogical reason, it did. 

"He didn't leave a mailing address," Jacoba pointed out as she paused between the bench and the statue.  Without giving the statue much of a second thought, Jacoba let the backpack fall to the ground, grateful she didn't need to worry about upsetting anyone's meal as the forty pounds of clothing and her other worldly items dropped to the ground. 

Jacoba really wasn't sure what to make out of this fellow - one minute he was talking about having strange superpower abilities and the next he was talking about being a professor in California.  Either he was telling the truth or he was a Grade A nutter.  Jacoba hadn't, quite, decided which.  Though, one thing was for certain, if Sasha was, really, associating with the likes of this man (whether he was being honest or a nutter), Gerhard would be absolutely livid.  "So, you're ... his advisor?"  Jacoba asked, tentatively as she took a seat on the bench.  "And, girls?"  She stared at the fellow a moment before shaking her head, slightly.  "He was twelve the last time I'd seen him," Jacoba pointed out.  It was hard to think of Sasha as ... "he's dating?  Sasha - has a girlfriend?" 

Again, there was no logic to it, but watching the fellow grapple for his cell phone put some more of Jacoba's nerves at ease.  It wasn't, necessarily, that he had a girlfriend - but more the rather awkward manner he remembered and reached for his cell.  Something about his awkwardness didn't scream lewd deceiver.  But, when he came to his conclusion, Jacoba couldn't help shaking her head and laughing.  "Your ... leaving it to her to call after getting there and waiting?" she asked, dubiously. 

Perched on the edge of the bench, Jacoba leaned forward slightly, closing her eyes as she listened to the man's elaboration.  A lot of what he offered she'd already, to some degree, surmised from the letter.  A school for 'wizards' - showing abilities at a young age.  He'd mentioned that before.  Which, for some reason, these abilities seemed to be what was at the core of what all this was about. 

She opened her eyes and swiveled her head to look at Dreogan, her brow creased with curiosity, confusion and uncertainty.  "You're serious?" she finally asked.  "These ... abilities when they're young.  Do you mean..."  She hesitated a moment, clearly quite uncomfortable with posing the question.  A lot of what this fellow was referring to was eluding to events ... occurrences ... things that got shuffled away into the closet of family secrets.  A common occurrence when things seemed to concern that boy. 

"Like ... I don't know what it was but ... it looked like ... snowing indoors?"  In the height of summer, but they didn't need to delve too much into details.  "Or ... you know, there was this one time ... I'd gone to bed - I swear I'd locked my door.  I always did ... But, Sasha came darting in - and, the door was locked again when my father tried to get in.  It was ... strange."  She shook her head and looked down at her hands. 

"Yes, I know Dungeons and Dragons isn't history."  Jacoba rolled her eyes.  How many times had they mentioned it was a game?  "I was studying European History at the University of Munich before I left."  Dropped out, rather.  "But," she shook her head.  "The witch hunts weren't literal.  Well, they were but it was ... they were ... it was rooting out the old paganism and conversions.  Aren't they hypothesizing that it was fungal infestations of grain that caused the people to have unexplicable ... behavior?"  Surely, that made much more sense than what this fellow was eluding to.
 
"But, you're talking like Mysts of Avalon and ... Knights of the Roundtable ... magic?  Like Merlin and ... that's all fiction.  Fable and stuff.  Kid's stories"  It was strange - she'd started the lecture saying she knew Dungeons and Dragons wasn't history.  Now, she was finding herself explaining that history didn't include D&D. 

"You're serious?" she repeated.  There seemed only one, reasonable, explanation.  These notions, this man's firm belief in them, his seemingly normal attire all pointed to one obvious conclusion.  Sasha had managed to get himself wrapped up in some pagan, magic-bearing cult.  She shook her head.  "Alright, where is he?" she asked, more firmly.  "I always figured he'd crack ... I never thought he'd be this creative about it, though.  But, whatever game you've got going on ... he's got to come back to reality."  Where he'd go, Jacoba didn't have a clue.  She'd figure it out, though.