Aramorosama: Today, Aramorosama was only a god in disguise. He'd come down from his towers and battlements, dressed like one of the peasants, and gone wandering through the dusty village until he stood on the steps of their meager, moldy academia.

He wore his hair all twisted up beneath a black leather baseball cap, and that alone gave him a dollup of masculinity he would have otherwise lacked. His jacket was a little long, leather as well, but fell no further than the top of his kneecaps, and his pants were baggy, hid all but the toe of his sneakers, and his turtleneck neat, clean, expensive, but simple. He felt like he was almost just like One Of Them. While it certainly didn't lend a sense of satisfaction, he had to congratulate himself, once more, on his ability to be something of a chameleon.

Under one arm he carried a black canvas portfolio; in it, there were pictures. He held on to this tightly, for this was the one thing on his person of true material worth. As he wandered through the milling crowds, he followed his nose, gripping the shoulderstraps of his portfolio in one hand and holding the bottom of it with the other. Today, he looked only one for one thing; all preliminary research had already been done. When recruiting, he was a creature of few blind actions.
Aziza: It'd been monotonous the entire day. In every class, he'd practically twisted himself around his seat, and prayed that his hair would somehow sprout life and strangle himself. The only classes he enjoyed were the ones he'd originally applied for, and the rest he treated as drivel. Batting his eyelashes and teasing the teacher was the only way he was going to pass English this semester - A langauge he tortured his tongue with everyday, as much as he tortured his ears with being rounded off and naked.

They itched. He must've seemed so unlady-like, walking in the hall with a spoiled-brat-sneer on his face, scratching behind his left ear with one hand, and the other gripping his leather messenger bag. A white silk poet's blouse on his torso, unbuttoned from the bottom, to just below his chest, exposing his stomach. Leather pants, leather boots, and a white band bracelet around his wrist that had the cutest, most pointless ball of fluff bouncing from it. He liked to swing and watch it during lectures.

This scratching had caused his elbow to stick out, though he had such good luck that it didn't smack into anybody until-- It thumped against a gentleman with a portfolio, causing Aziza's hand to jerk across his ear, scratching himself hard enough to sting and almost draw blood. Hissing out, he glared at the offender who dared get in the way of his elbow. He held his breath, his eyes finally catching site of blue hair on the back of the man's neck, and he quickly retorted. "Well, no wonder! You're too lost in the 80s to pay attention to today!"

Grumpy kitton, if his tail had been out, he would've lashed it.
Aramorosama: Would you happen to have the URL for the site you just caught, my good friend?

"Did the 80s actually happen for the Taliban?" wondered Arachan cheerfully, who'd been smacked a good one but, though the portfolio swung, had not budged an inch. This peculiar rocklike quality seemed almost daphenous; a thought one had ever so briefly and then, mirage-like, it was gone.

For all at once the ruffled wind of Aziza's passage brushed past his face, flicking back those few kinked locks of hair that'd refused to be tucked under a hat. When he inhaled, his nostrils flared for a moment, and an image painted itself across the air in colours only he could taste. And his manner flowed like water from one cup into another, changing shape with its current container.

"I'm sorry, that was rude of me. Your accent is all wrong for that area."

There is a smell of muddy banks dried Muslim old kings sterling queens brassy gold tarnished under hundreds of years of a desert sun stretches of vast yellow sand where the dead walk through midnight moonlight and asps sleep under all the children's beds-

Arachan closed his eyes and inhaled, deeply, again.

When he opened them again, they fixed on the young man before him and he resisted the urge to give chase. It was only natural. "Would you let me buy you lunch for being rude?"
Aziza: "Mhn?" His eyes narrowed at the comment, yet he didn't seem the slightest bit offended. There was something about 10,000 or so humans suddenly dropping dead that really didn't strike a pity chord in his heart. He was more irritated at the fact that the news failed to disclose any news of felines in the area, or if any of the deaths happened to have pet cats. Come on, they could at least give important information.

His look was less harsh when the man made the second observation. Shifting his bag, he ran a hand back through his white hair, tossing it over one shoulder with a careless shrug. "You will let me know if they're recruiting outsiders, won't you?"

There was something about this individual that was making his senses go wild. He knew it wasn't human, which sparked an intense curiosity. Unable to help himself, he stared while the man stood there, seemingly doing nothing for a minute or two. At the question, he teased by offering a smirk then staring to the side, as if he was thinking about it, yet his voice was quick to respond. "Of course. It is only proper. You are?"
Aramorosama: At that, Aramorosama smiled beautifully and took a piece of folded paper from his left coat pocket. "Holding the future of your degree in my hands. Please call me Arachan. Would you like to eat sushi?" As he spoke, he unfolded the paper, unfolded its long block-style paragraphs, unfolded the sweeping signature at the bottom, the dean's seal and letterhead at the top. It didn't want to unfold all the way, so he gave it a shake to make it open up the rest of the way.

Most people were like that, really.
Aziza: Most people couldn't make Aziza drool in copious amounts. There was a flash of skepticism at that remark, then suddenly his lips parted, and eyes were all over that document. "Oh," Came a very soft, whispery reply. The attitude that was once sassy and snippy, was suddenly very warm and inviting as he slunk his body closer, and wrapped his arms around one of Arachan's. "Well, Arrrachan," He purred, eyelids lowering. "First impressions are everything, are they not? Sushi sounds absolutely delightful~"

How attitudes could change with just a flick of a page. Aziza had shame, really, but he could stuff it when it wasn't convenient.
Aramorosama: Which really meant that the stubborn paper had to go away for another day, but Arashi didn't mind--it wasn't cooperating anyway, and he was always pleased to find in his converts a certain attitude of willingness. Unexpectedly, Aziza had that very thing. Perhaps it was the sand in his blood.

Two fingers gently creased the letter's folds again and delivered it back into the pocket it belonged in. "The sushi in this country is horrible, but there are worse things, and I would never buy a guest less than the best available. Would you like to ride with me in a car? I don't want to walk." He never wanted to walk, the car was a limo, and the food was already there.
Aziza: His eyes were on that piece of paper the entire time Arashi folded it. Watching exactly where it went, his beat being much faster then the calm rate it normally held. Ah, how useless his degree would be when he was king, but currently it held very important meaning, and had to be cherished. He knew how to spoil the men who had things that he wanted.

Though, he didn't regret the decision. Arashi was growing more pleasant by the second. He smiled wide at the comment, nodding quickly in agreement. "Have you been to Asia?" He purred in curiosity, leaning closer, yet walking in perfect sync with the man he was attached to. "Aa, yes, of course."

A limo? Aziza was sure that his knees would turn to jelly any second. Did he attach himself to a Prince?! He knew something was different about him!
Aramorosama: While he'd acquired the ability to speak beautiful modern Japanese, Arashi could seldom be bothered to go home. He felt a great deal of disgust for the people who'd abandoned him and made it necessary for him to uproot himself. It wasn't as if it had caused a great deal of pain for him; his passage through the years had been nearly painless. But it was the principle of the thing.

He was quite keen on the principle of things.

So he thought about the question as if it intrigued him as he walked, arm in arm, with this prince of cats. In fact, he managed to affect a rather shy and curiously modest appearance about the whole thing. "It's a very beautiful land mass. Are you greatly interested in it? Ah, that's our ride, right there, the long one all in black-"

There was no real need to point it out; Arashi's approach made the limousine spew two valets to open doors and offer to take their things. He gave them his coat but not the portfolio, pausing on the sidewalk to shed Aziza and the coat both.
Aziza: Chuckling smoothly, he rested his cheek against Arashi's shoulder, though his eyes stayed keen on his face. He had no problem with being this snugly in public, it was doubly pleasant when many of his suitors did not look pleased to see him arm and arm with another man. He could practically smell jealousy in the air, and it gave him a shiver of mirth. It felt so good to be wanted. "Aa, well, I am half Sia-" There was a pause, before he set a finger on his lips. The country's name changed, didn't it? "I have family roots in Thailand." He finished. Saying he was half Siamese would just be odd, wouldn't it? One would immediately think the cat! "I visit every so-"

There was a sudden end to his sentence. All owing to the fact that they had reached the car, and he was, needless to say, very impressed. This was the way a Prince should always be treated! - Though when he was shed much like a coat, he didn't look too pleased. He held the look to himself, and distracted his eyes elsewhere until Arashi was 'ready' with inviting him in the car, or such.
Aramorosama: "I once visited Siam when her dynasty was in the height of its glory. There was a great deal of feasting and excitement that week," he reflected pleasantly, handing, metaphorically, a coin of great value to Aziza. It was enough for him to realize that he could now purchase the invaluable freedom to speak of things as they truly were, not as they only appeared to be.

Aramorosama stood beside the door, opposite his blank-faced chauffeur, and gestured towards the limousine's dark, plush, padded interior with one hand. Why, he practically invited.
Aziza: That rubbed Aziza in the perfect manner. Clearly this man was not human, and wise enough to know even of Siam. Eyelids low and pleased, he lowered his lean body, and sunk into the comfortable seat. Next to Arashi of course, close, he smile was wide and flirtatious. "Arachan, there is much more to you then meets the naked eye."

Ah, what luxury! He could get used to this.
Aramorosama: "Not at all," promised Arachan quickly, the limo's door shutting behind Aziza. Don't get your tail caught. "I'm as simple as anything. Ooooh....I hope I have enough here for you. I didn't know what you liked, so-"

The selection must have cost hundreds. Possibly thousands; more if you counted the plates it was on. The forefront of the limo had a merry display of fine cuisine, and the smell of the fresh fish was not overpowering in the slightest, instead hovering delicately around the edges of one's attention. Arashi was not interested in it. He didn't eat fish, considering that to be a kind of familial cannibalism, and he'd had someone to eat just yesterday.

Twisting the black cap off of his head to release a tumble of tight waves and coils, he unhooked the clasp of his portfolio in a businesslike way, though he smiled shyly all the while, as if getting ready to show a lover poems written about them. "I hope it's not rude if we talk while you eat."
Aziza: As if Arachan had been expecting him! From a chance meeting in the hallway, to a sudden banquet in Aziza's honor? This was a feast that was worthy to be presented to him in the palace at home, not something in the back of a stranger's limo! Yet, did he look a gift horse in the mouth? Never! He wouldn't question the method, or the means, he felt far too comfortable around this man to start interrogating.

"Ah, well, if we are relaxing." With an admiring gaze as the hair tumbled down, he closed his own eyes, and ran both hands back through his hair. Only the relieve was at his ears, resuming their natural state of being long, pointed, and fuzzy black. Beautiful against white, and his long black tail curled over Arachan's thigh. He knew it would be quite fine to relax in this form, nothing Arachan hadn't seen before no doubt.

A cattish smile was offered before he leaned forward, carefully taking a piece of sushi between two fingers, and raising it to his mouth. Pausing to respond first. "Not at all, after all, you are my host." While Arachan talked, he would just help himself~ Though he was a very delicate and fussy eater, nothing seemed to disgust his pallet in this case.
Aramorosama: He was so pleased he hardly contain himself.

Arachan smiled as he patted the tail, because he had known it was there and because now, having seen it, he was entirely sure of where he stood with Aziza.

And then things began to unfold as they truly were. Arashi stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles, and took glossy photographs out of the nice, handsome black portfolio. He spread them out for Aziza on the surface of the seat opposite them. In them was a young man with sunny, wavy Adonis hair, a bit too long and in need of a trim. He had a funny smile, and he wore messy, tactless clothing. In many of the photographs, he was carrying books or a backpack.

"Not to interrupt your digestion," began Arashi, holding on to a small stack of pictures just like those already displayed, "But does this person look familiar?"
Aziza: His tail flicked at the pat, and a naughty look flashed in his eyes before he coyly wrapped the tail around his own leg. He just loved to play hard to get, whether or not there was an actual game going.

"Mh?" Lips were wrapped around a fingertip, faintly sucking at the lingering flavor as he leaned over to gaze down at the photograph. His initial reaction would've been to criticize the boy's clothing, and the state of his hair. Sighing out, he lowered that hand. "Should I?" He wasn't really thinking back to his classes - after all, he treated all humans the same unless they had something special about them.

After a moment, he wrinkled his nose. "He looks like somebody who would own a dog." Laughing under his breath, he moved to retrieve another piece of sushi. "What is this about?"
Aramorosama: "Not a fan of canines?" wondered Arashi with a grin, flipping through the rest of his photographs. He was looking for one in particular. It alone would comprise at least 35% of the evidence he had for Aziza.
Aziza: "They and I," Leaning back with a pause in his sentence, crossing one long leg over the other, and the sushi was nibbled before he finally completed it. "Have religious differences, one could say." That was an understatement to extremes, and the tip of his tail wiggled just at the mention of them.

"Obviously," A coy smile at Arachan for that one. One would notice the cat ears after all, right? He knew that Arashi knew better then that. It was all a joke. "Arachan~" He cooed playfully. "You didn't answer my question~"
Aramorosama: "Assif, assif," apologized Arashi quickly. He knew only a tourist's smattering of Egyptian, but the dark points of Aziza's ears and tail reminded him of his short vacations there. With the quiet hesitance of a young boy showing something forbidden to another child, Arashi slipped a little closer to Az's side, pulling one photograph away from the others and holding it gently between his fingertips.

It was black and white, small, crackled with age. He held it gently, with respect for its years. In it, a man lay on a floor littered with indecipherable objects. He seemed lean but full of smooth muscle. His hair was short, his body naked and lying on the side, and there were dark bands around his wrists.

He had ears much like Aziza's, and a tail sweeping around his thigh. Unlike Az's tail, this one was thick and bushy.

The figure in the picture appeared to be asleep or unconscious; his eyes were closed and his posture limp.

Arashi turned his head to watch his company's face.

"...hena." Here. Look. What do you think of this?
Aziza: Arashi knew just where to rub on Aziza, didn't he? Without even actually physically touching the kitton, he was already pleased as one who was drinking sweet, fine cream. Touching at his Egyptian roots were so flattering.

Though, a fine white eyebrow rose up at the picture. Leaning in, there was a serious, considering look on his face, as if he was trying to place it. Was it familiar? "He-" There was a pause, touching his tongue to his empty fingers once again, as if the flavor would help his memory.

"Is not familiar either, however, I know he is not one of my breed. What is it?" This was just getting more exciting by the moment!
Aramorosama: "Not as refined a lineage as yours," agreed Arashi amicably, and then he had to add, "But a protected lineage nonetheless. What we have here is something like a virus, or better yet, a symbiotie. This spirit," he touched the photograph with a fingertip carefully, "Passes through a particular family, and moves specifically from mother to daughter. Here," his finger carefully traced the dark lines over the wrists, "is the cause of the symbiote itself."

Arashi leaned forward, chest to his knees, and looked over the colour photographs of the young man. After a moment, he selected one and picked it up. There, on the boy's wrists, were a pair of dark, rich bracelets that appeared to be carved out of jade. For the sake of comparison, he held the old, brittle photograph up beside the colour.

"A fox hunts for chickens in your very own barnyard."
Aziza: Listening intently to the explanation, he suddenly found his appetite fading. At first, he believed the man was insinuating that the spirit was passing through the royal lineage, but breathed out when he made a comparison to the boy that he didn't know. After all, he knew for sure that boy wasn't of his breed- right?

A concerned look passed his face. "Is this boy one of my blood? Is there danger to my race?"

He was studying the pictures, staring at the markings, the bracelets.
Aramorosama: "A protector-fox for your family? Unlikely."

Together, the two pictures in Arashi's hands were set on the floor before Aziza's feet. There was only one more piece of hard evidence connection with the elusive fox he was hunting today. Arashi picked up a small, plain black box. It looked like the sort that held rings from a jeweler, but when opened, revealed a slender chip of jade. His nose was sensitive, so very sensitive, and from the moment the box opened he could smell the Wrongness of the little stone piece inside. It left a hazy, deep violent trail in the air as he offered the box for Az to take, instructing, "Hold it close. Smell." He was a cat, and wouldn't see the colours of scent the way that Aramorosama and his clan could, but even a cat could not be blind.

The little piece of stone reeked of magic, old, spicy, potent, powerful magic, it stank of wet foxhunts through bramble bushes and down long muddy rivers. And it smacked of something else more dangerous to Arashi than any other kind of magic in the world. This particular one could not harm him, but duplicate it and, oh....

He hated that which threatened him.

While he let Aziza inspect the jade chip, Arashi continued. "This alone would be an irritating but tolerable piece of news if not for the rest of the story. One of the professors at your campus has brought a great dog monster from Japan. It was dead, sealed away by priests for-ever and for-ever ago, but now it is here, and it's already begun killing. If it had noticed you, you would already be dead."

Arashi paused, and looked out the window at the rolling scenery. "...dogs do not tolerate the presence of cats. Did you see the news stories about the murders at the Museum?"