warning:
— gore, gore & gore
— v detailed depictions
of wounds
' i'm not really sure why, but... do you stop loving someone just because they betray you? i don't think so. that's what makes the betrayal hurt so much - pain, frustration, anger... and i still loved [him]. i still do. '
— the final empire
— May 1947
Tumultuous rain apprehended what remained of the landscape's beauty, a screen of grey static blockading the view. If the rain held any significance, it was of a reflection of Unit One's dread, as much to their surprise, a band of less than pleasant purebloods joined them on the platform.
Silence ensued as everyone scattered around the platform. Everyone hovered, waiting to board the approaching train.
Surprisingly, the sight of all fourteen wizards was met with looks of indifference, even as they stepped onto Russian land. Lestari's Unit had learned the art of discrepancy, despite being together, they still appeared complete strangers to strangers. On the other hand, the Knights clumped together, yet their whole existence was that of discreet. Each of them wore dark attire and moved in such a manner that they were individually meshed with their surroundings. This contrasted to their large characters, being heirs — for the most part — to some of the most powerful wizarding families. The juxtaposing sides had Lestari wondering what they got up to in their spare time that required such a need to blend in or hide.
The Vinogradovs were just a small extended family of a paternal grandmother, a mother, father, three young children and the heir. Born from nothing, the patriarch held all his ambition as a spark against petrol. His need for power seemingly proved fruitful as his name was high on the list against the wealthy elite of wizards. And as always with this type of man, this kind of upbringing, came with the desire to show off.
Lestari gazed across house Vinogradov, an expanse of displayed wealths and affluence from one corner to another. Foolish, she'd called them, their display reached their personal lives as what accompanied their mansion, so to speak, were floor-to-ceiling windows and a habit of leaving curtains open.
The group split up. The plan was to be enacted under the cover of night, soon coming as the sun began to set.
Casimir and Namrata were the epitome of patience as the Knights accompanying them held the countenance of the complete opposite philosophy. Julius Lestrange forever held his eyebrows knitted together, and Ronan Rosier's sneer rivalled that depicted by Percey Blysshe Shelley's Ozymandias.
The walk around the building was strenuous, expected from the sheer size it reached. Eventually, the four reached a wavering in foliage of the hedge surrounding the garden; an unpleasant exchange hung in the silent air. Despite this, children's voices were heard nearby, the occasional squeal and scream, then some laughter. Namrata poked her head through the gap and observed for a moment, before stepping back.
"The children are playing. Just about 5 metres away." Softly, Namrata aided the others in their understanding of the targets' positions.
"Any others around?" Rosier inquired, preparing his wand.
"A nanny of some sort. Plus a wide view of the mother and grandmother watching from the house." She'd crossed her arms now, anxiously awaiting a solution.
