The Fourth Art

She had barely arrived before being ushered to a comfortably furnished room; in fact, the whole place had been efficiently fitted to fulfil various needs — but its outskirts had been left undisturbed, leaving the impression that the decently-sized storehouse was an awaiting investment protected by dull guards.

An arranged dossier and a cellphone awaited her attention, lain over a table. Due to the advent of technology — sometimes with a flair of magical — one could be informed of a task through cellphone or emailing, she indulged that due to time-efficiency and practicality; the latter being relevant, as Herr Rass advised so, the current predicament was urgent.

Several anartists related or aspiring to relate to a certain degenerate movement of terrorists, converging to like errs coalescing into disgrace. It is basically the motto and reason for their existence.

Nevertheless, this specific anartist was very thoughtful about security and information though, carefully separating her… professional debauchery from her personal debauchery, although both reached a common link: that infamous group of degenerate artists.

Looking through that smartphone was rather entertaining. Quite a few innocuous postings through Facebook and Instagram; too many friends, too many things — well, at least for someone who didn't like those things for themself, in any case, others could and should indulge, for this made her work easier.

She would very much like to speak personally with that anartist but, first, she'd need to pay a visit to an object of affection.

"I suppose she already knows what is going on? I was informed that the previous… conversations had been fruitless, as well."

"Indeed. We subtly eloped with her but dared not resort to magical or physical trauma given her physical condition."

A sharp shared giggle masked concern.

"Understandable. A leader, is she?"

"Some-sort. Here we are. We've settled the cell as per your request."

The acolyte kindly opened the door, and ushered her inside.

"— I believe we will have time to speak once the degenerates are here no more. Good luck."

And Frederica walked inside the room, curiously studying the woman that had been partially (and magically-so) restrained to an armchair just in front of a neatly-settled brunch table.

"Hello, Miss Katlyn. I'd like to share a comfortable evening with you."

A lapse of judgement to allow someone uncivilised somewhat loose. A hand palmed the anartist's face to rebuke her, only to be bitten.

Yes, that resistance was indeed quite superb - the only redeeming quality to this anartist whose hands clenched so tightly around Frederica's throat. Widened eyes from both sides — a monstrous strength fueled by a desire for vengeance.

Though, she had little to no pleasure when one of the guardian Reichsdäemonen intervened. She breathed air whilst the anartist lost all of hers.

The guardian exercised some restraint; barely not beating the woman into a pulp — and he didn't require a command to do so. Beautiful.

Now all the subtle connections were shattered, much like the tea-set she asked for and the anartist's ribcages.

It pained to see the lack of civilisation that still existed within society. It was even more painful to have your hand cruelly bitten and fine tea-seats despoiled. Artists were emotional little things, you see.

But it was a new day; the calendar was counting down and some of us did not have the luxury of time to be upset over minor inconveniences. Moreover, efficient magical healing should pander towards the anartist's mood; who wouldn't love being able to break a few ribcages every now and then? Moderation was everything, so let's not make it a modé.

"So. We will try again. I expected you to be cooperative just like her. Good faith is in us all, hence -"

Strands of magical energy were ensorcelt to remove the gag surrounding the anartist's mouth; a finely-looking woman with candy-coloured hairthreads and urban clothing marked by paint that couldn't be washed.


And so she went on. Threats; menaces; insults. All the expletives. Primarily, I wasn't a national socialist. Secondarily, she was screaming in English; oh that dreaded language, so close yet so far. Not that she would be heard, not here, but it was very bothersome indeed — using her voice for all that cacophony instead of being compliant. The dread.

"Sprechen sie Deutsche?" — humoristically so, — "Rachael has such an elegant accent," and so she did, the thought followed by the sway of a hand, building the tone in memory and gest. The comment enticed the captured anartist, whom from the magical bindings in the — very — comfortable chair stopped at once.

"We'll rain hell down your filthy little group of nazist pigs, you know that? If you even dare to touch her."

The neat tea-table that separated us served well now — thoughtfully moved centimetres away from being knocked over (again) by less sophisticated individuals.

"Her well-being relies on your cooperation. I presume you can emit sophisticated answers from your mouth and not just angry expletives."

Or she could. She could scream, she could waste all the time in the world — weren't for the time constraints and the sensitive subject at hand. Relying on time alone to slowly slip into the cracks of her mind wouldn't work this once.

And so, a wonder of what could be seen from her eyes — those widened, brown pupils stared with such hatred. The more serenity employed to contrast that gaze, the uglier it became. The anartist resisted so very much even after being influenced to a point many would feel an alcoholic stupor.

"What is the purpose of your gathering in here?"

"Are we witches now, cunt?"

Witches tended to be more educated.

"What is the p-…"

"I won't tell shit. I'm not selling them out to some shit-faced group of Nazi cunts."

"Twisting art into more grotesque things to be used against the Germanic peopl-…"

"I'll twist your neck."

"I have asked these same things to Rachael whose cluelessness was as genuine as your ire. She assured that you would do anything to keep you two safe."

Long skirt fluttering, the gentle chime of buttons of a long-coat, and the comfortable embrace of a scarf framed the not-so-imposing woman that rose from the chair, to whom the anartist would rip into shreds if she could.

"Perhaps I shall have to tell her that such good faith in you is nothing but wasteful."

If one had the opportunity to sit facing him, they'd find out that every misconception would be betrayed. He was, factually, a man of much power; not a small fraction of thaumaturgy, of course, but it would be, indeed, the least relevant portion of his power.

A rather charming room, properly decorated and tidy with care. Illumination brought by powerful lights and a window framing Herr Rass, who sat statuesquely as ever, depicting the very essence of the Germanic quality.

Adjusted about the cushioned chair, scarf loosen but not subtracting from the elegant lady-like posture of Frau Magistra Frederica; quite German, quite Portuguese — she had the qualities of both, and their flaws, too.

"I do hope your hand is better, Magistra. You oughta be careful."

The concern and advice were genuine — different from the throwaway interjections that brought nought but its obviousness into existence. There existed particular concern, something akin to brotherly care, she imagined.

"Herr Rass. I must admit that I did not expect to be attacked by a barbarian."

"Ah, the unclean — you mustn't forget one of the many reasons why they are a threat; the brilliance of mind shines even despite…"

The words were completed mentally, tacitly, spoken. A sage nod was given, the woman rested her arms suitably over the armchair.

"Will you stay with us after these personal matters are settled?"

Silence and thoughts. He was kind to let her indulge. They had met a long while ago during a returning trip to Germany - oh, how it hurt - but meeting Herr Rass gave a much-needed comfort. Nought romance, much less of sexual attraction. Respect. Mutually so.

Bringing about a world where the righteous wouldn't have to fear the impure? No. Not fearing the unclean. Never again — those that soiled genuinely sophisticated objects would be no more; the bedrocks of society would be clean from the unclean hands of those that did not belong.

Gently adjusting the knot of her scarf, she assumed a position of certainty.

"I wish to be one of those that will usher this world into reality, Herr Rass. Yes."

A pleasantly given smile and a nod. Nothing else had to be done in terms of contact. It was simple and comfortable.

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