*Sherlock paces amongst the streets he helped his Father build, with his head stroking the exteriors, against every splinter, every nail and every air-bubble from the plaster, his mind stood strong to the thought of the war, and what had become of Alras, or what had just began to show from Alras. The Doors of his manor swung slightly open in the winds, as small hurricanes of snow dust into the corridor of his home. With a final quick stroke among his neighbours house, he entered his own, with a smile.
After paying attention to various battle-matters, most notably the tending to his gear, he picked up the envelope at his door, with a quick slice from his gilded letter opener, he read the letter. Memories of true honesty, of true honour of battle's past skimmed the mind of Sherlock, back to when he saw his Father Horus, hold back plagues of Sorovitz...He took the note, made sure to firmly close the door, and sat next to the fire-place, as he imagined many others were doing the same right now.
With another smirk form his face, he placed the note from the Hochmeister on the table and wished the simple words.*
"Hanseti is the place for me..."