[To be surrounded by so many dead, their ashes interred beneath his soles while their shades have long since departed to the House of Death, puts Achilles ill at ease, yet the cemetary is where Urahara had wished to meet him, and so through its wrought iron gates he walks. The cemetary occupies a swath of open hillside on the outskirts of the city, and across the street perches a small white chapel whose sign Christens it in the name of St. Patrick. He had first paused there ere he entered the gates, that he may pray to the local gods as he has done at every temple he has crossed in this town: so numerous seem the deities worshipped here, yet none will hear his entreaties.

He wonders presently if it might be disrespectful to tread these grounds when he knows naught of the deceased who there are honored. Solemnly do his eyes pass over each grave past which he walks, acknowleding each in its turn, but lingering only long enough to begin to make sense of the letters there which all spell foreign names. Just ahead in a bend in the path waits Urahara, and to him Achilles gives greeting.]

Urahara, man of many arts - to this forum of the deaf and mute you have summoned me, and strange though it seems to me to meet in such a place, here I come to learn as your student. This humble mantle of one who has much to learn I've not worn in many long years, but bright-eyed Sieglinde speaks well of your skill and knowledge, and so to this I shall entrust myself. Sharp as I am in the arts of battle, I am green in what many among this crew call magic but I call godcraft, mortal though the hands that wield it may be.

[As isolated as the cemetary is, covered in a pall of silence thicker even than that which is worn by the dead in these troubled times when few leave their homes for any purpose short of vital, he feels free to speak plainly without fear of being overheard.]