Chasing rumors and myths, Semyon reflected; Seems like that's all I do these days. First Vegas, now Vastime. He'd found what he was looking for in Vegas, sort of, but... Well, he was still processing his encounter with Scratch. An old, travel-worn music player was the Russian's accompaniment through customs, playing Sympathy for the Devil and other, similar songs on a loop as he explained for the umpteenth time that yes, that was a sword in his checked bag, and it was properly packaged and bound and it was a family heirloom and no he didn't intend to use it on anyone but yes it was sharpened and maintained because what was the point of a sword if it was just going to sit on a shelf and rust and the rest of the same multi-hour song and dance that, as always, ended with Semyon outside the airport, sword tightly peace-bound in his duffel bag.
Today's trip was due to the word of mouth that floated among certain circles, particularly the other martially inclined humans that Semyon sometimes chatted with over IRC. An individual named Henrex, and didn't that just sound hilarious in English, who would train pretty much anyone who asked for at least a short time. Something about not wanting a martial tradition to die out, apparently. Semyon could understand that. His own family's style was always endangered, after all. That said, the rumors were remarkably scant on details with regards to who this guy was, how to find him, and what exactly that style was, but... Well, Semyon had found Scratch mostly by luck anyway.
In all, his search method was actually quite simple. A couple short Crescent Steps brought him to the downtown rooftops, and from there he casually walked between rooftops, making the jumps between with his Chi and letting his use of it bleed into the air like a sort of beacon.
Oh, and the yelling. "Henrex?" repeated every few rooftops, at volume. Either he'd hear it, or someone investigating the spiritual pressure over downtown would, or something would happen to attract either Henrex's attention or the attention of someone who knew him. At least, if the Russian's luck held. If not, he was just going to look like an idiot for a few hours.