"Seems smart!" Scalpel cries in agreement with the other prisoner, regarding crossbows. She runs forward to grab one of the weapons and a handful of bolts as well, hoping that as clumsy and exhausted as they feel, they're still faster than the dead.
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"Bloody gods." Having utterly failed to wrestle the madman away from his determined and grisly death, Scalpel slumps back against the nearest wall, breathing hard and raspily, trying not to give into a coughing fit. They close their tired eyes, knowing the image of the confrontation between Ulvar and the EyeThing will linger in their nightmares. "Whatever he knew... he's dead now. I wish I hadn't...." Scalpel trails off, shaking her head. It doesn't matter. This is all a nightmare and the horrors are starting to inflict a certain numb callous. Maybe Ulvar's the luckiest of them, for his nightmare is over. They push off from the wall and gaze unhappily at the zombies in the courtyard. "I don't like leaving them interested in us, but-- we are exhausted. Hurt. Sick. If we have to fight those, then we have a better chance of doing it after rest," she points out. "The way's.... clear now, isn't it? With that-- Thing... dead?"
"What in all the hells!" Scalpel had hoped for a reaction of some sort - this is that and then some. "Weeping gods!" Scalpel rushes forward, trying to pull the maddened wretch off from the Eye in what is possibly a doomed attempt, but the alternative is to stand there while the lunatic dies, and such a death would to some degree be on their own hands.
"Alright," Scalpel says with a little nod. "So, to recap: we go get Ulvar. Bring him with us, bound at the wrists, yes? Just in case he's dangerous. And we can grab some of the jugs from the dining area, fill them from the holy water cauldrons on our way back with Ulvar. Then we cautiously expose Ulvar to the Thing and vice versa, see what happens, with weapons ready - in case. Dwarf, I think you're the strongest of us- will you be the one to be closest to Ulvar, hold him if needed? I'll load up on holy water." If there are no objections, Scalpel starts carrying out the plan.
Scalpel grimaces as the zombies break a flimsy door to get closer to the noises of survivors. Still safe, for now, but those are going to have to be dealt with... somehow. Just please, let it be after they've rested... They glance briefly at the back and forth about the doll and the name, but their gaze keeps returning down the hall to the Thing. The horrible spider thing is hypnotizing, in its way. Scalpel toys with the cube, twisting it a few directions, frowning at the Eye and its nasty prisoner. "Kind of just want to jam an electrum needle into that eye and see if that hurts it," she mutters. "Okay. This thing is somehow tied to that thing and Ulvar is somehow tied to... or channeling... this thing too. We've done some exploring, some testing. Is it time to act? And if so, what action? I think a majority of us ought to agree, at least." Their words are aimed at the others from the original group. "We try attacking this thing here? With holy water, fire.... the dagger if we have to. The dining room where we left the strigoi- there were vessels and jugs there-- we could load those up with with holy water and try dousing it more generously." Scalpel shifts her weight to the other foot. "Or we try a less aggressive approach - talking past it somehow. Maybe using Ulvar. Seeing if he is near it, what happens, how he reacts. I suggest we have him tied if we're going to try that though. What do people think?"
"This body, you mean?" Scalpel says to Torch, pointing at the dead faceless stalker that Bat has finished off. "I mean... I suppose we can try." Lugging a body sounds exhausting right now, but maybe if they all work together. "My preference would be to take Ulvar there, I think." She is fascinated by what little she's managed to uncover of the box's function via the twisting and turning of it.... but they're no closer to knowing what it does, or why, or any of it.
"A good suggestion," Scalpel says to the dwarf. "Mind if I look at it?"
They arch a question eyebrow at Scalpel. "Oh, you mean like I just suggested a few moments ago? Why yes, that sounds like a lovely idea." She says, tone dripping with sarcasm. Scalpel gives the other patient a long look. "Sorry, there's a lot going on, what with fighting for our lives against monsters, and I feel like I'm about to pass out half the time. Your comment probably went in one ear and out the other. Maybe subconciously it came back now. Is there a reason to be rude about my lapse?"
Hey team, I'm having some semi-serious medical issues right now. I will try to post as I can, but if I am holding anything up don't hesitate to bot me -- in contradiction of my earlier statements. ;)
Scalpel was ready to cut the throat if needed, but Bat does it. She gives them an approving nod, then peers curiously at the box and the needle, clearly itching to experiment a bit with it. But they have bigger priorities right now. "Well.... we could return to the-- the Thing-- and try to say the words Ulvar was saying? Or... BRING Ulvar to it?"
The dwarf can't take another hit like that! Scalpel gasps at seeing the injury. "Hang on! We'll kill it!"
....not like that, they won't. At least Bat is managing to connect-- Scalpel is impressed with her savagery with the dagger. Definitely the right person to have it.
The first rock misses. Scalpel hate chucking into the doorway like this - it's blind luck more than anything, but the smart thing to do would have been to pull back and let the creature come out to them rather than bottleneck as they are.... Scalpel blinks and somehow they're in the room. Did they walk in? Are they in charge of their own feet? With the amnesia are they also going to face blackouts now? The panic that grips them is more to do with the unreliable sense of their own mind than their sudden proximity to the monster. Heart suddenly pounding, they forget about rocks in favor of their scalpel, and swing wildly at the creature.
The panic causes their attack to veer wildly off.
It's hard to see through the doorways but this -- rubber creature... it must be one of the 'faceless' mentioned. It's less overtly horrific than the undead, but it still makes Scalpel's skin crawl. The doorway is too crowded just now, but Scalpel picks up a few more rocks to get ready to throw.
"That thing is hideous," Scalpel says with a shudder, transfixed by the obscene sight of the thing's tongue flailing futilely in mid-air for their blood. They have no desire to get any closer. They do, however, look at the dagger of the fallen Pharasmin, and carefully pick it up. "Now that's a weapon. Anyone else eager to claim it? If I keep it, I'll have to change what you all call me," she deadpans. "May we have as much success hurting a monster with it as she did... and may we live longer lives than she did as well." Scalpel ponders the issue of the strigoi and the threat/not-threat it poses. "I hate leaving it behind us, but your logic is sound-- it's stuck now, and we can deal with it when we're better equipped. Curious, though. I had sort of assumed the building might have taken the damage at the same time the... whatever it was.. happened to let all these monsters into our world, or spawn from those here, or whatever.... but this thing must have been moving about already when the ceiling or wall fell on it." Scalpel frowns. "I wonder if they can talk." She goes nowhere near the pinned horror, but she does say to it: "You. Can you hear me?"
" 'Safe' is relative, I suppose. If he's been in there since this place went to hell, he's probably as hungry and dehydrated as all the rest of us. It doesn't take long for a few days without water to kill someone. Poor bastard," Scalpel grimaces. It's clear she isn't entirely happy just leaving the man in distress, but is also leery of trying to bring him back, just now, with so much unknown-- and the Pharasmins have no shortage of others to take care of. Scalpel does take one of their vials of water, considering the man, looking from the little vial to him and back again.
I know this was previously mentioned but.... could you elaborate on this? Even if the vials are one-ounce vials, which is probably on the light side of things (in the CRB, a single flask of holy water weighs one POUND. Even if you assume the bottle itself counts as half the weight, that would still come out to eight approximate ounces of water to make up half a pound of weight)..... but even if they are in fact just one ounce vials, it doesn't sound like there is anything stopping us from just.... drinking multiple vials. If I drink eight vials that are one ounce each, I've drunk an eight ounce glass of water. There are apparently hundreds of gallons of water in the cauldrons, so running low is not our problem. I get that we don't have a way to carry volume QUICKLY, but I'm a little confused over the assertion that drinking the holy water doesn't quench thirst. Am I just misunderstanding?
Scalpel picks a cautious way into the room, musing that they should discuss tactics better next time - it's not like any of them really know what it's like to work with each other. They've barely met, in the grand scheme of things. She does say aloud, "These monsters really do seem to have nothing in the way of intelligence. Look, they didn't even understand they held the keys to the bars that kept them from their prey... [b]"We may not be seasoned warriors, but any of us are smarter than they are-- we should use that, going forward." She coughs a hard, wracking cough, and wipes sweat from the back of her forehead-- she still feels weak and feverish. "Traps, maybe. Strings to trip them... throwing rocks when we can... using the fact that they seem to have the memory of a goldfish..." Scalpel approaches Ulver cautiously. They look him over, wary, wondering if they really will have to put him down. He sounds quite mad. But then, they suppose that anyone hearing their own group's tale would likely consider them lost causes too.
"Does anyone else smell... rotten eggs?"
"There's no reason to panic!" Scalpel tries to yell, seeing fear wash across the faces of some of the others. Their voice is still weak and raspy. "You don't have to swing at it, just let's use the door to hold it back until it wanders back to the wretch inside and we can use rocks again!"
Scalpel shakes her head at Bat's suggestion of the club. "Appreciate it, but this knife feels more my ... style. I suppose." Though the sound of the shuffling and moaning makes them leery, they are with the others for the opening of the door... and at least it's not the patient who's the source of the moaning. Scalpel hurls one of the rocks from the crumbled masonry in an overhand throw. Just like playing ball on the streets, growing up... Wait, did I do that? Where did I grow up? What streets?
Their own thoughts distract them from a good throw. But after the rock has left their hand-- they yank the door shut again. "It seems like the instant they aren't distracted by us," Scalpel pants, a little out of breath, "they return to badgering that poor bastard in the room-- and he's safe enough so far. Which means we can just keep opening the door - throwing - then closing it-- and waiting til they refocus on him to open it again. No reason--" cough-cough, "...to tangle with these things up close if we don't have to, aye? Fight with our brains, not our fists. We've got plenty of water and rocks both."
'Scalpel' gazes in fascinated horror at the.... Thing, understanding why the residents had a hard time describing it. The grotesque appearance, the muttering.... There's a strong temptation to try to talk to it. The temptation to see if it can be lit on fire and destroyed is almost as great. With an effort, Scalpel turns away, letting the tapestry fall, and shudders once. Later. Maybe. If they can find no better path. Although... "Has anyone tried to throw holy water on this thing?" she asks the residents. *** Up the hallway, then, and they grip the scalpel that has become their namesake in one hand, finding some thin comfort from its presence. It still has the blood of the zombie nurse on it. When their group passes the windows that look out onto yellow fog and shambling bodies, Scalpel pauses, pressing their face to the glass and cupping a hand over it to try and see better. "Let's see if we can count how many. If we have to go through there... better to try and bottleneck them, deal with them one at a time... and we don't want to shatter the glass and leave them a clear path in to get to the children."
The discovery of the morningstar - and the dwarf's eagerness to grab it-- earns a little nod from Scalpel. "It's all yours as far as I'm concerned, Dwarf. You look stronger than me, anyway. If others want it too, well, I'd say we flip a coin but I haven't got one." The other room looks blasted by tremendous force. Scalpel shakes her head, picking up a piece of rubble and looking it over curiously, though she's not sure what she means to learn from it. What force could smash stone and plaster alike, like this? Magic...? They take a small piece of masonry from the rubble, a pebble really, and put it surreptitiously into one hand, then close both fists. "If anyone else wants the weapon besides our Dwarf, then pick either my right or my left hand. The one who guesses the rock gets it. Fair?" With this little drama aside, they look to the door that supposedly leads to the nightmare-cursed man, "Ulver." "So.... are we going to press on, or see if we can get anything from him? If he's-- I mean, if he's a prisoner, like us, I don't know he should just be left here alone. And if he's a danger-- then... then I don't know if we should leave him at our backs." As they wait to see if the others have an opinion, Scalpel presses her ear to the door of the ward that holds Ulver and listens for anything beyond it.
"Torch is a good name. Or nickname," Scalpel says with a little smile at the other inmate, who is experimenting with the strange magical fire.
"Yes, perhaps we could cut across that way. I suspect we'll have to see the exact configuration of things - we can't expect our drawn map to be fully updated to this exact moment, after all," Scalpel answers the random person who has pointed out the possible shortcut. Scalpel then looks to 'Bat.' "I think... taking down a door is going to require time and tools. I don't think we have the latter. And I am perhaps speaking only for myself when I say I'm exhausted. The work it would take to try and disassemble a door... I'd prefer to face whatever that mysterious 'Thing' is, I think." Scalpel shrugs. They roll up the map and tuck it into their... improvised belt bit. "Well. I guess we can go investigate the possible shortcut?"
While the others debate, the one being called 'Scalpel' gazes at the locked door in the priest's quarters, fingers idly tapping against the mechanism. "Do you all have the key for this chamber?" she asks Autumn. "I know you'd prefer to leave your leader's quarters undisturbed, but... this is a time for taking every advantage we might be able to get." I could pick the lock, they think, and then blink at themselves. Pick it? With what? Laughable. Do I even know how to pick locks? Leaving the door aside for now (unless the Pharasmans have the key), Scalpel returns to the others. "Heading for the chapel is all well and good. By what route? The direct route, facing this mysterious, um, 'thing' behind the tapestry? Or the long route...." Their fingers trace on the map, going from the lounge where the survivors have currently gathered, north up a long hall, and all the way around the building. "...with who knows how many zombies filling the way between? Unless.... there's any shortcuts."
As they look to the others to see if anyone feels like boldly confronting the 'Thing' is the way to go, Scalpel clears her throat. "I know we don't know our names. Is there anything each of you want to be called? I don't just want to say, um, 'hey dwarf.' It seems... rude. You can call me Scalpel for now, if you like." They look to the others, really taking them in for the first time. There's a woman with-- striking eyes, and Scalpel does a small double take. "--um, I don't know if you know this, but your eyes are-- very yellow, miss."
The tall figure crouches to be at eye-level with the small blond girl. "Well.... I don't know if I'm really called that, but I suppose we have to have nicknames. Things to call each other. I don't-- I don't remember my own, you see. And we found this little knife, it's called a scalpel. Since I'm carrying it... it's as good a nickname as any." It's not the most satisfying explanation, they feel, but they have no better one to give. They-- she?-- gives the child a shrug. Then, she attempts a smile-- it feels rusty on her face. "And how about you, what is your name, little one?" ****** 'Scalpel' listens to the story of the asylum's recent woes with drawn brows, rubbing at their aching joints with her fingers. "This yellow fog-- it just came out of the air all around you? Or from a specific direction? "...also, to go back to an earlier matter... this, um. 'Thing.' Behind the tapestry. You said... it's growing? manifesting? I don't understand what that means... There is something physically there?? Or... it's a painting, or...?" ****** 'Scalpel' nods wearily to the suggestion of opening the sealed office. They mostly just want to sleep, perhaps for a year, but there's no time. And if there's any supplies of use, they'll probably be in that office.
Scalpel rubs at their jaw as they listen. "Well.... we know where there is water, at least, a few hundred gallons of it. Similar to that stuff you threw on our.... our friend. I drank from it and it did not poison me. As for food, we could do with that ourselves, to be certain." They break into other coughing fit, long arms wrapped around themselves briefly. "...and clothes. Better clothes. If you have such."
"Thank you," Scalpel rasps emphatically when the arguing ceases and they are allowed in. "Thank you..." They listen to the explanations with a confused frown. "You called this an asylum? You said you've all been here for years? Please, start at the beginning, and act like we know nothing, because we don't - how did you get here? What has happened?"
"Can we all just calm down?" Scalpel says, wearily slumping against the wall. "You're scared, we get that. We're scared too. We haven't told you our names because we don't know them. We woke up with no... no knowledge of who...." They trail off, shaking their head. "We all had a nightmare. A city, yellow fog, a tall thin man with tattered clothes chasing us. There was no escape. Then we woke... to a horror. A zombie was mutilating a man, a... 'strigoi?' was draining his blood. The strigoi left and we were able to kill the zombie and escape. If you want the zombie body, I'll go get the nearest one right now, for you, it's not that far back. "Or if you want me to put down my weapons, pathetic as they are, and come forward to you unarmed and alone, so that you can poke at me and do whatever pleases you to confirm I am no shapeshifter, I'll do that too. I'm too tired to fight you. I'm... I'm so tired."
"There's no need for insults," Scalpel says with clear exhaustion shading their? her? tone. "We were being held prisoner, we escaped, we're-- probably like all of you, whoever you are. You said 'inmate'- are you here against your will, too? I don't have much to show our good will, but... if you need water, we know where there is clean, drinkable water."
"The water didn't poison us," Scalpel points out mildly to the dwarf. "Whatever is here now, this place once held good. I say we talk-- or try to." More loudly, they call out to the barricade defenders: "We're not monsters! We were prisoners. We're tired, starving, hurt. I understand why you'd be suspicious, but--" The effort of talking loudly, when they are still so weak and sick, sets them coughing. They bend near double for a bit until they get their breath back, then straighten to try again. "We... we bear a symbol of Pharasma. Would that =cough= prove it to you? Who are you?"
The vials can be used for drinking-- not a lot at a time, but still workable! A note on my character's gender - they are biologically female, but don't particularly feel much like a woman to themselves. That said, right now they're having to judge based on the body they're in-- so probably sometimes I will use 'she/her' for my character and sometimes 'they/them'. OOCly, I do not mind if other characters refer to my character as a woman, man, or anything else. Just explaining for clarity's sake.
The feel of the scalpel sinking in deep is.... familiar. Or is it? Is it just their mind desperate for some sort of anchor, to know who they are? Yet stabbing felt-- somewhat familiar. They think. They shake it off and join the others looking around. Oh gods-- water! They beeline for the cauldrons and snatch up an empty vial in order to dip it in and then drink. "I don't know about you but I can certainly use this water," they rasp. "This may the best tasting water I've ever had." The first vial is gone in no time, and the lanky scalpel-holding figure dips again and again, until the parched tightness of their throat starts to ease. Then, they start to take measure of the belongings.
Two garments-- of a sort. And a scalpel. The lanky figure lays the cloths out on the nearest table and starts to cut strips. "We can use these as belts, of sorts," they explain, voice less raspy than before. "A square of fabric tucked over gives a sort of a-- pocket. Yes? Here, take one, or more if you need. And if anyone, ah, needs to cover part of themselves....." They trail off. A glance down at their own body has given them the evidence they appear-- she appears-- to be female. Is that right? A lanky, skinny female, not much in the chest department to be fair, but nothing-at-all in the twigs-and-berries department. So... I'm a woman, they think, though... it has the same haze of 'but is that real?' that their thoughts about stabbing had. At any rate, they, or she, takes the upper part of the nurse's garment and dons it, as a sort of half-assed shirt. It covers the essentials. Absently, they start to grab another square of fabric and set it on their head at a jaunty angle.... then hesitate. --I think we have bigger concerns than fashion right now, what the hell? Yet there's an itching urge to cover their head. After a moment's indecision, they, or she, uses one of the cut strips as a sort of a headband. It gets their dark, unkempt, long hair back out of their face, and things can be tucked into the band at a pinch.
Adrenaline spikes as the thing shambles closer. The lanky figure lashes out once-- twice-- with the scalpel!
Not to worry, that was on me for holding things up. Sorry!
He does take up a torch however, and as the group moves upstairs, she seems drawn to the holy symbol. They pick it up, and look to the others. "May I keep this?" She asks. The figure glances up, as if surprised to be asked, looking around to see if the query is directed at anyone else. "Don't see as any of us has any claim or dibs above anyone else," they say back in a raspy whisper. "You want it, it's yours." A little pause, and then they extend a shaky hand in greeting. "I'm--" A pause. A blank silence. The tall gangly person realizes they have.... absolutely no idea how to finish that sentence. They don't know who they are. They lapsed into a sort of horrified silence, leaving the sentence unfinished, as the full weight of a lack of identity comes bearing down on them.
The lanky figure takes the scalpel, transferring bell to the rock-holding hand. Their fingers do not feel as if they have any strength. If they have to fight... The blow of the improvised cudgel to the nurse's skull makes them wince again. They turn, half-ready to protest, half-ready to urge the act on. But it is only one blow, and the nurse, or whatever she is, goes still. The lanky figure hesitates, then moves to her quiescent body. They cannot leave anything useful behind-- anything. The long white gown she's wearing is more clothes than any of them have. It'll be cold once they stop moving, once the fever lets them go. And the nurse has-- food. Food stained with chemicals and human blood, but... food.
The task is done as quickly as possible, with clumsy and shaking hands. So dizzy, so tired, but they can't stop to rest, not now. Picking their way through the damaged hole they emerge with the others into the bigger chamber. The southern door is lightly ajar-- by sheer instinct they move to it, studying the doorframe for dangers, pressing their eye to the crack to look through and see what lies beyond.
"Thank you," the tall thin figure rasps to the dwarf with the strange arm when he unlocks the cells. It seems a ludicrous thing to say, under the circumstances, surrounded by death, but.... maybe that's why it needs saying. "W..w..wh..ere are ...we?" Their voice is low and strained, dryer than parched paper. "Don't know," the tall figure answers, in similarly strained, whispered tones. "But wherever it is... we need to be gone before... that thing comes back. Can--" The figures breaks into some dry, unsatisfying coughing-- it feels like there's not even moisture in their mouth. "Can everyone walk? Someone... should take the... scalpel." And someone should use it to cut the throat of that damned nurse, comes the thought, after it, recalling how she had butchered the man on the table. But following that thought comes the knowledge that whatever's happened to her has left her a mere husk. She doesn't even seem to grasp they're here-- or escaping-- let alone the horror and evil of what she did. The lanky figure is about to move for the door then recognizes the cobblestone they abandoned in the... dream. They stare down at it with dark eyes for a long moment, then pick it up. If nothing else... maybe it can be a crude weapon to bash in someone's skull. If needed. Bell in one hand. Stone in the other. They wobble, unsteady on their feet, towards the door that is the only possible way out.
The entrance of the horrible blood-drinking creature causes the figure to duck down behind the table edge again, barely breathing as they listen to the stomach-turning sounds of the man on the table being drained of his life. If the Tatterman was a nightmare, they pray this is too. They squeeze their eyes shut, trying to wake from it, but this one is very persistent. They peek around the table just enough to see the obscene sight of the of the strigoi (why do I know what it is?) seemingly satisfied with its feast. The monster leaves. The monster leaves, and the figure shudders once, almost violently. This truly is a nightmare. Peering again, they see the first thing that isn't horrific, that promises some sort of hope: another prisoner, a dwarf, moving. Standing at the bars of their own cell. Cautiously, the person crouched behind the table of their own cell stands up-- very slow, very slow, in case their motion draws the attention of the nurse. With hands raised (one hand holds a bell), they approach their own cell bars, clearing their throat. They want the nurse to look at them, if possible... and not at the dwarf who is so close to the keys. Of course, if the nurse is wholly insensate, all for the better.
Your night terror ends and you awaken... The figure's own jerking hand, trying to ring a phantom bell, twitches above their pale body before their eyes fly open. For long seconds they can do nothing but breathe raspy and shallow, the panic still so raw. But ultimately other sensations filter in, and sensory input. No Tatterman. Now. Just... cold. (Freezing really.) Hard. Table. What? Where? Where am I? Their breathing slows by degrees-- still shallow and thready, but no longer raw and rasping gasps. Cautiously, cautiously, without moving the rest of their body, one of the prisoner's eyes moves to the side, observing their peripheral vision. They are treated to the horror of a... nurse, if such she is, mutilating a body that is alive but not fighting. The scent of blood is thick in this place. The prisoner watches, biting their own tongue, barely daring to let their own chest rise and fall. The slice of the scalpel into the poor bastard's most vulnerable flesh makes them wince despite themselves. Moving as slowly and quietly as they can-- not very, for their limbs feel week and uncoordinated, clumsy-- the figure eases off the table and into a defensive crouch, using the table as shelter from the nurse's gaze (not that she is looking around at all). Uncontrollable shivers wrack them. It's freezing and they've barely a scrap of cloth, if it can be called that. Sense is starting to return, like sunlight creeping over a frost-whited roof, but so slowly. Think. Think! The bell is here. Why is the bell here? The sight of it causes a fresh uptick in the panic: if the bell is here, then so is.... no. No, nobody here. Other than that mockery of a nurse, killing that man by inches. The inarticulate whimpers earn a wince from the figure. They grab the bell, not sure what they intend with it but it is-- something. An object. It's real. Grip it tightly. Cautiously, the figure's head emerges over the top of the table they were lying on. They must escape, somehow. Or they'll wind up like the poor $!%^ bleeding out on that table, surely. A pair of dark eyes scan the other cells, and... make contact...? with the gaze of another prisoner.... possibly?
A small cowbell with the image of a goat-head artistically engraved upon it. Perhaps ringing it will wake you up. The cowbell is as surreal and impossible as anything else here. Doom is approaching, the rags of its tattered garb sounding like the fluttering wings of some carrion bird. Doom is approaching. Death is coming. There is still some distance to run... But the figure stands still, staring dully at the cowbell, their brain still, stupidly, stubbornly, trying to make it all make sense. Why is there a cowbell ... here? In the middle of an alley, otherwise bare, no sign of market stalls or livestock passage. A cowbell. An inanity, a non sequitur. None of it follows. (Death is coming, run--) Instead the figure slumps against the wall, sags down. They are too tired. They are too tired. They want to understand and nothing makes sense. Bloodied fingers reach for the bell. An attempted ring-- does it make sound, has it a clapper? Or is it as broken as everything else in this city? Death comes closer. Step by step. Every breath hurts and tastes of blood. The runner-- no longer a runner-- coughs weakly, trying to ring the bell. Come, then. You can hear me. Come finish me....
The mind continues to rebel. Insisting that this is not reality, that it is not possible to make six right-angle turns in the same direction at the same intervals and not cross one's path again.... that buildings can't be built like this, it makes no sense... Surely, surely a dream:
It still seems much too real. The runner knows they cannot possibly go much further. Their heart will explode before they reach the dead end, perhaps. Quite possibly. They stagger several more steps.
The impossibility is in more than the blind alley. The fourth turn sends the faintest of alarms through the runner's mind, but panic is much too loud to hear it. The fifth turn though.... the sixth... This is a square. A box. What? And the walls are closing in. Literally. At first the far one was too far to reach, then touchable with fingertips, now full contact with palm. The animal panic urges flee, flee, flee. The rational brain struggles back against it. For a ragged few seconds, the figure stops, their chest heaving for breath, their eyes darting wildly around the buildings. Their fingers have left a smudge of blood on the far wall. Is it the same wall they touched before? Are they going in circles? None of this is possible. None of this... This is... a dream? A nightmare? No. It is much too real. No dream or nightmare has ever included the sensations so acute, so tangible. The sting in their knuckles and eyes, the tightness in the chest, the dizzy vertigo. It isn't possible. It breaks the rules of the world. But it's real. And all they can do is run. Down the ever-narrowing corridor, knowing with sick dread that this is a dead end as well, that the corridor will narrow and narrow until even turning around is impossible... and yet, standing still and waiting to die is equally impossible.
The figure had tried for the rooftops but it's impossible. It's back down again instead, and lancing white hot pain as they land. That leg. Useless now. No, gods no... The cobblestone in hand is too heavy. Dead weight only. If it's a weapon it's a poor one, and in their heart of hearts, the runner knows they can't fight this. Escape lies only in speed. They drop the rock, letting it clatter dully away over the other cobblestones, and they run-- or limp. No more running, not on that ankle. But limping, as fast as possible, one hand on the walls for support.
Bloodied fingers scrabble for-- whatever it is. A weapon? If only. Chance is blind:
The same fingers then scrabble at the walls of the small room in disbelief. Door! Door, where is the door?!?! there MUST be... But there isn't. Or it's hidden too well to find. A lunge back to the window, a panicked scan of the street for the pursuit. What about-- up? The rooftops? Keep going, flee that way. Run. Run. Run.
Where am I???? The figure runs through the streets in panic, but even so, some part of the mind is trying desperately to ascertain location. Panicked eyes scan the buildings for any familiar landmark-- a shopfront, a sign, a familiar fountain-- anything. Anything. Anything to give a clue, a hint, as to location. Once they know where they are, they'll know the nearest safe place, bolt hole, hiding spot... But nothing is familiar. Nothing. The fear only rises. A black window, far up. Too far. But the runner knows they can't run forever. Already exhaustion claws blackly at them and their lungs burn. They desperately try to scrabble up the wall for the possible shelter of the window and whatever unknown lurks beyond.
The Asmodean still seems snappish over Constantine's state, or perhaps Pava is bringing up awkward memories, but he calms down some in the archives. Legal research is something any follower of the Prince of Law worth their salt can do, and Sirio is a dab hand at the trade...
With a certain self-satisfaction Sirio emerges a few minutes into the document with the look of a man who is good at his trade and knows it. "A standard-- if complex-- family will, governing the succession and the disposition of certain specifics. However-- all the named parties seem to be deceased. Pava and her siblings were born after this was drafted-- if a more recent version of the will exists, it isn't this one."
Sparrow nods. "Yes, you have more a gift for talking than any of us, I think. That makes sense. And Mister Regariel-- perhaps you should take the other? That evens things out well, then. Should we see to that delivery so Miss Yuzu isn't carrying it about all day?" Markon grunts his assent, and with the copper ring handed off to Reg, you head out for where Tamri says the Hemsoth farmstead is... **** Like most of the other farms, the Hemsoth place isn't all that much to look at. Turnips are growing here (le shock!), as well as a smaller garden with more varied produce near to the house. Tomato trellises, stacks of hay, and a small patch of wheat potentially provide enough cover to reach the farmhouse in a, shall we say, discreet manner... Or you could simply try and talk your way past the mother-- that figure out in the front of the house hoeing the rows of turnips is likely her, as she looks to be too old to be the daughter in the relationship. Perhaps talking to her would allow someone quiet to slip round the back.
Markon looks over the distance to the farmhouse with a little frown and a grunt and a shrug, then looks back to Lilita and Regariel. "How you wanna do this? I'm okay at tiptoein' but not the best. I'm also okay at b#~#$#$*." Sparrow scrunches his nose but doesn't argue the point. He also doesn't volunteer to try and get involved.
Neither Sparrow nor Markon make any objection. "Good," Tamli says with a grunt, clapping her hands together brusquely. "In that case, then--" She reaches one of her big hands into her pockets and pulls out two rings that she proffers over. "I dunno what they do," she says with a shrug. Sparrow perks up and takes them before anyone else can. "Well now, let me just see here," he says with a bit of a hum, while Markon rolls his eyes. "Ah hells, now he has a new toy..." "Hsstt," Sparrow mutters absently, examining the rings-- one a plain band of hammered red-hued copper, no decoration beyond the beaten texture, and the other silver with a tiny inset blue stone. He mutters arcane words over them, poking intently at the two rings in his palm, and is quiet for several moments before pronouncing: "That one ought to bolster the wearer's skill at making a good first impression, I think," he says of the silver ring, "and this other gives just a bit of extra hardiness, of sorts."
"Who do we think should have them?" the wizard asks, looking up from behind his spectacles at the others. Tamli interjects a bit quickly, "Uh, temporarily! They ARE Bort's." Markon looks like he's restraining himself from saying yeah, if he lives.
"Suits me," Markon says with a shrug and a clap of Regariel's slim shoulders. "Eyes and Ears, you're a package deal alright." He takes up a spot behind Reg, though walks with his sword drawn through the empty buildings and overgrown streets of the north side of town. Sparrow takes up the rear, glancing side to side occasionally. You can see the house in question, but before you enter, a figure lurches from the gap between two nearby buildings, wide-eyed and staring at your group. Markon wheels with blade half-raised, but the figure before you isn't armed-- at least, not with anything but an empty turnipta bottle held low at one side. It appears to be Krent, looking even the worse for wear than when you ran into him the other night. He weaves on his feet, hand outstretched towards Lilita in a hesitant way. "Don't go in there, Talmore," he mumbles, and the waft of strong turnip-based alcohol accompanies his words. "It's dangerous, old friend..." Markon and Sparrow trade looks, then both look to either Lilita or Reg.
"Hm--? Oh, yes, certainly," Sparrow says with a distracted nod at Reg. A repeat of the muttering and the small ripple in space, and Reg's rather filthy-looking garment seems quite restored. Sparrow adjusts his glasses. "I admit, they never really FEEL as clean to me when laundered via magic... but perhaps that's just me being oversensitive. It looks clean, anyway. "And you're quite right, Miss Yuzu. The clothes make the man, as they say in Absalom. Or the woman, of course. "As for our investigation..... I'm not really sure. It's a pity Hallod fell in the thick of things-- I mean, we were in no position to try and pull our blows, we were fighting for our lives there-- but whatever he knew about his employer likely went to the grave with him. It seems we can certainly assume that the mysterious V has some skill at alchemy-- I don't think Hallod was the one mixing up those potions, and of course, whatever reagents were being ordered weren't there in his little lair, either. "I suppose we could try and stake out that stump? See if 'V' shows again? But if they have any eyes or ears in the town, they'll know that that location is compromised..... It is a knotty little problem. "But I agree with you, Regariel; we likely haven't made a friend of this person. May I suggest we try to stick together, rather than not? No solo information gathering? We really don't know who in this town we can trust. For instance, that jumpy fellow you so spooked, miss Yuzu-- I wonder if we ought to still visit him. But as a group, nobody going off to investigate hunches or--" A rather loud feminine laugh and squeal from upstairs makes Sparrow cut off; Markon's voice is heard chasing it and then a 'Oh, now I gotcha, honey--" "MARKON, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THE GODS, CLOSE THE ROOM'S DOOR," Sparrow says with an expression that can best be described as extreme disgruntlement. "Oh! Haha, sorry!" Somewhere overhead a door shuts. Sparrow stares into the middle distance, and then picks up his teacup and has a sip. "I was going to say, or going off to satisfy individual curiosity or pursue personal errands, but clearly, it is not the two of you that I should be addressing. I'd apologize for my traveling companion, but whatever is the point?"
Sparrow is there already, and gives Lilita a nod and a restrained but genuine smile. "I trust you're feeling better today, after some rest."
"Now let me just see about that jacket and cloak of yours..." Rubbing his thin fingers together, Sparrow mutters to himself, a look of concentration creasing his brow as he mumbles over Lilita's garments. A little ripple in the air seems to pass over the items, and when it fades, the stains are gone! An impressive laundry service indeed. "There. It's a very convenient spell but it seems so.... I don't know. Self-indulgent? When on the road. Especially when danger's a reality. But there's a good deal to be said for clean clothes on the road too, isn't there... And I think I may be able to bring a few new magics to bear in the case of threats, anyway. I've felt some progress in my spellwork. All this unaccustomed use, I suppose." The mage pauses, then looks sheepish. "Er, forgive me, I'm babbling. There's hot tea if you want some of mine. I believe the cook is currently frying up ham slices from the boar to go with a mighty quantity of eggs. Perhaps the smell will get Markon out of bed... but I doubt it, he stayed up late."
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