will you witness me in a pit of fire | march catch-all

[terriblepurpose]

Who: Paul Atreides, Junia, and associates
What: Event prompts, Fated Leviathan aftermath
When: March
Where: Various

Content Warnings: General event warnings, fungal hallucinations, hallucinations of corpses, discussion of death

Comments

Paul Atreides

[terriblepurpose]

Early March | Flynn Scifo

[terriblepurpose]

[Paul sends this message as soon as he can bear to, which still feels like too much of a delay.]

Commander Scifo,

I have returned from the ocean. I expect you will want to debrief me on events occurring subsequent to my departure from the field. You may reach me at the following location at your convenience.

The skeletons are meant to be there. They won't harm you.

Paul Atreides

[Attached is a sketched map of the path to the dilapidated mansion that Paul is currently residing in. When Flynn chooses to come, he will find that the skeleton who answers the door is a well-mannered, if silent, servant - they will lead Flynn directly to where Paul is waiting in the first floor keeping room, seated next to a still brewing pot of tea.

Despite being indoors, he's wearing a pair of tinted glasses that don't quite obscure the luminous blue of the eyes behind them, glowing like soft, strange candles. Otherwise, he seems himself - formal, poised, and quiet - until he opens his mouth, and a chorus of imperfectly mingled voices spills out.]

Hello, Flynn.

[thinkfirst]

[ The warning about the skeletons is... alarming.

To say the very least.

It would be more alarming if the ground of reality wasn't once again shifting under Flynn's feet, and far more alarming if he hadn't narrowed his world down to a few select points in order to cope: Flynn is a creature of duty and habit, and under the weight of his own percieved failure he does what he can. He waits for Yuri to come back to him, and then he cooks and he cleans and he stays within the small cocoon of the family he has built for himself here, wondering if it's alright to accept this kind of care. On the beach, the Leviathan rots.

There never was any sign of Paul. He'd looked for him, too, for their warning bell and their leader, the one marshalling all their effort to begin with. Flynn had promised him, after all, to get everyone through this alive and well.

So the skeleton thing is less alarming because it's such a relief just to get a message from Paul at all, to know that he has returned and that he's alive and well. Flynn sends something back, ignoring the growth of mushrooms on his own fingers he can't ever seem to get rid of. He doesn't quite know what it is: the world feels floating and strange. It is: ]

Paul,

I will be there. So will Yuri, though he's not quite fully returned.

Why are there skeletons

[ He means to include a question mark, and doesn't, and then forgets about the message entirely, sinking into making a soup, which turns out alright mostly because they have some canned coconut milk and crab and lime leaves sprouting in abundance from their wall, and also because Yuri, wrapped around him, squid-atouilles him into making something edible instead of monstrous.

Soup is what Hanks used to make them when they were small and hungry and frightened, when rain lashed the windows and leaked through the roof patched a hundred times or more, when it seemed that the Lower Quarter would be swept away in the deluge. He makes it now as an apology, gathers his notes and the soup all together, and heads for a lamp before Blue's mental tendrils can pull him back. It's still early, and he's not yet trapped.

The skeletons are meant to be there, he tells himself, and sidles past them all the same, one hand keeping Yuri's squid-self on his shoulder and the other with a pot that he lets down onto the nearest surface. Paul is glowing and covered, to Flynn's eyes, in bioluminescent fungi. It takes him a long moment to even recognize Paul, his face obscured and strange by those glasses and the glowing and something else, and so he hovers, watching, wondering. Is he in the right place?

There are a thousand things to say, and guilt squirms hard in his belly, and then Paul speaks and everything flees. Flynn makes a startled sound. ]

Paul, what—?

[terriblepurpose]

[It doesn't help to rise to his feet with wide eyes and raised hands held palms out, but Paul finds himself doing it anyway, a lapse in control that already shames him.]

It's all right -

[the distortion is worse when he's agitated, and he grimaces to hear it, cocking his head and reaching for the lines of control that have been so fallible lately. His heartbeat slows too quickly, in a fit of irony, and he sinks back into the chair carefully as his head swims with the abrupt change in pressure.]

It's corruption. It's temporary.

[He leans back against the worn upholstery of the high-backed chair, throat bobbing in a swallow. If there was any doubt of who was standing before him with Flynn's picture-book perfect posture and his precise, measured footsteps, there's no doubt now. Paul rarely makes a hash of things so thoroughly with anyone else.]

The skeletons are the servants of the host. They're harmless. [To answer a question not fully asked, his voices resigned and weary.] It's good to see you well. And to see you, too, Yuri.

[Softer on the last, threaded through with shame.]

[thinkfirst]

[ Returned but corrupt. Will the same thing happen to Yuri? Will his skin be cold to the touch, his eyes burning? Flynn stares for a long, quiet moment, trying not to see the little mushrooms bobbing with Paul's movements. What a strange symptom, to sprout like that, but at least he is here. Whole, or something close to it.

It takes him a moment to move, mostly because he has to balance Yuri's clinging form and the fact that Yuri stretches out one long, dark tentacle to pat at Paul's head, or try to. Flynn hisses his name, but Yuri ignores him until Flynn manages to shift them far away enough that he can't reach, so that they're standing in front of Paul but not too close. ]

No skeleton is harmless in Terca Lumireis.

[ They're there out of the corner of his eye, uncomfortable and skinless. Strange. At least no mushrooms sprout from their bones: a small blessing. Flynn radiates discomfort, holding too much in him that needs to spill over, welling up faster and faster. He watches Paul for a long silent moment, and the room holds its breath.

And then, all at once, as Yuri squeaks in something like protest, Flynn presses his right fist to his chest and sweeps into a deep, neat bow, the sort obviously practiced. ]

I must offer you my apologies, and my regrets at my failure in the battle against the Leviathan.

Early March | Raleigh Becket

[terriblepurpose]

[Paul has a list of names he needs to contact. This one in particular is high on it, despite the brevity of their acquaintance.]

Raleigh Becket,

This is Paul Atreides. I've returned from my absence. I reach out to you to offer my gratitude for your efforts in the recent conflict, without which victory would have been impossible.

If you wish to debrief me personally, you may visit me at your convenience. The skeletons will not harm you.

Paul Atreides

[When Raleigh arrives, Paul answers the door himself, having happened to be close enough to see his approach. He's wearing borrowed sunglasses over his still stubbornly lit blue eyes, and these are paired with the fetching ensemble of a baggy black long-sleeve t-shirt, loose black pants, and incongruously bright white socks. He lifts a hand as if meaning to brush back his messy hair, but drops it listlessly, looking up slightly at the taller man.]

Becket.

[His voice reverberates with the echoes of other voices, not quite whole, but it doesn't seem to surprise him.]

[righthemisphere]

[The skeletons will not harm you. Jesus, Paul.

But man is he glad to hear from him. Raleigh doesn't waste time once he receives the letter and sets about finding his way to Paul's. Having never been there before the lanterns aren't much use, but he's got an ATV and he takes her into Trench to go find his friend, armed with a bottle of moonshine and a basket of produce. He doesn't know if Death Flu is still a thing here, but better to err on the side of caution.

You don't need to be a paleblood to feel the strangeness of the air once he enters, taking note of Paul's casual but soft outfit. Again, can't blame him. Raleigh would want to be comfortable, too. The cacophony of voice makes him tense, but the rest of him stands framed with affection, concern, and guilt.

Becket. Last name. Is he in trouble?]

Commander. I'm glad you're back. I wan getting worried.

[He offers the basket in his hands, eggs, a butchered and cleaned chicken, and fresh produce the likes of which haven't been seen in this place for.. well, ever, by Raleigh's count.]

I brought you some groceries. How are you feeling?

[terriblepurpose]

[Paul would think that someone who spends as much time as he does looking into the future would find a way to be less surprised. Of all the things he expected of Raleigh on this doorstep, a basket of food paired with that restrained, cautious concern -

It itches at the back of his throat, in the corners of his eyes, or maybe that's the pollen. He slips his fingers under his glasses to rub at the bridge of his nose before he accepts the basket (what else can he do, in the face of this?), cradling it close to his chest.]

I've had better months.

[What is meant to be dry humor falls short of the mark. Paul steps aside and waves Raleigh in, the interior so far skeleton free as far as it's visible.]

Thank you for this. [He looks down at the gift in his arms, multifaceted voice quiet.] I made tea, if you'd like some. I can make coffee. And you don't - I don't think you should call me that, anymore.

[righthemisphere]

[Huh. Maybe he isn't in trouble after all.

Raleigh comes in with a nod of thanks and waits to follow, having never been here and no idea where anything is. Give him time, you won't be able to get rid of him. Making himself at home in the kitchen or curled in a chair with a book.]

Whatever you prefer. Tea would be nice.. got anything herbal?

[Any way to get out of having to admit that he's a sensitive flower and can't do caffeine.]

Third Week of March | L Lawliet | The Emperor

[terriblepurpose]

[Paul's father once said that his mother planned dinner parties like war. She'd smiled, a slender, fond tilt of her mouth, and said nothing, then. It was when Paul was at her elbow as they laid out seating arrangements that she offered her correction. She didn't plan dinner parties like war. She planned them like peace: far more volatile, and harder to win.

Paul smooths a tablecloth over the round table in the breakfast nook, lays out the place settings at the points of an invisible triangle. He places a bowl of clear water in the center, by the sugar and the cream, and puts the cut heads of newly blossomed white spring flowers in it to float. He stacks biscuits on a plate and sweet pastries on another, then bursts blueberries in a pan of sugar-water until they're glossy and softened through. He even remembers to add spices, this time, a scattering of precious cinnamon and nutmeg.

By the time he's done, he still has to wait, and he spends that time working his thumb against the growing hole in the sleeve of his black knit sweater. By the time Lazarus is at the door, he has it hooked over his thumb entirely, the end of his sleeve balled in his fist at the small of his back when he swings the door open.]

Lazarus. [He smiles warmly, stepping aside to usher him in.] You look well.

[Besides the radial fronds of silver fungi, and the general dishevelment and exhaustion, and the way Paul still can't sort his features back into a shape he can convince himself to recognize.

He wonders what he looks like to Lazarus. If he can see the clear, unlit blue of his eyes, or note the touch of healthy color returning to his skin. It seems unbearable to ask.]

How have you been feeling?

[hearthebell]

[In truth, L hadn't expected any invitations, the same way he never expects invitations. Lately, even the kindest overtures feel like traps, some ulterior motive to put him in a bed, or a corner or a box. After waking up ragged from a week straight of dream wandering, he'd been kept until deemed healthy, which took some doing, given how he'd started before he'd swallowed no shortage of sleeping herbs and lain down quietly in Cassandra, with nothing left to care for except a thorough postmortem.

He'd dreamed, and wandered. He'd run himself ragged and it had taken a week to undo the damage that a week had done. He hadn't mentioned it to anyone, hadn't hinted that he'd needed to be carried out of the Pale Sanctuary. He's only recently left the Lumenarium, several pounds thinner, the gauntness showing up harshly in the jagged angles of his already-prominent bones.

Better that it's his secret, apart from the civilized and kind customs like tea and burst blueberries and royalty. Has Paul found his place here now that an Emperor has taken him under his wing? L was ambivalent about coming here, ambivalent about arriving, however glad he is to see Paul. Is that the problem? He's invested in someone, to the point of drifting toward destruction? Is it his ego, envy because he's designated Paul a successor on some level, and perhaps the Emperor seeks to do the same?

No; I don't think so. I think that the Emperor loves himself too much to die and make way for an heir.

He shows up wan even after a week of hospital supervision and recovery, but not much more so than he usually looks. Paul could even be forgiven, relatively speaking, for saying that he looks well, and he nods, pretending it's true, resisting the urge to say you as well, more so, even for having died, because a genocidal necromancer has made you his pet protege.

Anything strange he feels about any of this is somewhat mollified just by seeing Paul, looking truly well, with energy and brightness in his circulation and his bright blue eyes that are, still, not quite spice-bright. He can see, of course he can see, but it still takes him a moment to recognize Paul.It can't have been that long since they've seen each other, he thinks; they can't be strangers already, or did that dream shake something really and truly loose in his only boon, his brilliant mind?]

I've been fine, of course.

[Spoken like someone to whom it really is of no consequence... but can Paul even see the conflict in his features, the tension in his brow, the anxious paranoia that comes with just crossing this building's threshold?

Paul knows what happened in a slice of that dream. He doesn't know what happened in the Emperor's slice, at least to L's knowledge, and if he does? Well... Paul has replaced him as confidante, as well, and can he even blame the young man for responding to control and charisma when he can't even find a stable home, and his sleeve is torn?]

I hope that it's the same for you, Paul.

[He hopes it's better, even as it tears at him to think that someone else could provide "better." He's sure to say Paul's name, just in case it actually isn't him, all those spores conspiring to make him give away something else he doesn't mean to and become less whole, less solid, and finally actually disappear.]

I was glad you wanted to meet...

[But surprised, he doesn't say, he can't bring himself to say. It implies that he has already decided that a vital connection is done with him.]

[terriblepurpose]

[There it is, again. That furtive, skittish hunching in and away, the whole of Lazarus' body posed in a question he thinks he already knows the answer to. Paul could bite his tongue. He nearly does, running its tip along flat shearing edges and gentle canid points.

Sometimes, Paul imagines taking Lazarus (taking any and all of them) by the shoulders and shaking, until reeling dizzy vulnerability makes him unsteady enough to fold up in Paul's arms. There, Paul will ask, with immense and patient kindness, what Paul has to do in order to finally make him trust him the way he says he does.

He knows that's not really what's wrong. He knows that it wouldn't work, besides. So he smothers the impulse, neat and quick, underneath a welcoming smile.]

Of course I did. I missed you.

[Besides. There are all types of ways to throw people off-balance. Paul closes the door behind him and reaches for Lazarus' shoulder, where the pale mark of his hand still lies, and gives it a quick, certain clasp. It's the kind of thing that would, that has, disarmed him, and he's learning that doesn't always have to be such a bad thing.

Lazarus will get there, eventually.]

I'm glad you came. We have catching up to do, don't we?

[hearthebell]

[For all its splintery stiffness, L's posture can communicate more, at times, than his odd pale features or his soft, clipped voice that is usually locked down, so controlled as to sound monotone. A platonic Bond, one who feels as he feels, would understand that the tortured tension is bracing for something.

Paul probably understands better than L does, himself. Though he'd been doing well enough with the grounding techniques Paul taught him, whatever life raft he's holding onto right now has tossed it overboard with the rest of the excess cargo.

He trusts Paul to make the choices that are smart, even if they're difficult. He trusts him to always have a strategy, which is why he trusts that there is not just tea and catching up on the agenda. It's more than a feeling; it's surrounding both of them, creeping up the walls and hanging with many lolling tongues from the ceiling of his home.

He glances briefly away. Not knowing where the door is, not having an exit strategy, is very foolish, after all. When his eyes return to Paul, it's the same attentive and intelligent teenager he proposed Bonding with, and he's reminded even before Paul's hand rests over the space where his slender fingers left a lasting mark. There's a smile he tries to return, but his eyes are guarded and careful, attuned to the peripheral edges of the room. Is it a web, and if so, who are the spiders and the flies in this house?]

Yeah... we have, don't we? It's been a couple of weeks since we've actually seen each other, at least in the flesh.

[It's a weirdly off-putting word, and L only realizes it after it leaves his lips. Flesh torn on the beach, flesh wasted from his cheeks and ribs while he slept. Flesh, stripped from so many tiny bones in the shape of a crown.]

Is... anyone still unaccounted for?

Sister Junia

[holyjudgmental]

Church of the Holy Flame | Rose Da Silva

[holyjudgmental]

[The small, dark stone church on the outskirts of Cassandra sees little traffic, despite the stated wishes of its keeper to allow in 'all and sundry lost souls to join in worship of the True Light and Pure Flame', or her flurry of notices of offered confessionals that all seemed to meet the same sad, tattered fate in one gutter or another in the month past.

The truth is, Sister Junia is not overly troubled by this lack of devotion in the populace. It has never been the work of vestals to preach or convert. Theirs is the labor of tending the Flame, not spreading its blessings - except against the hosts of fiends and devils in the form of purest castigation.

So she tends her fires. There are the high torches by the door that she renews each night. The myriad candles that dot every outcropping of stone inside the largely bare church itself, set with only a few simple wooden pews of new make. The wall sconces that glow warm and wholesome, the sticks of cedar-and-lily scented incense that are her concession to the witchcraft of this place - and most precious and holy of all, the ever-burning brazier of coals set in the place of highest honor at the head of the church, where a pulpit might be placed if there was anyone to declaim from it.

There are no depictions of the holy torments of the saints, nor the conquests of the faith. There are no skulls of fallen martyrs dripping dark wax. Even the instruments of purgation are tucked away since the month past, hidden in the bottom of a heavy chest in a store room.

It is only a very new church. Sister Junia has not had time to create a proper atmosphere of dread reverence. And perhaps there are a scattering of domestic touches, yes - a brightly colored cluster of child's stuffed toys lined up on a pew, a basket of gathered fruits set below the brazier for taking as one passes, a simple woven rug by the door on which one could wipe one's boots before entering - that she perpetually means to banish from sight, only -

Only who is to see, and who is to judge? It all lies hidden behind heavy wooden doors, past a threshold only she and Cedar see fit to cross with any regularity. Junia sees no reason to expect that to change, and so, as she kneels in prayer before the brazier, she pays little heed to her fellow petitioners and their black-button eyes. They are at least quiet unless prevailed upon to speak, which is more than she can say for most parishioners.]

[rosae]

( In truth, the recent knowledge that she'd been given by Tenno about all of this hadn't been surprising. Even if it had swept her into a state of shock for a long moment — the feeling of being hit in the head, sideways, vision starry and everything numb and unfeeling until that wave of nausea sinks in — what came after was a sensation of recognition. Even, in some way, acceptance.

Because she's been expecting this. Even searching for it, ever since she washed up onto Trench's black shores a few months ago, scrambling against the sand with only her daughter's name on her lips. She never once thought that the nightmare was truly over; why would it be? She'd rescued Sharon from those people, watched them all ripped to shreds before her very eyes, but as soon as she was brought to this place she knew it wasn't over. She's still convinced something of Silent Hill lives on here, because that makes sense. That suits the nightmare of it all.

Now that her daughter's here with her again, that fear has bloomed in Rose like something living, pulsing closer and closer to the surface. She's afraid, constantly, that one of Those People will catch Sharon again, steal her away. Rose's fitful nightmares return, made even more unpalatable by the physical state of her these days — aching as though with flu, body slow and lethargic with some blood sickness. On top of that are the allergies; she's a sniffly, red-eyed mess.

There couldn't be a worse time for her to stand off against a church of manic, fire-happy zealots.

But she didn't come here to fight — hopefully. As horrifically well as this particular thing slots into those places Silent Hill carved out of her, Rose doesn't know for sure what this is. But she means to find out. So here she is, very ill and largely defenseless (though she did tuck a steak knife into her boot), pushing through the doors and trying to fight down the flutter of adrenaline in the base of her throat that feels a lot like panic. The Church of the Holy Flame, Tenno had said. That's what it's called.

Rose's eyes immediately flit to those burning coals up ahead and she tastes bile. Has to lift a hand to her mouth, knuckles pressing against her lips — the cold sweat at the back of her neck in part because of physical illness but also from what this is drawing up out of her. Memory, still so fresh. Memory of burning, and screaming, and pain so unbearable that it mutilated the soul it belonged to. Her eyes wet, her mouth dries. She feels horror and hatred like an instinct; she keeps moving forwards. Towards the form of someone up ahead, knelt in prayer.

Rose's other hand moves up to touch the golden locket of the Virgin Mary that hangs from a chain around her neck, fingertips pushing it against her breast to stop it from clinking and making any sound. She still wears it, even though she hasn't prayed to anything since recovering Sharon. She doesn't know that she ever will again.

She slowly approaches the figure, eyes wandering around her settings as she moves. —...Finding the little row of stuffed things, and it gives Rose pause for a long moment, breath hitching. Everything reminds her of Sharon, every single little thing, and she thinks of the stuffed bear that's here with her in Trench, the one from her daughter's childhood. How the girl would set it out like that back at home, bringing her bear to the dinner table or the sofa, like a part of the family.

Are they.... Tenno's...? )

Excuse me. ( She calls, emboldened by the sight of those stuffed things. By the thought of the mysterious golden-eyed child who said they thought this place was a safe one. She breathes in the scent of quiet, crackling flame, and stands unmoving. )

Are you Sister Junia?

[holyjudgmental]

[It speaks to the relative safety of this world that Junia only listens, at first, when the doors swing open. The footsteps that follow that sound are not Cedar's, but they are soft and human, and the dark rabbit that has tucked himself in a hidden nook under one of the pews to groom himself does not stir in alarm. It is one of his few practical purposes, one that Junia begrudgingly allows for when she does find herself otherwise alone here.

So she only lifts her head when spoken to, her prayer beads dangling from her ungloved hands. The woman she finds when she does has the look of one troubled, and Junia can't help but to feel the slightest twinge of unseemly eagerness as she brings herself to her feet, a short and stocky young woman with dark eyes and a well-muscled form under her simple temple garments. (Her mace hangs on its hook in another room, above her carefully cleaned and stored armor.)]

I am, sister. [She nods, solemnly, hands clasped dutifully in front of her with her beads stilled between them.] How may I assist you on this blessed day?

[She is not, strictly speaking, certain it is a blessed day - but there are enough of them on the calendar that she has a better than nil chance of being correct.]

[rosae]

( Rose takes in the other woman as she stands, and finds herself surprised by the youth of her features. She was expecting someone much older — faded and worn over time, as though coated in a layer of dust. Like those people back in Silent Hill had been.

She hesitates — and realises she isn't entirely sure how to answer. Her priority here is to protect Tenno, and Sharon, and despite making the foolish, even stubborn decision to come here on her own (she's a Survival Horror Protagonist; it's simply how one does), she is mindful to be careful of what she says. )

I heard from someone that there was a church here. I thought I'd come see what it was like.

( It is, technically, true. Rose's pale blue eyes stay on the younger woman for a long moment before she lets them travel around, turning her neck to the side to take in the establishment. The movement hurts, but she ignores it with a pinch of her brow, mouth easing into a soft frown as though of thought. )

Do you have a lot of people come here? To worship, I mean.

Catacombs | Mike Munroe

[holyjudgmental]

[Sister Junia is not unaccustomed to dungeon delving. This is why, despite her isolation in this cursed pits, she has yet to succumb to its dangers - what few there have so far been. In fact, as she makes her way through the grim corridors and bone-decked chambers, she has begun to find herself oddly at ends in the uncanny placidity of this place.

Perhaps she should not have slipped away from the strangers she was first joined by. Perhaps then she would not have this growing itch of unease, but - she did not know them. She did not wish to know them. She is more than capable on her own. She has her mace, her breastplate, her chest-pinned Omni blazing with light that is pure and undying. She has her faith, resplendent and inviolate. She will make her own way, without being troubled, for once, by the clamoring chatter of others.

Thus, the wave of relief she feels when she turns a corner towards the sound of blazing fire and finds another human form clad in wholesome flesh is both unexpected and unwelcome. Whoever he is, he stands in the middle of the only path towards the echoing crackle of flames, and despite an absurd, pointless impulse to hide (he's seen her, he'd have to be blind not to have) Junia is forced quickly to the conclusion she has no choice but to at least say something.]

Fire means open air.

[There. That should be sufficient.]

[quicktimer]

[Spooky-underground-passage-crawling is, without question, one thing that Mike definitely did not want to find himself doing again (preferably ever again), but that doesn't mean he doesn't know how to do it once he's already been pulled down beneath the ground. And what a rude awakening that had been, too, with spindly hands and shifting terrain and a flashbulb memory of Jessica's horrified expression just before she'd been dragged backwards through a wooden cabin door. Now he knows what it must've felt like, and the memory weighs heavy on his mind, crowding back in at the edges with thoughts of blood and rust and the clatter of metal as the shaft elevator had fallen away into darkness. Every third step he reminds himself that the rangers had accounted for all of them, except Josh. She's alive; she's not here, but she's alive.

He never consciously summons his Omen; the wolf just has a habit of appearing when he needs it most, which is why it's pacing in patient, slightly agitated circles around Mike's legs when Junia first rounds the corner. He's as supplied up as she is with a pack on his back and a flashlight in his hand, but the machete tucked against the leg of his pants and the shotgun in his hand are definitely not standard Trench-issue.

He hears the flames, too, but open air wasn't the first thing he'd associated with it. Just the hiss of gas, and an exploding cabin, and a ragged impatient voice lecturing the skin is like armor, you have to burn it off first.

But what he sees when he turns toward the voice is — not what he would've expected, to say the least. A woman, sure, but one who came prepared with armor across her chest and some kind of weird hood and cowl pulled up around her face.]

Yeah. You think it's a way out?

[He would really, really like it to be a way out.]

Not like we've got much choice. This is the only path going forward. I haven't seen an offshoot yet.

[holyjudgmental]

[Behind Junia, a dark-furred rabbit hops into view; somehow, without looking at it, Junia manages to convey a strict refusal to acknowledge his presence even as he takes a few more curious, loping motions towards the stranger and his wolf.]

If not a path to the surface, perhaps at least one that is not so stifling.

[He is one of those unfamiliarly clad types common to this city, she notices, but he is at least armed well, and seemingly hale. Seemingly not mad, as well, which is not to be taken for granted. She rakes her teeth over her lower lip unconsciously as she takes a small step towards him, followed by another.]

I would prepare for foes, since such a flame must be tended, if it be true fire.

[Inane. Of course he is prepared for foes.]

...I am Sister Junia, of the Order of St. Martha's. [She huffs, very slightly.] Though such, I am certain, means little to you.

[quicktimer]

[Long before Trench, Mike's wolf was already a good boy well-trained to investigate new places and lead him in safe directions, so it comes as no surprise that he pads over curiously when the rabbit makes itself known, uninterested in it as a prey animal but intrigued by it as a fellow Omen.

Meanwhile, Mike is stuck on something else.]

Sister? Wait, so you're some kind of nun? Jesus Chr— uhhhhhhhh, sorry.

[The mace has not escaped his notice either, but that's less surprising in the present context. Anybody would pick up something heavy and take it with them while walking through some spooky catacombs, wouldn't they? Of course they would.

Further down the way, the wooden snap and thud of a breaking beam resounds distantly off the walls of the cavern.]

I'm Mike. Michael. You know, like the, uh. Angel, I guess.

[#NailedIt]

Blood Blister | Kainé

[holyjudgmental]

[Not every one of the swelling nodules of corrupted blood are easily seen. The one that mostly recently burst had been nestled behind a garbage heap down a side alley, shielded from eye or nose. As a consequence, it had festered well, and when it vented its pressurized interior, the blood sprayed out black and contaminating in an arc wide enough to engulf a man carrying a basket and wearing a round, brimmed black hat. He had been whistling.

The odd thing, Junia thinks, is that he still is. Even as the sword-wielding woman - who spewed forth a stream of vulgarities no less foul than the blood as she closed with the newly manifested Beast - clashes with the reaching forest of clawed hands, the Beast whistles from some hidden orifice, a madly looping tune not unlike the wheeling music of the carnival, round and round and round -]

Be silent!

[She hisses it as she swings her improvised weapon, the shattered bit of a market stall's supporting pole still nowhere near as useful as her mace. Compared to the brilliantly leaping swordswoman (whose hair shines like pale frost) she must look an oaf, and a fool, but she is a sister of battle, and -

- she squeaks when one of the hands seizes her wrist, a sound that ought to slay her with shame on the spot. As the Beast hauls her towards itself, the expression on her face is not terror, but a profound, flushed embarrassment.

Perhaps she ought to have huddled with the cowering weaklings currently doing nothing to help after all. At least then she might have died with some scrap of dignity. She can only hope it has to stop its hideous whistling when it eats her.]

[foulhussy]

[ These turbulent days have been quite busy for Kainé, with the streets being haunted by far more Beasts than usual, all incredibly aggressive. She's had to get more than one person out of harm's way during her regular patrols.

She sprung into action immediately, already cursing herself for being unable to save the man who'd undergone that horrifying transformation. Kainé moves with furious, single-minded determination, staying on the move to avoid the blows from those many hands. A tough battle, but winnable.

But that shrieking woman trying to kill the Beast with a stick sure ain't helping. Trying to keep the Beasts attention while that idiot resolutely endangers herself all while that awful whistling doesn't stop is proving to be a challenge, once she's apparently not fully equipped for as Junia is snared and pulled in. ]

Get the fuck out of my way, you idiot!

[ Kainé charges forward in a flash, hacking the Beast's wrist with her blade. It doesn't manage to sever the hand, but she can feel it hit bone. Junia is released onto ground with a thud as the many limbs flail at Kainé now. She just barely manages to avoid a savage rake of those many claws, only to stumble back as a gnarled fist slams into her side, putting her off balance. ]

Damnit...!

cw: gore, poison

[holyjudgmental]

You - !

[Of course the wretched woman intervenes. Of course she flings herself once more into reckless heroism, as seems to be her wont, as if Junia was some sop of a milk-maid or temple sister. She would meditate on this affront, if not for the continued onslaught of the Beast, or the way it lashes out with a terrible closed fist and strikes her unwanted ally.

Junia comes to her feet from where she half-fall, half-stumbled to brief safety. Her eyes are bright and fervent, twin dark flames of absolute indignant fury. She opens her mouth, with the full intention of uttering prayers of castigation, of warding flame and searing light, but what comes out, instead, is a rainbow-shaded poisonous howl. A roiling cloud of Vileblood toxin rises from her throat and spills across the creature, whose skin rises in rippling boils wherever it touches.

She did not know she could do that.]