[center][h3]Brewing Storm[/h3]
[@krayzikk][@sho minazuki][@herecomesthesnow][@kaithas][@plank Sinatra][@suku][@narayank][/center]

A cheery laugh bubbled up from Ivor.  “No, you big doof,” he chided Sangue, as casually as if a man’s life weren’t at stake.  “The drink’s for the man dying of hypothermia.  Give it to him gently.”  Providing an example, he gave his own patient another sip of the coffee from the second mug, making sure to set it apart from the third mug he made for himself.  

When Benjamin reached the roof, the route taken by Millade became apparent.  Evidently the spite that allowed her to ignore the agony of claw wounds and bitemarks did not last for long.  A radio antennae rested directly in his path lay crumpled and sideways on the roof, spattered with crusty brown.  His eyes followed the trail to its conclusion, and the end of the untold tale lay before him.  Approximately fifteen meters away sprawled the pallid and odorous corpse of a middle-aged woman in blue with hair colored in all the hues of the ocean, the concrete around her besmirched by dried blood and black ash.  A shard of jagged glass, the discoloration on its edges indicative of being wielded like a knife, was beside her.  In the quiet tragedy the weight of the world’s inhumanity could very well be embodied; the person responsible for warning her coworkers and perhaps saving their lives had died, alone, in the middle of nowhere, with no hand to tear from her skin the ebony claws of Grimm and no tears to herald her last breath.  Her killers, their job complete, did not so much as take a single bite from their prize before moving on, ever in search of more death.

Whether or not Benjamin opted to pay respects for the dead, he did not have much time.  Situated on an open roof above the swamp’s fetid waters and skeletal trees, any man might feel like an island, safe for the moment above an infinite and perilous depth.  Darkness gathered, though it could not yet be 3:00 PM, thanks to accumulating gray clouds overhead.  Every nerve of human or faunus screamed [i]danger, danger[/i], mere synapses proven oddly prophetic.

A monumental howl rattled the entire distillery: the predator had caught the scent of its next victim.  Through the trees there came a vast, black shape, and it soared from the ground onto the rooftop of the distillery.  It landed with a tremendous crash, sending tremors through the building.  The Manticore leered down at the leader of team Bastille before releasing another colossal roar.  It raised a huge clawed paw to crush the hunter and mince the remains.

[center][i]-meanwhile-[/i][/center]

No threat barred Cian’s hasty rush to Priscilla’s body and back, keycard clutched in her hand.  After returning to the door, she swiped it open, and like heaps of random junk mixed with long-neglected slightly-smelly clothes a pile of four people immediately spilled through the doorway, in danger of falling right on top of Cian.  With very little hesitation the living stack untangled itself, spreading into the hall; clearly, the sweet air of freedom meant a departure from the stifling, overcrowded confines of the control room.  After the four came the remaining three survivors, urgently but not so enthusiastic as their precursors, and just like that the amount of people in the storage room nearly tripled.  A half-dozen voices broke out at once, be they sputtering exhortations, gratitude, or trepidation.  At the very least, a Grimm-infested facility did not seem so bad after a handful of hours spent in a small, stuffy chamber.

From the refinery room, where Jack currently stood like a statue, there came a sudden [i]clang[/i].  One of the drums had toppled over, and after the lid popped off from the impact the culprit made her appearance.  Breathless, frazzled, and stuck with what appeared to be an indelible look of terror beneath her thick spectacles, the young woman squeezed her lower half out of the drum before pulling herself out of the way of a noxious, nearby chemical puddle.  Her eyes watered from the fumes, her panda ears twitched constantly, and when she stood to her shaky feet her head swam enough to make her sway, but anything beat another second crammed in that God-forsaken barrel.  With her arrival, there now lived twelve individuals on the bottom floor of Manticore Distillery.

The walkie-talkie crackled to life.  “Attention, team JCL,” came the voice of Goodwitch.  “I have examined the medical vehicle in the distillery lot.  It has just about everything you might want, including a stretcher.  I encountered several Grimm; the threat has not waned.  I suggest moving quickly.”

As if on cue, the very foundations of the distillery shook violently.  A thunderous roar filled the air, and the vibrations of titanic footsteps filtered down even to the basement.