[center][h3]The Lady in White[/h3] Location: Kno One [@Lazo][/center] An abrupt clatter resounded throughout the kitchen as Pithy's levitated pots shoved against the pulled-up tile floor, causing the anomalous surface to bend downward like the curled-up edge of a scroll. With only the barest resistance it was smoothed back toward its original shape, not even threatening to spring back into place should the pots be removed as curled paper would. With the entire section of floor cleared out of the way, the sorceress's route to the door leading out of the kitchen lay free for traversal. A noise of ponderment permeated the restaurant as the pots were laid down on the corners of the restored tile. “Hmm! So since I changed it, it lost its status as part of the structural integrity. There are limits to what it can manipulate, after all.” Anticipating his test subject to head to the door to Nero without delay, the speaker continued. “That's one of my last questions answered. I suppose all that's left is a proper send-off: a brute-force test for both you and me. Let's see now...” A deafening series of cracks sounded out as frozen bits of kitchenware broke free from the clutches of ice to float into the air. Alongside them, the various implements that formed the boundary walls on either side of the spot where the floor had become a barrier broke formation. Every available object began to orbit Pithy as part of a tumultuous cyclone of metal, pasta, and ice. One second passed amid the constant clamor of objects smacking into one another, then two, then three. After the third moment the entire assortment of cookery rerouted to make a beeline for the center—Pithy herself. A crushing omnidirectional wall assailed her, its force not quite overwhelming, but certainly significant. More worrisome, perhaps, was the makeshift cocoon's resistance to being pushed away. Though individual objects would react to outward force accordingly, they slammed back toward the center like bolts pulled off from a magnet and then released, seemingly singleminded in their collective instinct to squeeze Pithy's life from her body. [center][h3]Inari[/h3] Location: What Lies Beneath – Toward the Underground City [@Kapuchu][/center] Questions swirled in Emile's mind, though none that Lily could answer. First and foremost was the ultimate: would this arrangement hold sway in this interrim world as it did in hers? Given that everything about his own guild worked the same as it did before despite no longer existing in a game world-made-real, he couldn't afford to assume it didn't. Could he swear this oath, and risk losing his power--the power he'd spent so long achieving in Yggdrasil, then truly earning in the new world? He Made as if to speak, stretching out a hand in assurance, but his voice caught in his throat and his fingers curled up. As much as he would have liked to, he couldn't trust this Lily. He'd never planned on trusting her, feeling sure that if at any time his goal was in any jeopardy he could simply power his way through. The decision to strike a deal had been borne out of his latent goodwill, and the lack of enjoyment he got from malicious acts, but his goals were the same as ever. They were the ideals of an overlord, the role he'd chosen for himself and grown to fit into: to maintain hold of the power he'd miraculously possessed to protect the fantasy he cared more deeply about than the reality he left behind, to protect the beings who gave him the respect and adoration few ever had in the real world. Without that power, he feared he could not have that life. Maybe the guild NPCs he'd become the master of would maintain their loyalty if he lost his power, including the Sigil of Sovereignty...but maybe they would not. They might turn on him. Even if they did not, he wouldn't be anything like what he once was. Emile knew he could never go back to being a mere man, especially in a fantasy world of magic and monsters. After a painfully long time, Emile turned up his head, his eyes bright and narrow. "My path is clear. Everything I do is for the sake of my guild—my friends, my family. I won't risk sacrificing a single thing. Your suggestion of this oath implies you don't trust me. Yet, you'll have to trust me if you want my help. As a gesture of good faith, however, I'll tell you my wish. I desire one ability, which I call Dev Mode. It'd be a limited form of reality manipulation, albeit strong enough to protect all I care about and do certain things like reunite me with my old friends. I'm sure it sounds a bit villainous to want the power comparable to a minor god's, but I'm good for it, really.” [center][h3]The Cereal Killer and the Book Keeper[/h3] Location: Flooded Historical District [@Propro][@BCTheEntity][/center] Thick as pea soup, the tension between the three contenders standing at the water's edge did not go unnoticed. A few dozen dark eyes bore witness to the death -no, obliteration- of Aralynn Thule, and though the one who watched through them could not bring himself to utter a word, he could find it in himself to make a promise. Erina, to whom he was hardly introduced, need not hear of it. Despite his status as both an honorable foe and the temporary host for Boys of Summer, Runch would not catch wind of his resolution, either. Not even his sister's callous murderer deserved to know. A job was one thing, and a conviction something else, but family something altogether different. He hadn't been oblivious to the risk in this endeavor; he and his sister both knew it. Yet, that did not mean that Motley Crue would escape paying the price for his brutality. Davian would not forget his vow. Equally responsive was Runch's phylactery, as well as Crue's own, neither of which exhibited any semblance of intelligent response to what either said, including suggesting that Oren was listening in. In Crue's case the dead stiffness of his own heart device implied instead that it was out of order for good. A few moments passed before it became apparent that to Runch's misfortune, his sincere words fell on no ears but his own, Erina's, and the vampire's. The only indication of any kind given to him came in the form of the drone assigned to him, however nearby with an eye devoid of light. As he moved, it reoriented itself around him to always be facing a certain direction: that which would take him to his next opponent. No other road lay before him on the journey to the pirate's perfect ship, and the sorrow nipping at his heels urged him on his way. However, Crue's final words to the pair did linger after his departure, much like something else that could very well remain close nearby, albeit out of sight to everyday eyes. [center][h3]The Murder[/h3] Location: Near the Village [@Propro][/center] After spending a few moments studying the map in front of him, Samuel's target moved on, rounding the corner to cross the bridge and enter the Village. At the same time, however, something happened with the graffiti beast. For a few seconds the strange shifting appearance around it could be attributed to a change of the light or a momentary blur of the eye, but after that it could scarcely be denied that the street art was moving. Moving as if being repainted frame by frame, it inched along the firehouse wall, its stance growing lower as it did. The next time Samuel blinked, it disappeared, only to be spotted again on a wall a little further down the street. It continued to relocate, bit by bit, until it slipped around a corner and out of sight. Pursuit of the graffiti beast back into the run-down district would take Samuel on a winding path. Though his supernatural senses made tracking a non-issue, even tracking a nonliving target, the eerie two-dimensional entity never seemed to be making an effort to escape him. It led him through sidestreets and alleyways, some of them bristling with dark shapes in the shadows, but as if warded off by some protective incense they curled away from him at every turn. Not even two minutes into the 'chase' the beast ceased its movement on the side of a run-down shop in a street mall—a roadway converted into sidewalk for pedestrian use alone, its sides lined with storefronts of all kinds. Running down the street mall's center, an assortment of public works like statues and fountains could be seen, but no people...save one. An old-fashioned merchant's cart stood just in front of a flowerbed, and behind it stood a fat, ugly man. With bristling whiskers, surprisingly well-kept hair, upturned nose, and a larger-than-average mouth, he might have easily been some hooligan from a Saturday-morning cartoon if not for his expensive, gaudy manner of dress. Being a magician, Samuel could recognize the garb of a showman, even one dressed this classily. This fellow seemed absorbed in his wares until Samuel approached, at which he clasped his hands together and gave a nod of welcome. “Good evening, sir!” the man greeted in an amicable though guttural voice. “See anything you like, let me know. I'll get you what you need!” He waved a hand over his inventory. Beneath the glass in his cart was a variety of items. There appeared to be a notebook, well worn, alongside a crystal ball, a few varieties of lamp, an ornate box, the severed hand of some ape resting upon a cushion, a green mask made of a wood, a statuette of a bird of prey, a hand mirror, and a collection of coins.