[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/Qt9DFLQ.gif[/img][/center] [indent][indent][indent][indent][indent][indent][hr][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent] Daimyon's warnings fell, predictably, on deaf ears. The two Infinites were closing in around him, each looking to get at the chest for their own reasons. The poet weighed his options: whether to step back and let them have it or hold onto it closely and prepare for a possible confrontation. He was still weighing when, as if irritated by his inaction, the writer of their story spurred them along. This time, the plot device was disembodied ticking and some very real, very stern words from Davis. The thought came to Daimyon that perhaps it was time for him to fulfil his role in the plot, just like Thomas had done—keeping the trove of murder away from his fellows, even if he had to pay for his heroics with his life. He discarded that thought. Promptly. [color=seagreen]“Looks like I was mistaken,”[/color] he spoke, sighing. [color=seagreen]“This chest is...too valuable for our journey to discard, it seems. Let's get it out of here first.”[/color] His fellows, spurred to action by the ominously loud ticking, agreed, and helped him carry the deceptively heavy chest out the busted-down door. Not a moment after everyone was out did the room burst into flames. The poet's heart skipped a beat, and he fell on the ground out of surprise. Then it skipped [i]another[/i], for he suddenly found himself staring down a [i]quite obviously[/i] heavy chest—two of them, in fact. [color=seagreen]“The...the muses...”[/color] he uttered. A profound sense of [i][url=https://youtu.be/jsvpLj_fba4?t=347]horrousal[/url][/i] took hold of him. Faced with a situation his notebook could never prepare him for, he was at a loss. He felt weak, both physically and mentally. Before he could resign himself to the questionable fate of being crushed under a very [i]gifted[/i] woman, however, she finally lifted herself off him. It took him a few seconds to get up—he drew a few quick breaths first, wiping his nose and checking for any blood. There was none. The only imprint of the incident, it seemed, was in his mind. [color=seagreen]“I am...I am quite alright...”[/color] His back aching, he scrambled to his feet. The others, just now untangling themselves from an even larger pile-up, seemed mostly unharmed, and the chest—in fact, all chests involved in this situation—was also unscathed. Davis' room, however, was quickly disintegrating. Someone slammed the faulty door close, but they could all still feel the heat. Dusting himself off and clearing his throat, Daimyon wished to speak, but this time, the bear was faster. ...and much more captivating than the poet could hope to be, for all the wrong reasons. The eyes of the Infinites were glued to the screen as the two-tone terror gave a gruesome report of the deaths of two, three, four—Daimyon lost count very soon. He stood, mouth agape, in disbelief. Somewhere deep in his mind, a voice told him that there was no way to prove the bear was telling the truth; they were all words. He wished he could believe in that voice. It ended as abruptly as it began. All these Infinites, gunned down in a rapid-fire presentation, ending in a blow sure to rend even hardened hearts. And Daimyon's heart was anything but—that he often seemed so carefree was for an entirely different reason. The images the bear's descriptions conjured in his mind assaulted him with their vividness and terror. He could not shake his disbelief, especially as he saw people starting to disperse with the end of the Night of Carnage. How could they just leave, he wondered. This was an outrage! [color=seagreen]“This is no way to write a story...”[/color] he muttered, before raising his voice. [color=seagreen]“Writing off all these people so...so [i]carelessly![/i] Sinking them so ungracefully, condemning them to the waves, to be lost in the sea of the plot... They deserve a proper sendoff, damn it!”[/color] Tempering his anger, he turned back to the others who were eyeing him with justified surprise. [color=seagreen]“We must bring them redemption. We must. The writer of our story has to pay.”[/color] Despite preaching of grand ideals, he did not forget about the murderous elephant in the room. He knew he could not carry it anywhere by himself, so they had to come to some sort of agreement. [color=seagreen]“And this—this has to be locked somewhere safe. With someone who...”[/color] He looked around; there were many faces looking back and he did not recognise a single one. [color=seagreen]“...who has no interest in its contents.”[/color] He felt strange, taking leadership of the situation like this. Something told him he had not done so often before. But this time was different. Seeing so many people he must have known and even [i]cared about[/i] killed off so unceremoniously gave him a new conviction. He might have only been a character in a grand story—but every character could change the plot completely. Eventually, he pointed at the woman who had nearly killed him just minutes before. [color=seagreen]“I nominate her.”[/color] [center][@BrokenPromise][/center]