[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/Qt9DFLQ.gif[/img][/center] [indent][indent][indent][indent][indent][indent][hr][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent] [center][color=seagreen]The ancient Vikings did it last, Now I bring it back. Poppyseed, my fellow. You fell off The stool; you were never huge. Mellow words deluge, deluded by the podium. Thought you were one of the greats, When you don't even embody them. You're no Poe; you've got no flow You're a poser, and now you're closer to the hurt, A Wordsworth whose words are worth the worms in the dirt! I'm the lyrical warmonger, and this is my conquest. There's no contest; I'm Genghis. Get this: two collections, I blessed the world Pressed to word a million times, Conquered east and west with my rhymes. You're just one of the rest. Your ‘conquest’ is a con-quest to woo others But you failed my test with flying colours. Still, I applaud your accomplishments. You're the leader of a live poets' society. You got the bully pulpit. But I'm the bull— You've messed with the horns. I can beat you to a pulp in a thousand forms. I might go iambic on your behind. The mastermind: when the stars are aligned, You might catch sight of my fine masterpiece. Just a glimpse. And you'll know there won't be peace. I could've just said two words but I gave you verses I'm that courteous. Now don't try to come back at this versus! This flyting only had one round. There is only one poet king crowned, And his kingdom is no longer bound. I quit.[/color] —Daimyon Londe: [i]Modern Flyting[/i][/center] When Daimyon wished for a reset the night before, he had wished for a complete one: a mental and physical rejuvenation to let him face the new day with the carefree attitude others—he hoped—had got to know him for. Four hours of sleep, however, could not fulfil such a wish. Instead, when he was woken up at 7 am by Monokuma's shrill voice, he sat up feeling exceptionally groggy. It was a strange—stranger than usual, that is—feeling for the poet, as even his mental reset did not feel complete. He remembered who he was. When he reached, almost instinctively, for his notebook on his bedside table, it was not with panic, but with an unconscious understanding that this was what he had to do. He read the first and last few pages quickly to re-encode the essentials into his short-term memory, then looked at his most recent diary entries to get himself back up to speed with the happenings of yesterday. There was a lot to read, so he skimmed through it. Even still, the punches came one after the other: the deadly Night of Carnage that had left so many dead, the unfortunate infiltration of Davis' room and the treacherous loot they had won with it, the robot giving him the Memory Notebook after all of it... Though he did not read further back for the previous events, he still hazarded to guess that yesterday had been the most eventful day he had suffered through at this hospital. How was one meant to continue after such a cataclysmic series of events? Waiting for the inevitable doom to catch up to him felt more enticing every day, but the poet could not bring himself to surrender to the void. There was life in him still—there was life in him when it had been taken from so many others who, he thought as he looked at the list of all Infinites in the e-handbook, had been better equipped to survive in one way or another. That meant that there had to be [i]something[/i] in him, too, something that made him outlast all of these incredible people. Maybe he was destined to survive; maybe his guardian angel was more active than others'. Or perhaps he had simply slipped under the radar of every murderer so far. It did not matter. He was alive, and more importantly, he [i]wanted[/i] to live. There was a world outside that he had painstakingly built up for himself, and he wanted to get back there. His tired muscles and foggy brain energised as such, he got out of his bed and through his short morning routine, thinking about what to do. By the time he was dressed and ready to go, he also knew [i]where[/i] to go. To Emily's. Detailed paragraphs spoke about the woman in his notebook, giving account of how she had almost accidentally suffocated the poet under her anatomy-defying breasts. Perhaps inspired by the close encounter, Daimyon had decided to give the chest of weapons to her for safekeeping. That chest, he had known since he first saw what it contained, was a mortal danger to all surviving Infinites. He had to check on it, to make sure it remained in safe hands—if such a thing was even possible. Guided by the map in his e-handbook, he trotted up to the second floor and headed straight to Emily's room. Much to his surprise, he was not the only one to think of doing that. Someone was already standing before her door: it was Max, the police officer, Daimyon reminded himself with a quick second glance at the e-handbook. The door was open and Emily stood in it, and the two were making some sort of conversation. He stepped up to them. [color=seagreen]“Good morning!”[/color] he spoke cheerfully with a half-acted smile on his face. He lessened it after realising that it hardly fit the context. [color=seagreen]“I just wanted to...check up on my fellows. How are you two doing after that—”[/color] He reached the door before finishing the sentence, and that was its death sentence. The sight of Emily in nothing but bedtime underwear, its executioner. [color=seagreen]“Oh, um...perhaps this is a, bad time.”[/color] It was a difficult task to actually look at the woman's [i]face[/i] rather than, well, anywhere else, so he tried his best to look [i]beyond[/i] her and inside her room instead. [color=seagreen]“How is that...chest, doing, by the way...? T-the one with weapons, I mean.”[/color] [center][@BrokenPromise] [@addamas][/center]