[b]Jackdaw![/b] “What’s yours is [i]mine![/i]” That jab definitely went up a nostril, ack. “Now what are you?” The wand is withdrawn, but only so that the figure can begin circling you ominously. Glass crunches loudly (just like snow) under their tiny boots. “What is it? Smells like [i]mold.[/i] Belongs to her, but even water boils away, yes, yes!” Around they come again, and the wand jabs you roughly in a kidney. “Hand it over! I don’t care what [i]precious forgotten memories[/i] you have safe, all I care is that they’re all mine! Don’t you know the [i]law,[/i] numbnuts?” *** [b]Lucien![/b] The angel actually seems rather disinclined to follow you once you get up out of the food court, though it’s a close thing; you swear that the last explosion singed your hind end as you dove up onto the broken tiles of a... rather dingy, very abandoned indoor market. Shelves lie empty or prone as far as the eye can see, stall signs impossibly bleached white, the only remaining symbols the signs of a train, everywhere. The arrow is a bit of a surprise. It bounces off the tiles a hair away from your head, and you follow its previous trajectory up to a rather singular fellow. He’s wearing something that was once an usher’s uniform in a previous incarnation of existence, covered in tiles stitched carefully onto the fabric. Blackened, broken bones hang from his necklace and the fringe of his sleeves, and, my my, is that facepaint meant to imitate a skull? What artistry! Seeing that his shot missed, the gentleman in question lets out a long rising-and-falling whoop that sounds eerily similar to the cries of the angel below. From the corridors all around, similar whoops echo. That probably doesn’t mean “hello, new friend, you have passed the trial of the Angel and are our new shaman.” *** [b]Ailee![/b] It was one heck of a gamble, but it turns out that Bees can understand your wiggling dances. Huzzah! Their answer, however, involves a swirling swarm with lights flashing in unison to make glyphs in Prelapsarian Huzzu. A performance before one’s higher caste, with the tail stroke that specifically means it was appreciated. An enemy, combined with a festival mask (the closest the language can come to a disguise or false pretenses), beneath the interrogative dots. A wickedness (with the sub-glyph for truth to distinguish it from theoretical evil, the problem of), combined with the Seat of Reason (and the Huzzu didn’t believe that was the brain). Clarification, requested urgently. A thought runs from the flashes of the bees on the walls, regurgitating stony paste and shaping it with their stubby little manipulator limbs, and you can see it swirl into the bees that are communicating with you. An encore performance, requested. Urgently. More and more bees are filling the corridor, landing on the walls, and staring at you with those glowing blue eyes. *** [b]Coleman![/b] Here you are, staring up at the New Arrivals And Navigation Board. Passengers disembarked: three, in the Galleria, the Interfaith Chapel, and the... throbbing cancerous growth. Ew. Ewwww. Still, there’s been no recent First Aid logs (though pretty much all the logs are showing [i]EXP.[/i] under condition which isn’t reassuring) which means they’re still alive. All you have to do is get them all together, find some safe spot in this nightmare, and prep Sasha for a [i]real[/i] run on the tracks. That’s the thought going through you as the oversized, makeshift carabiner flies through the air. It locks around your neck, and the cable attached to it pulls taut. You’re jerked off your feet, hard, and as you gasp and catch your breath, you’re stepped on. Also pretty hard. You look up into the [i]figuratively[/i] burning eyes of a Wolf. It’s one of the most intense looks you’ve ever been pinned by. She opens her mouth, and the words that come out creak with disuse. “The train.” She nods at Sasha, waiting below the narrow stairway up to New Arrivals. “It... yours?” The cable tightens by another ratchet. It’s connected to a jury-rigged launcher. If you could just reach out and touch the cable release... “Take with you.” Her cheeks are gaunt, one ear is [i]gnawed[/i] down to the skull, and her clothing is filthy: ragged rags wrapped around her limbs and a colorless, threadbare jacket hanging off bony shoulders. When she licks her lips, her teeth are yellowed. “[i]Now.[/i]” [hider=Wolf][b]Old Scars[/b] — whenever you Speak Softly with Wolf, pay a price per question; whenever you Forge a Bond, pay a price. Answers are hard won with her. [b]Survivor[/b] — Wolf has [i]Protection[/i], and can extend this to one other in arms’ reach. [b]Look Out For Number One[/b] — if damaged, Wolf will immediately disengage and return later. When she comes back, she immediately makes a Hard Cut.[/hider]