OOC: We are shooting for twice a week in post frequency. Everyone is currently in scene and likely prepared for rp prior to arriving. Post as much as you want and ping people you are talking at. My posts move the round/time. Contact me if interested in joining.
mentions:

The jungle pressed close on every side, its canopy heavy with the damp weight of autumn. Great leaves sagged under beads of water, and the air carried the bitter sweet musk of rot and blossom. Long forgotten walls jutted from the undergrowth, pale stone etched with faint, eroded sigils that once marked the grounds as sacred. What had been a place of cleansing in ages past now lay quiet and broken, a shell reclaimed by roots and vines.

The group came upon it all at once. The bathhouse ruin rose from the jungle floor, its cracked pillars leaning toward one another like the ribs of some ancient beast. Vines clung to every surface. Fountains long dry sagged beneath the weight of moss. And at the heart of it, a staircase once hidden by a collapse had cracked open, stone tumbled outward into the ferns. The path led down into shadow, a mouth that exhaled faint mist with the rhythm of slow, sleeping breath.

Signs of habitation lingered nearby. A dead fire pit, scraps of leather strapping, the flattened marks of bedrolls on the grass. Whoever had camped here was gone, whether deeper into the ruin or scattered by the noise of gunfire already spent. The silence that followed felt heavy, expectant.

But the stairs were no longer empty. Masks drifted in the air above them, shimmering faintly with a sickly glow. Each bore a different face: joy, sorrow, rage, disappointment, others and they bobbed like buoys in an unseen current. To step onto the stair without brushing against one of them seemed impossible.

Behind them, the jungle murmured with insect hum and the groan of shifting branches. Before the party, the bathhouse lay open, the labyrinth waiting.

Blue eyes opened before quickly closing again. Eyelids blinked several times as the sapphires behind them slowly adjusted to the sunlight filtering through the canopy of leaves above. She turned her head to glance around the clearing, overgrown with vegetation as it was. She closed her eyes and put a hand to her brow, trying to make sense of her situation. According to that ojii-san, I died. But now I'm here. The question is, she thought to herself before opening her eyes and sitting up, where is here?

She sighed and rose to her feet. Sitting there wasn't going to give her any answers. She quickly took stock of her equipment. The sleeveless shirt, pants, leather bracelets, and boots she found herself in were quite different from her previous attire, but they were comfortable enough and didn't hinder her movement, so she couldn't complain. Various pouches lined her belt, filled with rations and some odds and ends, and a waterskin hung off her hip. She silently thanked the ojii-san for his foresight. Lastly, she unhooked the weapon hanging across her back and held it in front of her. A simple wooden staff, about 6 ft in length, sat across her hands, with a simple black leather grip wound around most of its length. At one end, a small metal blade, slightly hooked toward the tip, extended straight out. At the other end, a much larger blade, nearly the length of the handle itself, jutted out sideways from the wood, curved and sharp as an eagle's talon. She took a stance and swung it around a few times before nodding, satisfied with the weight distribution and the feel of the grip. She returned the scythe to its resting place on her back before walking off into the trees.

She walked through the jungle, her waist-length blue hair swaying gracefully as she searched for any sign of civilization. After some time, the sound of gunfire reached her ears. Odd. She drew her scythe and headed in the direction they originated from, more cautiously this time. After a few minutes, some decaying ruins came into view. They were covered in every type of vine imaginable, but it appeared to be a bathhouse of some sort. She placed a hand on the stone, marveling at the feeling of the warm stone against her skin. Well, one thing's for sure: this definitely is not VR, she mused as she traced her hand along the rough surface of the stone, admiring the amount of detail. She skirted around the outer edge of the ruins looking for an entrance. As she turned around the corner of the building to the front, several voices floated on a breeze to her ears. She quickly hid behind a pillar, her azure eyes carefully peering out as she assessed the speakers.

Roscoe’s ears snapped up before Evie even caught the sound—the faint shuffle of someone moving through the vine-strangled edge of the ruin. His body went taut, mismatched eyes locked on the shadows near a leaning pillar, a low rumble swelling in his throat.

Evie’s hand came down to his scruff, grounding him. Her other hand shifted the bat off her shoulder, its taped grip sliding into her palm with practiced ease.

The stairwell ahead already promised a bad trip—masks bobbing like bait in murky water—but now there was something else. Someone else.

Her gaze flicked once to the group, then toward the source of Roscoe’s growl.

“Eyes up. We’re not alone.”

Her voice was low, clipped, the kind of tone she’d used in the field when another heartbeat entered a kill zone. She stepped slightly ahead of Roscoe, bat angled not in threat but in readiness.

Out from behind the cracked pillar came just the faintest glint of steel, the curve of a blade haft caught in a shaft of filtered sun. Then a flicker of color—blue hair, long, too deliberate to be wild.

Evie narrowed her eyes, body coiled but steady.

“Whoever’s back there, step out slow. Hands where I can see ’em. If you’re looking for trouble, you’ve already found it.”

Roscoe punctuated her words with a sharp bark, chest deep, his paws digging into the moss.

Still, Evie’s gaze wasn’t without calculation. The figure had made no move to strike, no wild rush. They’d been watching. Assessing. That made her curious, even if caution wrapped around her ribs like barbed wire.

“If you’re not here to pick a fight, then say it now. We’ve got enough nightmares waiting down those stairs.”

She held her ground, bat steady, Roscoe taut at her side—ready to swing or to listen, depending on what came next.

Locke whips around to snap up his rifle, leveling it in the direction Roscoe was looking without much hesitation at all. He’s monitoring now too, though, Evie already seemed to have an idea of how to handle this. Not keen on disrupting her choices in any way similar to how Biggs had done so earlier, he holds his fire.

But that doesn’t mean he drops his guard. Like a steel cable at max extension, he’s taught and coiled to snap at anything that trips and severs the line. Whoever had appeared would need to play their next move wisely, lest they get a muzzle velocity response.

Even still, his gun does lower just a tad. He had no intention to destroy what was ahead, unlike the dirt he had shot earlier. No sense keeping the rifle completely leveled at the newcomer in that context. Still, it’s just level enough for him to reacquire the target and fire accurately with no real effort.

He sidesteps to Evie’s left carefully, moving with measured caution to get a better angle.

”I’d do as the lady says,” he warns calmly. ”We got enough problems as is. Not willing to put up with further shenanigans today.” That’s the truth… There was already one unnecessary dead body here. He’d rather not make another.

Kuso. She clicked her tongue as she cursed silently to herself. Had she noticed the canine, she would've been a lot more careful. She eyed the girl with the dog as she spoke, particularly on the bat in her hands, but her attention was quickly directed to the man pointing a rifle at her. So that was a gun I heard.

She bit the inside of her cheek, not entirely pleased with how her day was starting out. Then again, I did head toward the sound of gunfire. While she did appreciate the fact that they hadn't attacked her right away, they appeared to mean business.

After a second or two, she sighed and resecured the scythe on her back. She stepped out from behind the pillar with her hands raised and took a few steps forward into the light, stopping a short distance from them. She started to move her hands to sign, but stopped suddenly, her eyes widening as she remembered something the ojii-san had said. Her lips quavered for a moment before parting.

"...Ah..." A single sound came out, faint and slightly raspy. She flinched in surprise, startled by the unfamiliar vibrations in her throat, though she seemed more excited than scared. She cleared her throat a few times before trying again.

"Not...pick-ing...a fight." Her words came slowly, as if she knew how to say them, but wasn't used to it. She pointed at the man with the rifle. "Heard...gun-shots. Not sure...where...I am...so I fol-lowed...them here." She places a hand to her chest. "My name is...Aoi Yumi. Haji-memash-te, she said with a slight bow.

Roscoe’s growl tapered off as the girl stepped out, Evie’s grip firm on his collar until his hackles finally eased. The bat stayed in her hand, but her posture softened the moment she saw the stranger’s face.

Blue hair, waist-long, catching the green-gold light through the canopy. For just a second, Evie blinked—and then let out a low whistle.

“Damn, girl… that’s some hair.” Her mouth tugged into the faintest grin. “If I had half a bottle of shampoo and a brush, I’d kill for that kind of shine out here. You pull that off in the jungle? Respect.”

Roscoe huffed once, mismatched eyes flicking between the two women before settling into a guarded sit at Evie’s side.

She nodded once to Aoi, her grin fading into something steadier.

“Evie. This here’s Locke—” she jerked her chin toward the rifle still at half-ready, “—Bigs,” a glance toward the Marine, “and the dwarf’s Androph. We’re with the Guild.”

Her bat shifted back across her shoulder, eyes sliding past Aoi toward the yawning stair. The masks hovered there like a school of jellyfish in a dark tide, each face lit with its own sickly glow. Joy. Rage. Grief. Disappointment. The air shimmered around them, and the longer she looked, the more her stomach tightened.

“...Alright. Someone tell me I’m not losing it. You all see those, yeah?”

She dragged a hand down her face, exhaling sharp through her nose, then turned to Locke. Her tone was calm, but edged with the grit of someone forcing herself into command.

“I’m gonna walk through. Test what they do. If I start talking sideways or acting strange, you put your helmet on, hold your breath, and drag me out. Clear?”

Roscoe growled again, uneasy this time, his ears flat as he stared at the shifting masks. Evie crouched, brushing her fingers against his ruff.

“Easy, boy. I’ll be right back. Promise.”

She stood, bat gripped tight, eyes fixed on the staircase.

@Moonberry @supamusu @Novama

Locke’s expression shifts as Aoi steps into the open, softening some as he lowers his rifle further. He recognized some of the non-English dialect. Didn’t completely KNOW it, but the greeting struck a familiar chord. He gives a polite nod and sets the rifle at parade rest for a moment as Evie introduces him and the rest of the group.

Before he can get a word in edgewise though, Evie’s attention shifts. The masks. Damn, that’s way too fucking eerie. Locke’s mind flashed back to the deranged ramblings of the drugged up that Apex Predator merc known as Kane again. The pilot never expected to encounter something out of one of that psycho’s narcotic induced fever dreams…

Per Evie’s recommendation, Locke taps the side of his helmet, and the faceplate slides shut with a quiet hiss. He then raises his rifle again, not leveled at Aoi, but instead directed past Evie. He keeps a reasonable distance from her, but still stays close enough to react quickly should anything wild happen. He says a silent prayer before they reach the threshold, briefly reaching his off-hand under his breastplate and into the pocket containing his rosary as he does so. The moment the prayer ends, his hand snaps back into position on his weapon.

Clean and practiced, head on a swivel. He watches the masks for signs of threatening movement or behavior, nothing yet, but… He glances back at Evie, then Roscoe, then Aoi and the others, to check on each of them. He repeats, scanning the environment, assessing the potential threats, checking on the condition of allies and/or neutral parties…

He’s as ready as he can be for what comes next…

Evie’s grip tightened on her bat as she felt the weight of Locke’s gaze. She turned her head just enough to catch him in her periphery—the faceplate hissing down over his features, rifle steady, his presence like a wall at her back.

Roscoe was pressed close to her hip, ears pinned, a low vibration humming in his throat as he stared at the floating faces.

Evie drew a slow breath through her nose and gave Locke a single nod, sharp but sure.

“I’m good,” she murmured, voice low enough for only him to catch. Her eyes softened a fraction behind the words. “Helmet on. You know the drill. If I start losing it, you drag me back.”

Then she turned back toward the stair.

The masks hovered there, swaying faintly in currents of air she couldn’t feel. Rage snarled. Joy leered. Disappointment pressed thin and sharp. But her gaze fixed on the one that sagged under the weight of sorrow.

It looked… tired. Hollowed. A mirror of the grief she’d seen too many times in hospital beds and field cots.

Her steps slowed as she approached, Roscoe whining low in his chest but keeping with her until she placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“Stay, boy.”

She crouched just slightly, extending her free hand. The bat hung at her side, its tape-scuffed grip slick against her palm as her other fingers brushed the air.

And then—slow, deliberate—Evie reached out and touched the sad mask.

This isn't even my normal hair color, she mused wryly. A faint memory flashed in her mind of the last time someone had complimented her hair, causing the smallest of smiles to turn the corner of her mouth. As soon as it bloomed, it stopped just before it reached her eyes. A soft sadness thrummed behind the brilliant sapphires for a moment, and with a blink of her eyes, it disappeared as quickly as it appeared.

She glanced at each of the party members as they were introduced, gracing each with a slight, respectful bow. Her demeanor remained polite as she acknowledged each, her gaze lingering a bit on the man with the rifle. However, she quickly turned her attention to the masks as Evie did.

Her eyes focused on the stairs as Evie tentatively approached the masks, apprehension suffusing her muscles. She cast a sidelong look at Locke as his helmet snapped shut, increasingly curious about the technology behind it. Her right hand slid to the haft of her scythe with practiced ease. The weapon loosened from its hook with the slightest shkk sound, its weight settling comfortably into her hand. She held the blade low, tracing a sharp semicircle behind her legs as she assumed a low stance, relaxed, but ready to strike at a moment’s notice. She leaned forward ever so slightly, her focus entirely on the extended fingers meeting the mask before her.

OOC: Let's get back in the swing of things
mentions: @supamusu@Moonberry@JonTheArchivist



The sorrowful mask trembled under Evie’s hand, and for an instant it was cold and slick as if rain clung to its surface. Then it unraveled, dissolving into pale threads that drifted away into the air. One after another the other, faces unraveled as well, leaving the stairway bare.

From below came a breath of thick mist, rolling upward in heavy waves. It carried a bitter tang, sharp on the nose and tongue, and it lingered with weight. The appearance of the mist likely tickled at the back of some of their minds, but of what?

The stairs shifted as the ruin answered the selection of the mask. Stones groaned, slabs grinding against one another until the passage stretched downward into darkness. Roots tore back into the earth, leaving the path clear as though it had been waiting for them.

The chamber that opened below was broad and low, filled ankle deep with still water. The surface gleamed dull and gray, disturbed only by ripples that spread from the base of leaning pillars. Every pillar was carved with human faces locked in grief, tears spilling forever into the pool. The steady drip echoed in the hush like the beat of a dirge. The mist clung thick in this place, drifting low to the water until it seemed to soak into the surface.

At the far side a figure rose from the haze. He was no half ruined wretch like the one they had seen above. His back was straight, his eyes shone with dreadful clarity, and his movements carried calm control. The mist clung to him like a shroud, feeding vigor into his flesh, sharpening his voice until it filled the chamber.

“You chose sorrow,” he said, each word sending ripples across the water. “Now sorrow will claim you.”

The pool shifted at his command. What had seemed shallow water thickened around their boots, pulling at their steps. Every motion dragged as though regret itself had weight. Around them the carved faces seemed to stir. Reflections bent and twisted in the water, each showing failures and griefs that were not wholly their own, whispering them back in broken voices.

The mage stood steady at the center of it.

A pair of azure irises scanned the room, carefully, calculated, cold. They settled on the mage in the center of the room, the eyelids surrounding them narrowing. A quick glance around the room gave her what she needed to know: the liquid was strengthening him while hindering them. Still, she strode forward. After only a few steps, however, she stopped short as the mist coalesced in front of her. Her eyes widened in shock as the world seemed to melt away around her.

...A bad feeling, dismissed as paranoia...

...a wordless shout from her throat, unheard by any...

...a man's head, removed from his shoulders, rolling to a stop before staring accusatorily at her...

...anguished screams of pain, mixed with pleas for help, answered too late...

...a glint of steel, then darkness, followed by the sickening sound of blade piercing flesh...

...her silhouette, wreathed in crimson...

...and...

Her legs buckled, forcing her to a knee, a single tear rolling down her cheek. The knuckles of her right hand turned white as her grip tightened on the haft of her weapon. She looked at the mage through blurry eyes, struggling to focus on him. Through gritted teeth, her voice came, slow, deliberate, and quiet, half to the mage, half to herself:

“Kanishimi wa...sudeni...watashi o...ubaenakatta.

Her left hand darted out to the tip of her blade and drew the edge across her palm. A sharp gasp escaped her lips as a white-hot line of pain reverberated through her body. Her eyes focused immediately as the sensation brought her back to the present, but the only tears she shed were the crimson ones staining the water around her feet.

She quickly tore off a thin strip of fabric at the hem of her shirt and wrapped it around her injured hand, tying it off with her teeth. The cut smarted, but it wasn’t especially deep, and after flexing it a few times, she determined it would not affect her fighting. After a deep breath, she rose to her feet, scythe in hand, as she turned her head to check on her allies.

The cold of the mask lingered on Evie’s fingertips even after it dissolved, like rain clinging where there was no storm. The moment the mist thickened and the stone shifted, her chest tightened, a memory she hadn’t invited clawing its way forward.

She was back in that office. The stale coffee smell. The stack of manila folders. The officer’s mouth moving before the words truly landed.

"His body was never recovered. Landslide buried the site before we could finish retrieval. We… we’re listing him MIA. Presumed KIA."

She’d sat there, jaw locked, fingernails biting into her palm until the skin broke. Words buzzed like flies against glass. Never recovered. Presumed dead.

The sound of Roscoe’s whine cut through it, sharp and real, grounding her for half a second. But the whispering reflections in the water twisted Marcus’s face into every ripple—accusing, fading, gone.

Evie swallowed hard, knees buckling under the weight until one touched the water. Her free hand clutched the grip of her bat so tight the old tape cut into her skin.

“No…” she rasped, shaking her head, eyes burning but dry. “Not again. You don’t get to take him from me twice.”

Her gaze locked on the mage through the haze, jaw tight, breathing ragged but steadying with every word.

Roscoe pressed closer, shoulder to her side, mismatched eyes blazing as he let out a guttural growl. The weight of him, warm and solid, steadied her.

Evie pushed herself upright, shoulders squared against the pull of the thickened water. She forced a breath past the stone in her throat, lifted her bat, and planted her boots.

“I know what sorrow feels like. I live with it. But it doesn’t own me. And it damn sure won’t stop me here.”

She flicked her eyes toward Yumi, and Locke, catching his visor’s faint reflection in the mist. "Deep breaths guys. Don't get caught up in the mire."
Then she looked back to the mage, muscles taut, bat steady at her side.

"Listen! We aren't here to splash in your kiddy pool. Where's your boss?"

Androph, having to go to take a huge piss, looked up and realized with a curse that the others were ahead of him. Taking his axe, he ran as fast as he could down the labyrinth. And caught up.

He was about to say something but decided against it, he highly doubted they even noticed his absence. He gave a grunt to announce his presence all the same.

His eyes training on the mage, caculating the best course to get to him.

Locke’s own mind wandered into dangerous territory… the pain and sorrow he felt when his entire paradigm shattered on Typhon, the moral betrayal of the people he thought were his comrades… the blood on his hands. Bit by bit by bit, the old pains started to claw their way back into his mind.

He sees his own reflection in the water, but the helmet is blood spattered, hands drenched. His breathing quickens as a lance of fear strikes his heart…

But he knows this pain. He knows this anguish. He’s grappled it before. Evie’s words linger in his mind. He pauses and closes his eyes for a few moments, taking a deep breath. Then, he lets it out slow, and remembers the words of his commander and adoptive mother back in the Frontier:

“We’re always changing and growing,” she had said. “To recognize where you were, and decide where you are going, decide to be better, there is no shame in that. That’s a victory. Embrace it.”

His hold of his rifle firms, and he snaps his attention ahead again, bringing the weapon up to level it at the mage, honed and focused. He heard Evie address the mage, so he waits to fire, but he’s ready… One misstep, one errant water current that so much as looks like an attack, and he’d squeeze the trigger. He has more than enough rounds left in the mag for a kill.

Branches tore at his sleeves as he ran, lungs burning, boots slipping on wet roots. The jungle closed in on every side, every breath thick with rot and blossom. His staff clutched in both hands knocked against vines and trunks as he stumbled through, more hindrance than help in his mad dash, but he refused to let go of it.

“Oh, good job, Aramis,” he panted, half to himself, half to the endless green. “First job, late! What a fantastic impression!”

A frond slapped across his face. He ducked, nearly lost his footing, and went skidding sideways before catching himself against a moss-slick trunk. His chest heaved, sweat dripping down his temples, the weight of his pack dragging at his shoulders. Still, his legs kept moving. Somewhere ahead there were voices, the memory of gunfire, and the pulse of something unnatural pulling at the air. He’d already fallen behind once, he couldn’t let it happen again.

“Simple!” he rasped, staff snagging on a root as he yanked it free. “Keep up with the professionals. Don’t screw it up, hah! Brilliant start.”

The trees broke at last, and the ruin loomed from the jungle floor like a carcass half-buried in vines. Stone ribs leaned inward, mist curling upward in slow, heavy breaths from the yawning stair that split the earth.

Aramis staggered to the lip of the stairs, bent double with his staff planted like a walking stick, gulping air like a drowning man. He lifted his head, caught the silhouettes of others already below, and with what little wind he had left, he shouted:

“I’m here! Sorry! Sorry I’m late!” His voice cracked on the last word, echoing sharp against the stone.

He lurched down the steps two at a time, nearly tripping as the mist thickened around him, and the moment his boots struck the water at the bottom, it hit him.

The sorrow. It pressed against his chest, soaked into his skin, wrapped around his ribs like iron bands. Whispers swelled in the haze, regrets not his own but too familiar. Goosebumps rippled across his arms, his breath catching as the air itself seemed to rot with grief. And then, recognition.

This weight was no stranger. He had carried it all his life, until he’d stopped noticing it was even there. Not home. Never home. Just a burden so constant it had become a second skin, one he’d dragged with him until the day he died.

His mouth twisted into a sharp, uneven laugh that startled even him. The sound cracked into a shiver, his shoulders jerking as if throwing off a winter chill. He steadied, chest heaving, eyes locking on the chamber that spread before him.

Water pooled ankle-deep, carved faces weeping endlessly into the rippling surface. At its heart stood the mage, mist wrapped close like a shroud. The others were already braced, grim and ready: rifle leveled, axe in hand, bat lifted, weapons drawn. Professionals, every one of them.

Aramis straightened, dragging in one last breath as his fingers tightened around the length of his staff. He had nearly lost it half a dozen times in the jungle, but now, braced in his hands, it felt steady. Certain.

He planted his boots, cloak settling heavy around him, and lifted the staff across his body in a defensive stance. His voice still carried that nervous edge, but it rang clear enough to reach his new companions.

“Aramis Endo,” he said. “Mage for hire. Ready to assist.”

OOC: bigger party but bigger problems now? Combat has started so 3 actions max and first action should involve defending yourself from the blades probably. If you gonna use an ability, make it very obvious you are using an ability.
mentions: @supamusu@Moonberry@JonTheArchivist @Ducksworth @ImaginedBird



The chamber seemed to tighten as Evie’s words echoed against the stone. The mage lifted his chin, pale eyes glimmering through the haze, and his mouth curled into something that was not quite a smile.

“You came for Kavros,” he said, voice carrying with a low resonance that shivered the water around him. “He is deeper still, where the mist runs strongest. He does not walk among the unprepared. You will not find him by force of will alone.”

The mist thickened at his gesture, rolling low across the water until the mage was swallowed and the pillars blurred into silhouettes. Faces wept harder, rivulets streaming down to join the pool, and in their tears the reflections of the party warped and writhed. Each surface offered some memory of grief, sharpened to a cruel edge: comrades buried, family lost, failures replayed. It pressed at the mind with a steady pulse, as if the chamber itself sought to end them through the the despair of their pasts.

The water rippled.

“You will drown before you see him,” he intoned his voice bouncing around oddly in the chamber making it sound like it came from all around the party.

The water's surface convulsed noticeably. Shortly after from the fog, shards of water drawn razor thin, like glass, screamed through the mist, fast and unpredictable at the party.

Androph grunted to himself.

He barely listened to the mage. Blah, blah, blah, Kavros won't be found, blah, blah, blah. Something about drowning! He barely noticed when the water hit him at unpredictable angles. [Passive: Mundane Resistance} No, he just CHARGED! Swinging his hammer at the Mage's legs, attending to cripple him. He was slow, yes, but he was also tough, and a hard-hitter!

And most of all, he HATED mages!

"Eat this, you bloody mage! You will fall before us! One way or another!"

As he swung his hammer with all his strength.

ACTIVATE ABILITY: SUPER-STRENGTH!

Evie glanced back as the new guy stumbled in—shaggy black hair, round-rimmed glasses, staff clutched like he wasn’t sure whether to fight or trip over it. She blinked, did a double take, and for the barest heartbeat the corner of her mouth twitched._{“Holy shit! Harry Potter?”} she almost muttered, but the thought died quick. Nobody here would get it. The joke curdled before it reached her lips, leaving only that coin-sized ache of remembering a world gone.

Then the mage’s voice rolled over them, thick with sorrow, and the air itself pressed like wet stone against her chest. Evie faltered, the head of her bat sinking into the water like a brace to keep her upright. Roscoe whined sharply, paws skittering against the slick floor as he shoved his body against her hip. The weight of him was solid, grounding, but the mist was everywhere, dragging her down into the marrow of memory.

Marcus. The folded letter. Body unrecoverable, presumed dead. Her throat locked. Her eyes burned. She could hear herself screaming again in that sterile office, swearing she’d get him back, even if it meant ripping through every regulation in her path. And Roscoe—the Army’s stamp on his papers. Weapon. Disposable. She’d nearly lost him too.

Her vision blurred. The chamber shuddered. And when the shards of water screamed out of the mist, Evie yelped, instinct seizing her body. The bat clattered from her hand, forgotten. She dropped, arms cinching around Roscoe’s thick neck, curling into him like she could make herself a shield. Roscoe growled deep, teeth bared, his mismatched eyes never leaving the mage. But he stayed pressed to her, a wall of fur and muscle and loyalty.

Yumi turned slightly toward the new voice behind her. The slight tremor in his voice, coupled with his apparent youth, suggested this was his first mission, and his slight breathlessness told her he had been running hard to get here. However green he might be, he appeared to have a good head on his shoulders, which she respected. Something about his glasses seemed vaguely familiar to her, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

She had no time to dwell on it, however. The moment the thought crossed her mind, razor-sharp shards of water shot out from the mist as the visions returned. She slowly let out the breath she had been holding, forcing her mind and body to relax as she readied her scythe. Just before the shards reached her, she whispered two words:

"Senpuu Rinzan" //Ability activation

She planted her foot and spun in place, her blade and hair creating parallel rings of silver and blue. The scythe carved through the aquatic daggers streaking toward her, dissipating the ones that would have hit her or Aramis into a fine mist, while the rest flew past harmlessly. She spared him a quick backward glance and a slight nod of respect before charging forward, following Androph into the mist.

---

Mentions: @Ducksworth

Locke can sense the impending danger as the mage speaks… But it’s around that moment that something else appears at the edge of his attention: his helmet HUD lighting up with a message:

- HUD Recalibration complete.
- Armor Automed Function restored.
- Functionality Limited.
- System Defrag and Restore underway.
- Initializing in Safe Mode.

His HUD lights up just in time for it to start scanning the shards as they appear. Locke’s muscles coil to start reacting when he spots Evie and Roscoe curling up not out of logical defense… but fear.

He doesn’t dare hesitate. He uses what information is available to him to identify the lowest density shard barrage and prays his armor and speed will be enough to keep him alive… and surges into motion.

He quickly grabs Evie and Roscoe as he speeds over, snatches up the bat on the way, and uses his momentum to drag them into the selected spot. He then positions his body to shield them from the incoming damage, keeping his head low.

He remembers hearing a whisper of something he overheard her say moments before right then. He smirks softly as he lets out one small quip before the shards arrive. “Wake up Evie. Wanna hear you make more funny wizard references,” he says quietly, with a gentle care and mirth in his voice.

[Vitality E]
[Speed D]
[Perception F]