The old man's death had been expected--at least on Iris's part. The courtesan lounged on his trainer's bed, cat-like between the sleeping man's legs as he read over the letter once more, regretting not asking the professor where he lived. He would have liked to see the man's last moments and watch the final spark of life disappear. Morbid, but for longer-lived races the certainty of natural death was a long time coming and mortality always evoked a grieving respect.
He had traveled to the homestead of a Bradar Stotsk on the professor's recommendation the last time they had exchanged correspondence almost four months ago. The man's letter had been cryptic, as always, but strongly insisted the courtesan learn the basic arts of surviving without modern conveniences, even going so far as to provide a willing wilderness survival trainer. The matter seemed urgent and in obvious preparation for some long excursion, and Iris had almost passed up the chance, wondering what could possibly be better than obscenely rich clients spoiling him silly with gifts.
But he was selling himself short, he knew, because his talents were for more than magicking colorful lights to entertain his customers during nightly activities. So he had sighed into the crook of his latest guest's neck and decided to chase after a moonlit dream with only the evening breeze as company. Packing was a quiet and easy affair, most of his valuables already stored in a small, portable jewelry box and what money the brothel had allowed him to keep hidden in a coin pouch tucked under a loose slab of floorboard. There was no reason to announce leaving like he was departing a family. The brothel would live with or without him and he had paid off his purchase debt long ago.
Bradar Stotsk was a veritable bear of a man, with scars detailing his storied past and a grizzled beard that invaded the space of his neck. He had eyed Iris with the contempt of a man who knew all too well what sort of lifestyle the courtesan had indulged in until then and had quickly put the Aasimar to work on chores and basic survival lessons, signing Iris up for a job at a nearby restaurant as the chef's assistant to learn food preparation and cooking skills as well.
But resisting the persistent Aasimar's advances was difficult, especially for a man as virile as Bradar and off-days were eventually filled with the scent of light flowers from Iris's specially prepared lubricant and the courtesan's exotic perfumes. Just as Iris had begun to wonder how long he was meant to study the art of surviving in the wild, the letter from Kendra Lorrimor arrived, announcing the professor's death and subsequent invitation to attend the funeral.
He hadn't known the professor in depth, but Iris certainly mourned the man in his own way. There had been a keen understanding from their every conversation that the courtesan missed, perhaps lonelier than he would like to admit.
"Yer going." The statement from a bleary Bradar was neither accusation nor exclamation. The trapper simply knew in the way the slender body turned away almost instinctively towards the door, shoulders taut as blue eyes skimmed the letter over once more.
"I am," Iris agreed, a gentle lilt of his voice on the second word confirming almost playfully the fact.
"And yer not coming back."
"Who knows?" He kissed the toned, bare thigh in front of his face.
"Least have the decency t'give a parting kiss on the lips."
"But then it would mean too much."
Bradar didn't stop Iris from packing and leaving, the Aasimar strolling out the front door as casually as he had walked in, though encumbered with proper supplies this time courtesy of both his new job and Bradar's recommendations. Still, the contents of the backpack retained many of the entertainer's particular accouterments despite the trainer's query of their use in any survival situation. Iris had laughed off the concern with a wave and a wink and it was only as the dwindling figure rounded the street corner did Bradar realize his home would be much quieter without the sounds of Iris's singing and piano accompaniment filling in the dull silence.
But there were certain partings that struck people with the sheer force of their permanence, and this was one of them. As the scent of lilacs faded from the sheets and furniture, Bradar closed the door, having learned to accept long ago that there were fates beyond his ken. A pair of diamond-inlaid, gold earrings forged in ornate hoops sat on his table with a small "thank you" note from Iris, meant to be pawned for the outrageous sum of money they were worth as the courtesan's farewell gift.
Bradar put the earrings away in a small cabinet instead.
Iris's small frame and effeminate features belie an unrepentant courtesan whose only pleasure is in the sensually depraved. With careful application of makeup and jewelry, the Aasimar finds a plethora of ways to enhance the exotic appearance of his heritage, easily catching eyes wherever he goes. He's used to servicing the obscenely wealthy and has become spoiled on the decadence of his clients, exchanging physical pleasantries for perfumes, clothes, and jewelry worth more than the lives of most.
Shorter in height than most of his customers, Iris stands at a waifish 5' 2", a trait that most of his guests enjoy, especially when coupled with his limber body and light weight. Hardly heavier than two sacks of grain and far more entertaining as company, those who purchase Iris's services are graced with the Aasimar's delicate charms, refined to perfection in precisely contoured eyeliner emphasizing the courtesan's coquettish blinks and large blue eyes while subtle brushes of mica and black gloss decorate his lips, always ready to purse for a kiss and slick in preparation for other nightly activities.
Where his fellow "entertainers" often required the defined shading of rouge to trick the eyes of customers, Iris's dainty face starts round near his cheeks and slims down to a soft chin, leaving him looking far more innocent than anyone in his profession should.
A mixture of spoiled and cynical, Iris enjoys what he does and is a firm believer that while his youth and beauty lasts, he should burn himself out doing what he enjoys until the prime of his life passes him by. Carpe diem is the Aasimar's calling and for all his unsavory business, the relative "boy" would like to leave the mortal coil with as few regrets as possible.
But living every day as if it were your last has its consequences, especially in the social strata of a brothel where Iris is known for his promiscuity even among the other courtesans. Customers may flock to him, but friends certainly do not. All connections with Iris are strictly cordial, and the Aasimar prefers it that way. Having seen far more heartbreaks than love stories come true, he takes a very cynical view on romance, especially when he finds himself pleasuring a man who had married his wife only a fortnight ago, both swearing undying devotion and love 'til the grave.
And apparently that grave was Iris Elcot.
As a child Iris had always possessed a natural's gift for the bardic arts, with every song and music piece he performed evoking spells and effects that placed him soundly in the category of a future bard. It interested him, to a certain degree, since the mysteries of the arcane promised far more revelations and secrets than the boring gossip of mundane life and Iris spent much of his life practicing privately, his family more concerned with promoting their liquor business than promoting their son's talents. He didn't hold that against them, but he also never tried his hardest for them, preferring to sing alone and play the piano than attend social events to build connections.
His family lived lavishly for upper middle-class merchants, always pushing their budgets to the limit, even during the hard times. They had only themselves to blame when the old business of brewing and distillation was overshadowed by a much larger provider to whom most of the city turned for purchases of liquor. But they were eternal optimists, his parents, and loan after loan were taken to compete--in vain--against far larger guilds of merchants. Products failed to sell adequately and customers lost interest in the paltry offerings of a small family business compared to the variety that the larger guilds could offer at a discounted rate.
And so it didn't surprise the younger Iris Elcot in the least when the collectors finally came for their money and his parents had none to give. Their house and possessions were taken away, leaving the entire family of three on the streets where they found shelter in shared housing within the slums of the city, leaving an old life behind with tears and wailing that the soon-to-be-courtesan found, at best, hypocritical.
When the opportunity presented itself in the form of a brothel owner's offer to join the Violet Widow, the Aasimar was quick to accept, knowing physical appeal was all he had now that there was nothing of the family business to attend to. Even that, he had learned little, the trade of crafting alcohol from start to finish not something he had ever cared for throughout his life. Nightly pleasures seemed a far more enticing prospect, and his tastes had always aligned with the more deviant side of life.
Years of nightly courting eventually built Iris a large base of connections, though only on an illicit level. Most of his clients preferred to keep it between themselves that they frequented a male courtesan's brothel room more than they cared for their arranged marriages and groomed-to-fit wives. It was with one such client that Iris encountered Professor Lorrimor who noticed the latent bard's talents going to waste. When the client excused himself to greet an unexpected guest, the professor spoke with Iris alone, unfazed by the naked Aasimar's less than dignified posture across the customer's writing desk.
The small chats were mere curiosity at first and glancing conversations, but as the client called for Iris's services more often and the professor found himself mired in research papers at the nobleman's home, the two struck up a casual friendliness with one another, bolstered greatly by the professor's complete immunity to anything sexual and his vast knowledge of the supernatural, particularly the details of a bard's songs and performances, the minutiae of which fascinated Iris to no end. And perhaps the professor, too, saw something like potential in the night worker.
Before long, the old sage had summoned Iris, much to the courtesan's surprise, for a quest that would be more than anyone had bargained for. The decision only took several nights and several customers to make and before long Iris had agreed to the professor's request, packing his belongings and traveling to the specified trainer who would prepare him more for the rigors of adventuring.
Iris's small frame and effeminate features belie an unrepentant courtesan whose only pleasure is in the sensually depraved. With careful application of makeup and jewelry, the Aasimar finds a plethora of ways to enhance the exotic appearance of his heritage, easily catching eyes wherever he goes. He's used to servicing the obscenely wealthy and has become spoiled on the decadence of his clients, exchanging physical pleasantries for perfumes, clothes, and jewelry worth more than the lives of most.
Shorter in height than most of his customers, Iris stands at a waifish 5' 2", a trait that most of his guests enjoy, especially when coupled with his limber body and light weight. Hardly heavier than two sacks of grain and far more entertaining as company, those who purchase Iris's services are graced with the Aasimar's delicate charms, refined to perfection in precisely contoured eyeliner emphasizing the courtesan's coquettish blinks and large blue eyes while subtle brushes of mica and black gloss decorate his lips, always ready to purse for a kiss and slick in preparation for other nightly activities.
Where his fellow "entertainers" often required the defined shading of rouge to trick the eyes of customers, Iris's dainty face starts round near his cheeks and slims down to a soft chin, leaving him looking far more innocent than anyone in his profession should.
A mixture of spoiled and cynical, Iris enjoys what he does and is a firm believer that while his youth and beauty lasts, he should burn himself out doing what he enjoys until the prime of his life passes him by. Carpe diem is the Aasimar's calling and for all his unsavory business, the relative "boy" would like to leave the mortal coil with as few regrets as possible.
But living every day as if it were your last has its consequences, especially in the social strata of a brothel where Iris is known for his promiscuity even among the other courtesans. Customers may flock to him, but friends certainly do not. All connections with Iris are strictly cordial, and the Aasimar prefers it that way. Having seen far more heartbreaks than love stories come true, he takes a very cynical view on romance, especially when he finds himself pleasuring a man who had married his wife only a fortnight ago, both swearing undying devotion and love 'til the grave.
And apparently that grave was Iris Elcot.
As a child Iris had always possessed a natural's gift for the bardic arts, with every song and music piece he performed evoking spells and effects that placed him soundly in the category of a future bard. It interested him, to a certain degree, since the mysteries of the arcane promised far more revelations and secrets than the boring gossip of mundane life and Iris spent much of his life practicing privately, his family more concerned with promoting their liquor business than promoting their son's talents. He didn't hold that against them, but he also never tried his hardest for them, preferring to sing alone and play the piano than attend social events to build connections.
His family lived lavishly for upper middle-class merchants, always pushing their budgets to the limit, even during the hard times. They had only themselves to blame when the old business of brewing and distillation was overshadowed by a much larger provider to whom most of the city turned for purchases of liquor. But they were eternal optimists, his parents, and loan after loan were taken to compete--in vain--against far larger guilds of merchants. Products failed to sell adequately and customers lost interest in the paltry offerings of a small family business compared to the variety that the larger guilds could offer at a discounted rate.
And so it didn't surprise the younger Iris Elcot in the least when the collectors finally came for their money and his parents had none to give. Their house and possessions were taken away, leaving the entire family of three on the streets where they found shelter in shared housing within the slums of the city, leaving an old life behind with tears and wailing that the soon-to-be-courtesan found, at best, hypocritical.
When the opportunity presented itself in the form of a brothel owner's offer, the Aasimar was quick to accept, knowing physical appeal was all he had now that there was nothing of the family business to attend to. Even that, he had learned little, the trade of crafting alcohol from start to finish not something he had ever cared for throughout his life. Nightly pleasures seemed a far more enticing prospect, and his tastes had always aligned with the more deviant side of life.
Years of nightly courting eventually built Iris a large base of connections, though only on an illicit level. Most of his clients preferred to keep it between themselves that they frequented a male courtesan's brothel room more than they cared for their arranged marriages and groomed-to-fit wives. It was with one such client that Iris encountered Professor Lorrimor who noticed the latent bard's talents going to waste. When the client excused himself to greet an unexpected guest, the professor spoke with Iris alone, unfazed by the naked Aasimar's less than dignified posture across the customer's writing desk.
The small chats were mere curiosity at first and glancing conversations, but as the client called for Iris's services more often and the professor found himself mired in research papers at the nobleman's home, the two struck up a casual friendliness with one another, bolstered greatly by the professor's complete immunity to anything sexual and his vast knowledge of the supernatural, particularly the details of a bard's songs and performances, the minutiae of which fascinated Iris to no end. And perhaps the professor, too, saw something like potential in the night worker.
Before long, the old sage had summoned Iris, much to the courtesan's surprise, for a quest that would be more than anyone had bargained for. The decision only took several nights and several customers to make and before long Iris had agreed to the professor's request, packing his belongings and traveling to the specified trainer who would prepare him more for the rigors of adventuring.
Huh, on second thought, it'd probably be easier to remove pings since it's not like anyone in this game relies on the forum @mentions to know when an update's out.
Yeah, guys, moving forward I'll just remove the ping list and save you all one grisly, horrifying notification.
As evening wound down into night, Bald Head Island settled for another rest, creatures and subnaturals alike slipping back into the comforts of shelter and sleep as dark clouds obscured the moon, heralding the heavy storm to assail the island. Aldrich was performing the rounds of the estate and its far reaches, checking in with several soldiers in person and finally calling Andrew on his way back, sorely regretting not bringing an umbrella along as rain began pouring. The café owner had long been a friend and one of the few privy to Aldrich’s best-kept secret. Between the de facto leaders of the island’s two social divisions—those who lived on the estate and those who refused to—they kept a steady sort of peace and Aldrich made sure to provide Andrew with enough supplies to prevent the town from starving itself into nonexistence out of sheer stubbornness.
“Aldrich!” The panicked voice on the other line was followed by the unmistakable sound of stubble being scratched, one of the man’s nervous tics.“Christ! Finally got a hold of you!”
“What’s wrong?”
“Wish I knew it all, but you know how my power is. Won’t get me anything I want to know. Caught a glimpse while fishing—Amigos. Already on the island, but I can’t tell where. Landed off the north coast by the looks of those rocks.”
“Why didn’t I hear of this until now?”
“Couldn’t reach you all day. Went to the estate myself but they said you were off doing rounds. Signal’s really killing me on this island. The maid girl—Elvia I think—she said she’d go herself to find out and report to you, but if you hadn’t heard nothing ‘til now…”
“North coast, right?”
“Yeah, but doubt they’ll still be there when you get there.”
“Any idea why they’re here?”
“Not a recon group, tell you that. Armed to the teeth and nails. Teitel’s works. Siege, more like. Talked to that girl hours ago.”
“All right.”
Aldrich pulled a red flare gun from his coat’s inner pocket, firing it into the air immediately as he sprinted back to the estate. The watcher that night was Lucas, a newer addition to the estate, and already he worried the boy had fallen asleep on the job. A quick stop to send a warning to the soldiers’ phones, but his priority was the students in the estate. For the Amigos to mount a siege now was too much of a coincidence.
Luckily, Olivia was the one to catch the flare in Lucas’s stead, late from tending to the greenhouse. She dropped the watering can, abandoning her pumps for speed and running on stockinged feet back to the manor, screaming “Attack! There’s an attack!” at the top of her lungs. The reaction was instantaneous. Lights all across the manor lit up as the rest of the staff woke, the earliest responders already pulling on the warning siren installed throughout the estate.
High-pitched screeching pierced the night's downpour and several disheveled staff members were already unlocking the doors to the students’ rooms, rushing in to wake them. Any who seemed too groggy were picked up and carried swiftly downstairs to the basement where the more combat-capable staff members—relatively—were already preparing defenses. Several looked decidedly inhuman ranging from a bundle of ghostly wisps to a redhead who looked like she was smearing the air around her with every movement of her hands. As the last of the students entered the basement storage room, she slid her hands across the surface of the door, smudging the edges, the hinges, and the door handles until the door looked like a childish paint smear on the adjoining wall.
“Wait, we’re missing people!” one of the butlers shouted, hurrying to the door and trying to pry it back to its original form, but it was entirely two-dimensional now.
“Who?!” the girl shouted back, curly hair looking like a nest around her head.
“The singer girl—Lachance—and the Gregory boy! Elvia, too—” the butler stammered, turning back to the door.
“Aldrich is still out there, just leave it to him. You know the procedures!” An older girl snapped, hands dripping what looked like black ink. “Red flare is high danger. No chances! Anyone who didn’t make back here will have to find some other way to—”
A rolling rumble cut her off, rippling through the island as if right below their feet and shaking the very foundations of the manor. Rubble and dust rained upon them as the jolting shudder of the land finally died down. One of the floating wisps flitted up to check the structural damage and returned announcing, in a whispering voice, that no damage had been done, outside of small cracks that had sprung up in the tremor.
“Wait for Aldrich,” another of the wisps spoke in the same soft voice. “Three hours maximum. After, we head to the ferry. Get you guys off the island.”
A bright red whip snapped towards the Hellcat perched a safe distance away from the cliff edge, flying towards the driver’s seat from the right and narrowly missing Angel’s torso. Instead it simply split the car’s front end away, cutting away the vehicle’s front just before the steering wheel.
And both of Angel’s legs at the knees.
Before the girl could even comprehend what was happening, a shrill laugh echoed and something wrapped long, cold fingers around her neck, yanking her body out of the driver’s seat and away from the stumps of the singer’s calves. In the process it slammed her head against the new edge of the newly truncated car, knocking her out in the process.
“Get her cuff off right?” A dark blue sphere floated in the man’s hand as he addressed the stringy, tattooed girl beside him, her dangling red whips mowing the grass around her feet clean. Behind them stood a group of nine fellow Aberrations, all armed with either mundane weaponry or more exotic gear shimmering like the weapons couldn’t decide if they were real or not. Several of them were bloodied and bruised while one stumbled along, one arm twisted at a hideous angle.
“ ‘Course I fucking did. I don’t miss,” she spat back, turning frenzied brown eyes in his direction, the whites lined with red capillaries. “You think I shoot up a bit and can’t aim? That what this is? Think ‘cuz Teitel likes you best you get to boss me around like—”
An unseen force slammed her temple, sending her careening to the ground and pinning her arms down before she could retaliate.
“Don’t need you if you can’t control yourself,” the dark-skinned man replied, orb pulsating rapidly in his hand.
“…Fuck you,” the girl growled, but she dissipated her whips. Only when she had let the fight drain from her shoulders did the man let go, turning to the hulking shadow creature that had by now approached them, holding a legless girl in its grip and patiently waiting for instructions.
“Thi, patch her up. When that’s done, take her to the boat.”
“Right away, sir.” A small, Asian woman with a short bob cut carrying a metallic briefcase approached the bleeding girl, kneeling down to unlatch the case and pull out a long chain from which strange surgical instruments dangled, their forms twisted and seemingly unusable. She pulled a long saw from the chain, its end still attached to the main tool line by a thin, purple thread. Holding it out to her side she nodded at another member of the large group, a young man with half his hair shaven off and piercings along ear and lip. He grabbed the blade of the saw for a moment, then let go once it had heated to a white-hot gleam. A quick slide across both of Angel’s stumps cauterized the amputations and the shadow beast stalked off, the subnatural girl dangling in its hands like a toy.
“We still gonna hunt for the fucker?” the tattooed girl stood up, rubbing at the blooming bruise across her face. “Should just blow this entire place to hell.”
“We give Zhang a bigger reason to attack us than the monsters and we’ll get exactly that. Teitel wanted just one of her new toys and the client wanted the generator on the sole condition that we manage it without attracting Zhang’s ire. He’s made too much of a commotion now. We’ll have to leave.”
“Hah, this island full of fucking rejects. I can take ‘em all.”
“No. You can’t.” The counter was delivered as curtly and firmly as a universal truth and the group’s leader turned back, heading towards the direction of their docked boat.
He stopped at the sight of a bespectacled maid glowing like a beacon. Even as a crushing force threw her back, her body had already let off a burst of light bright enough to wash the entire cliff field in white, permanently blinding several of the enemies in the area. The subnatural surgeon, lucky enough to have been turned around and gathering up her gear in the flash of light managed to get away with several seconds of blindness and heavy afterimages. She pulled at a strange pair of gloves on the chain, where each finger looked as if twisted needles grew from the tips. Donning the gloves in one hand, she took tongs in another and pried out one of her eyeballs, revealing heavy modification along the inside of her skull and along the length of the optic nerve, glimmering purple and black with her power. Easy enough for the suddenly living needles on the glove to repair the damaged nerve ends of her eyes once they made the right contacts and before long one eye was restored to normal. She tucked it back into its socket, adjusting the flap of her eyelid back to normal before working on her second eye as well.
By the time she was done, the maid had escaped, leaving behind a group of blinded Aberrations in her wake.
Thi set to work fixing her comrades, all of them already heavily modified by her powers and easily reparable once she had her hands on them. Whatever the maid had hoped to achieve would be quickly undone.
Once everyone had vision again, the group of Aberrations reoriented themselves and continued towards the beach, wary for any more attackers and moving on hair triggers as they headed toward their escape route. Despite the tension, the walk was relatively smooth and quiet, save for the wiry tattooed female’s occasional whines.
“Man, we could totally take ‘em.” -She gritted the words out, stepping over a puddle of mud –“Maybe if you stop bein’ a lil’ bitch.”
“Maybe you shut your whore mouth, Isa.” -A tall blond commented, finally having had enough of the ramblings.
“Maybe you shut up, cabrão.” -The heavily tattooed Aberration snapped, fists clenched and shoulders squared, ready for a confrontation. The blond only gave her a withering look, but the brown of his eyes suddenly flared red, like heated copper.
Other members of the group stopped dead in their tracks, gazes darting between both of them and their leader, waiting for the tension to sort itself out.
Then something clicked, metallic, like a chime. A round, heavy object rolled at their feet.
“Rhohan!”
The shadow creature lunged past them and threw itself onto the grenade, just mere moments before it went off. However, the muted explosion only heralded a rain of gunfire upon them, mundane weapons, but more than enough to kill.
Yet, the Amigos were also adept at what they did. Especially those that survived this long.
The tall blonde ducked, turning his molten eyes toward where the muzzle flashes were, while his nearby comrade had already had her laser whip out. A wall of solid ground rose between them, bullets lodged themselves uselessly in packed dirt while the shadow creature leapt up and into the slaughter.
Minutes passed, and the last of the gunshots were finally silenced.
Most of the Aberrations still stood tall, some bloodied but Thi had already begun working on that. Still, her power did not work on the dead, so one of their own was lying still, broken beyond repair. The others only gave him a passing glance before they kept on moving, deaths and losses having already become an all too familiar part of their violent, fast lives.
However, another issue presented itself when the group finally made it to the site of their ship. The only thing left of the vessel was its charred hull sticking out from the shallow water. Obviously, they had not hidden it as well as they thought they did. That forced their leader to consider alternatives, and a certain boat docked at a southward pier.
Aldrich returned to the estate to find everyone gone, which was exactly as he had hoped. He tracked mud and water into the hallway and ducked under the mantle of a nearby fireplace that always remained unlit despite constantly filled with firewood. "Decorative" was how most of the staff explained it to anyone who asked, but a small switch hidden in a concealed crevice opened the back wall of the fireplace, sliding it down to reveal a small shaft with a simple metal ladder installed against the lip. Aldrich leapt onto the ladder, flicking the switch and the sliding door closed before descending into a narrow hallway in the basement—another hidden passageway in the manor walls for exactly these sorts of situations. The bookcase door hiding the exit from the hallway took several slams of the man’s shoulder to open, stuck as it was from months of disuse. When he finally shoved it aside and stepped into the main storage room, the entire house’s staff along the students were there, but a quick headcount told him they were already missing two of the kids as well as a member of the staff. And there was no time to look.
Several of the estate subnaturals had already aimed varying weapons at the bookcase filled with miscellaneous boxes and old, folded clothing, but they visibly relaxed on seeing the head of staff despite the dripping rainwater and the man's heavy breaths from the sprint.
”Move! Go!” he shouted at them, pointing towards what appeared to be a clean section of the far wall. At his command several of the staff hurried to shove aside boxes and crates, clearing the path until one of them finally hammered a fist on a spot high on the wall. Something clicked and the wall opened inward into a door-sized passageway large enough for two people at a time to enter.
The walls of the hidden route were lined with simple support beams and basic wooden planks for flooring, but recent upkeep had kept it clean and the single line of small, electric lights flickered to life as the doors open, triggered by motion.
”Hostiles on the island. Amigos do Paí, if you know of them, and they’re not pulling their punches. Not enough information on why they’re here, but we need to evacuate the guests first. Follow the passageway. It’ll take you to the lighthouse in town, near the ferry. I need to remain here and make sure to buy time if they attack the house.”
”Aldrich—Elvia is—” One of the maids spoke up, the redhead from before.
”Dead until proven otherwise. Don’t take chances with the Amigos. She knows what it means to not return here in the event of an attack.” If he grieved for the missing girl, Aldrich didn’t show it, directing the students towards the secret passage with a firm raise of his hand. ”Leave, now. If they decide to attack the town and destroy that ferry, you’ll have no transportation out of here for at least an hour.”
He was already turning around to the bookcase entrance as he spoke, shoulders squared for a fight he knew he wouldn’t win.
In the chaos of both sound and storm, Gregory had been caught unawares outside, fiddling with the guns in the hunting shed as he alternated between testing out his new capabilities and conventional firearms. The flash of red in the sky out the window had caught his attention, however, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out something was wrong. He picked up a pistol and a pack of ammunition, stepping out of the shed and into the heavy rain warily before hurrying along the beaten path back to the mansion, eyes alert for any signs of approach and letting his Stigma fill in the blanks of shapes and shadows in the dark forest, approximating size and distance as well as what the object was. 5.322cm twig. Oak. Freshly snapped. Pinecone. 7.112cm in length, 5.896cm width at largest point.
He shook his head, trying to clear water from his eyes and as well as the influx of facts and figures that threatened to overwhelm him again. Letting his Stigma progress to a certain point had its benefits, but he had pushed it a bit too far and now textures and colors were starting to define themselves in his mind as well. It was debilitating at its worst when his mind couldn’t escape the mental crossfire of information and overloaded he had almost forgotten how to breathe. Now, though, he heaved steadying breaths and continued on, ignoring the exact weight in kilograms of the gun in his hand, the increasing weight of waterlogged clothes on his body, and the dizzying amount of calculations it took a human to take even a single, balanced step.
Sudden thumping and splashing to his left had him firing shots blindly into the darkness as panic overtook him, but his Stigma had its uses when it wasn’t blindsiding him with an overabundance of unnecessary information. The approximation was a giant rabbit, something he could hardly believe were it not for the certainty of his Stigma.
It bounded away terrified by the gunshots that had—by all calculations of his curse—completely missed.
One detail popped out to him in the steadily overflowing wave of data, though.
One thought. “Likelihood of noise attracting danger, approximating from location of flare, 43.76%.”
He ran faster, tripping over smaller logs and bushes when his feet couldn’t react to the information in his mind and stumbling on slippery patches of rocks and dirt. But it didn’t matter. He needed to get to safety first, and in this unfamiliar place only the manor meant “safety.” Relatively speaking, his Stigma reminded.
About an hour and a half passed between everyone being ushered into the basement and Aldrich's arrival.
One week for this brief prep and chat period before the battle, but those posts will also be on week-long timers. Feel free to fuss and panic and make out in the corner or something. (banjo: please don't make out in the corner) The staff will be trying to get you guys to go through the tunnel, but you are free to argue.
Your characters can choose to head off to the ferry or remain at the mansion against Aldrich's wishes (choices >;]). If further moves are made beyond discussion, the GMs will collab events with you.
Member
Jing
