Wind and rain seemed to pick up in speed as the group of Aberrations approached the lighthouse. Having lost their main tracker in the scuffle with Zhang’s soldiers, they were operating more blindly than Nathaniel preferred. Raindrops splattered against an invisible sphere around the group and whisked away, a small benefit of his power that Nathaniel had been forced to use once visibility became too impaired with the rushing weather. The decision to attack when weather forecasts predicted dangerous conditions had been entirely intentional, the group operating under the assumption that they would be more comfortable in harsh conditions that most in their way. They simply hadn’t accounted for the excess of soldiers at the usually unguarded estate and the unpredictability of otherwise “harmless” powers from the estate’s servants.
A familiar flash of light in the distance, bright enough to mimic daylight, and Nathaniel’s jaw tensed as he turned to look, instinctively. The maid girl was alive after all. Even from that distance, the light left spots in his eyes, its brightness too much—too uncontrolled. He took a moment to blink it away, as did the rest of the group, but there was no going back to check on the state of their fellow comrades. They had to leave.
Small mistakes and inevitable ones in their line of work—predicting the future was impossible without a proper seer in their midst and for all his connections the Amigos’ leader had yet to procure an effective psychic. The disaster at Washington had been their cue to move in, while the rest of the world busied itself trying to repair one of the strongest, and now fallen, bastions of humanity. The job should have proceeded easily, but if there was one thing Nathaniel had learned it was that even weaklings could survive with a bit of luck and miracles.
But luck was also on their side that day. He glanced at the Aberration girl’s missing legs and mutilated throat, her body swinging like a broken rag doll with every step of Rhohan’s beastly form. Too easy. Too lucky. It set him on edge and the orb hovering in his hand pulsated faster in anticipation of something going wrong. Anything. Maybe the sky would fall on them next, or one of Dreamcatcher’s monsters would appear to block their path.
The group neared the pier quickly, Nathaniel’s tension seeping into the pace of his walk, turning into more of a run. The sooner they boarded and left, the better, and if the others couldn’t make it back in time, that was their problem to deal with. To their left, dawn lingered beyond the horizon, the morning’s shades still hued in navy and the muted darkness of an overcast sky.
“Wait,” Thi’s voice called out, stopping the group instantly, their quick response a product of years living on high-alert. “There is someone. Not ours.” She pointed into the distance, towards the lighthouse entrance, eyes sparking purple and black light as her body’s modifications adjusted her vision.“Four—no, five—I think.”
And the Amigos had always been known for tearing through anything that stood in their way.
“Kill them. Get to the boat. Anyone who gets left behind stays behind.”
Rhohan moved first, throwing the disabled Angel aside, letting the girl roll onto her stomach. The shadow monster dashed towards the direction of the lighthouse door, moving far too swiftly for his size. In the howling storm and darkness his approach was almost impossible to detect. In his wake a sandstorm raged, propelled by the powers of another mage while strange, humanoid trees bent and twisted out of the earth before marching along in the depths of the whirling sands. They stood five meters tall and lumbered forward on sturdy trunks of legs, more forming by the second as they followed the dark beast’s hunched back. Rhohan’s form was shifting away from the relatively compact form that had carried Angel thus far, arms and legs molding into thicker, heavier masses, propelling the demon forward with blinding speed.
As the battle approached the students in the distance, Nathaniel remained back with Thi, eyeing the limp body of the captured girl.
“Thi, remove as much of her as possible. She needs to be lighter.”
“I can remove several organs—they are the heaviest parts after the muscles.”
“Sure.”
The surgeon stooped down instantly, hands no longer human as modified bones and augmentations tore through her skin, ready to operate instantly. A finger extended on over ten metallic joints humming with purple lights and deftly flicked open the woman’s briefcase, retrieving the chain of instruments. She took most of the twisted, unusual contraptions, fastening them to her fingers with extra lines of tendons and muscles that detached and reattached at all the right points, other hand already tearing cleanly through the remainders of Angel’s legs, slicing off the thighs at the hip juncture with an large oscillating saw, its thin purple line connecting back to the main equipment chain. Rapid movements of the other hand punctured the girl’s back and severed key spinal nerves to prevent Angel’s body from squirming. The new amputations were cauterized.
Then went her arms, severed at the shoulders.
A malformed, mechanized hand with enough instruments attached to look like an oversized Swiss army knife flipped the torso over, tearing away clothes and plunging into the stomach, the large intestine, a kidney, and clawing out large amounts of the girl’s fat. The end product, after a mere minute, was a steaming mess of organs cast aside and stitches all along the now significantly flatter torso, with a stoma and metallic tubing leading out from Angel’s colon. The dissected body sparked black and purple lines of light along sutures and modified organs and Thi took a moment to consider what else to remove. Hair was heavy. As were breasts.
Those, too, were left behind and the result was a borderline corpse stripped almost entirely of “excess.” At least, whatever excess Thi could take away at that moment without immediately endangering the captive’s life. There would be time to remove more if they returned to their base.
“Is this light enough?” she asked Nathaniel, hand slowly reshaping back into something vaguely human.
He tested it, lifting the girl with his telekinesis.
“Light enough.” A glance at the African-American girl behind him as she adjusted her ponytail, looking entirely unfazed by the rapid surgery not two feet away from her. “Orla, wall. To the docks.”
She was still tying up her hair as a 20-meter wall rose up in front of them, cutting the group off from Rhohan and giving them cover all along the shoreline, up to the docks and ferry itself. Nathaniel moved first, keeping a safe distance between himself and the wall, but using it as cover and impediment both while they made their way to the ferry. Robert, the boy who had heated Thi’s saw earlier, walked with his fingertips touching the blockage, heating the compacted sand and dirt until water evaporated on contact and the wall itself was enveloped in a heavy cloud of steam.
Within the lighthouse, the staff that had come with the students followed the foolhardy ones outside, several of the maids attempting to usher them quickly towards the ferry when the wall rose and knocked one of the girls down beside Sander. She looked at the towering creation of densely packed sand, eyes wide, before scrambling to her feet and turning to the nearest students, the other six members of the mansion staff already trying to shield them from whatever was coming.
”Get back inside, hurry!”
High above, an injured Arbiter leaned against the enclosed space on the second highest floor of the lighthouse, resting against the wall while his injured arm trickled blood from several thin, shallow cuts. Bruises ran along his ribs and limbs, marring the tan skin there and throbbing painfully with every motion of the young man’s wiry muscles. An angry scrape crossed his brow, near the hairline of messy, layered auburn. He looked the athletic type—a runner or a swimmer, by the svelte frame, and his pale, green eyes narrowed at the sounds of approaching footsteps. He placed a hand against the wall, ready to turn it into cement dust or sludge to block off the stairs, but stopping at the sound of voices. Teenage voices. Young. Different from the cutthroat sounds of commands and ruthless orders.
Against his better judgment, the mage waited, though the wall rippled dangerously, ready to surge inward like water the moment they seemed hostile.
A week deadline. As usual, for any questions refer to the GMs.
Angel is now further away with Thi, Nathaniel, Orla, tree mage, and heater mage on the other side of the wall. Rhohan (shadow monster) is about to get up in your faces with a tree army and sandstorm. Remember there is wind and rain now buffeting you.
Angel is now barely conscious. I'll allow some blurred, pained observations and dramatic wheezing noises, but after what just happened to her, you can also leave her unconscious.
Chris can finish his transformation by now and in this round can charge into battle in dragon form if he wants. Collab with GMs for everything here.
The sea-laden air on the island was colder than inland temperatures at that time of year, when the seasons trudged through their transitions and especially in a downpour. Nathaniel sighed into a palm cupped over his mouth, using the sudden outward breath to cut off another threat of shivering throughout his soaked body. A light sweater was hardly enough for autumn storms and water ran in rivulets down his face. His orb pulsed rhythmically as he walked, suspended over his shoulder while at rest and lagging ever so slightly behind him, like the other six people making up the remainder of the group. Despite the storm, they kept a quick and steady pace, harsh circumstances something all were too familiar with.
Despite his confidence, Nathaniel hardly knew what to make of the mission, having preferred solo work until then with jobs large enough for US dollars instead of Brazilian reais, but small enough to prevent any notable figure from caring. Extortion and racketeering was good pay, until he ran afoul of the Amigos and the “Father” himself in a territorial dispute. The rumors were true that the leader of the Amigos was an Arbiter, but no underground gossip had readied him for the man’s ability to create powers at will. They had fought and the revelation that the Amigos’s leader could only create and use a certain power once was supposed to be gratifying; it only made the fight all the more unpredictable. Nathaniel had given in when darkness had settled around him like a vise, cutting off sounds and light and even the sensations of direction and gravity. He thought death was coming for him, but in the end the Father spared him—to use him, of course, as was the way of the dog-eat-dog world in the favela.
He didn’t expect a happy end. No one in their line of work did, save for the stupid, and every fight and skirmish he came out of alive only nagged at the back of his mind with the inevitability of defeat and, subsequently, death. Mercy was a child’s fever dream in his country, and he had long outgrown it. Letting Isabelle run off to certain death while they abandoned her for the town’s ferry wasn’t his first time deciding someone’s life and it wouldn’t be the last. And he would keep making the decision to kill until someone stronger killed him instead. None of them would or could articulate it in so many words, but the recklessness of the Amigos wasn’t born from a callous disregard for the context of situations. They were all looking for places to die, and every one of them wanted it on their terms. In their own ways.
But the game was to never define it so. Never explain the how’s and why’s of apparent insanity from children who had grown up in hell and learned to play with fire hoping for the glory of being consumed by it. Isabelle took her drugs to avoid thinking about that reality. Synthetic nightmares instead of real ones. If she died, it would only end her misery sooner.
The tired thoughts creaked and groaned through his mind on their walk towards the town, a trek that would have been much shorter had their main transportation method not run off to try and save the girl he had a puppy crush on. Even for Nathaniel, stopping the gap-closer’s movements was almost impossible and he hoped Chuck would have the presence of mind to leave if things went wrong at the mansion.
In the distance the lighthouse marked their endpoint, energy supplied by a converter in the form of a particularly useful mage that Zhang kept hidden on the island, providing the location with the required electricity without alerting suspicion. They had thought the capture would be easy once their tracker had identified the mark and his movements, but the sly bastard had eluded them, retreating to the underground caves that spanned a labyrinth beneath the island and collapsing entire areas, solid bedrock turning into sludge and deadly dust at a touch of the converter’s hand. They had lost three to the dust and one to a wave of liquefied rock before Nathaniel called for a retreat. Capturing someone who could convert states of matter on touch was far too deadly when the entire island proved a source of material for the target mage. Capturing him within the cave system was borderline suicide and the Amigos were known for brazen destruction, not stupidity—and certainly not for collapsing an entire cave on themselves. The rest of the group had taken the retreat order well, especially when it wasn’t their lives on the line for failure.
And that was the Father’s personal mission failed, something Nathaniel would be paying dearly for. But in return they had acquired one of a set of mages that a particular client had paid the Amigos a great deal to procure (legs or not), having caught wind of a strike group ready to deploy to the island. One of the gang’s main investors, the man had enough weight to negotiate with the Father directly. Lose one, gain one, and he could only hope the client’s sway would temper their leader’s wrath.
“Hold your fire!” an officer barked as a figure stumbled towards the soldiers. Long, blond hair made itself seen in the nick of time: a teenager soaked to the bone emerging from the woods. Gregory staggered forward, arms raised and shivering as widened eyes ogled the weapons in his face. The barrel, 37cm. Total length, 83.75cm.
The sudden complication prompted an inward curse from the head butler. Time was running out. He waved to shoo the student into the mansion before a blood-curdling scream pierced the pattering of the rain. Manic cackling accompanied the soldier’s throes.
Gregory was too late.
Twin whips of red flicked in and out of focus, systematically severing heads and limbs as the source of the whips was rushed around by an electric blue blur. A molten orange beam struck the mansion, hitting a wall below the sniper’s perch before it carved a scorching path towards them. Rendered concrete and tiles proved to be of no resistance to the laser. ‘A hot knife through butter’ was a severe understatement here. Just as the beam destroyed the nest it swerved violently, crackling gunfire forcing the mage’s attack off-path before his blue-haired ally rushed him out of the line of fire.
Gregory couldn’t even turn the whole way back to the enemy before the flash of red whipped by his vision. Suddenly his system was seized by agony, blazing sawblades blending his innards followed by a dangerous, unnerving cold. The Aberration plummeted to his side. His hands weakly reached to where his lower body should have been, blood leaking to meet the relentless rain. 267mL per second. Gregory could do nothing but curse the calculation with a furious, wordless whimper. Even with the end in sight, his Stigma was a diligent affliction.
The angle of depression of the laser striking the soldiers, 46.8 degrees. The barrel length of the butler’s pistol, 10.2cm. The number of soldiers still standing on this side of the manor, twenty-three. There was some solace in that last number at least. His screams would easily be blanketed by theirs.
As his consciousness began fading, a flash on the manor’s roof briefly distracted from the searing pain in his abdomen. Translucent pink cloaked the two figures and, though he could not identify them at first glance, Gregory felt leaden dread sink to the spilled pit of his stomach as carbines pointed skyward. 13.68m above ground. More yelling as soldiers rushed to face the sudden arrivals. But none had the chance to fire before the laser struck once again, collapsing the roof beneath the teleporters’ feet. Blurs of red and blue gratefully seized the opportunity provided by Siena and Brent’s entrance. More and more blood. More screaming. The slaughter went on, though Gregory only caught a few lingering seconds of it before his eyes finally shut, his last thought a prediction from his Stigma about how many minutes of brain activity he had left given current oxygen supply and failing blood flow—5 minutes and 21 seconds.
Above the transected Gregory, Brent and Siena fell into the usually locked attic, landing on the broken, smoking timbers of the collapsed roof and tumbling onto the ruined desk and floor, respectively, where rain-smeared folders had spilled their contents out across the floor: dossiers on Unit A, margin notes in careful cursive, an open binder with population charts, demographics, and meaningless numbers interspersed with circles, cross-outs, and question marks. Water swept into the room along with the roof’s cave in, a gutter pipe broken off in an angle that sloshed the remainder of its contents across the floor, catching up the scattered sheets and drenching them entirely.
The room was nothing but a simple bed, desk, and dresser, its occupant clearly not a common presence. But the information wasn’t the sort to take in at the moment, especially not when the laser-scarred floor threatened to collapse underneath the injured duo, groaning ominously with the weight of the roof’s timbers and the heavy damage to the mansion as a whole.
Another beam of light flashed through in a single shot, fired randomly in a Hail Mary to catch Brent and Siena, though the guess went wide, slicing through the bed in the corner instead of the two students and sending more unkempt sheets of paper fluttering into the air only to be caught by the rain and pummeled back to the ground, water already blotting out the ink.
Siena’s left ankle had twisted from the fall, the muscle there already swelling with the sprain while her left shoulder, having taken the brunt of the impact, had dislocated entirely. Where the humerus was supposed to articulate with the shoulder joint, a stiff, bony bulge protruded instead.
Brent’s raincoat protected him from the lighter cuts and scrapes to the torso, but that was a paltry reassurance in contrast to the heavy bruising on his back and along his spine where he had landed on the desk against the wall, with his lower body unlucky enough to catch the edge of the wooden desk and his upper body sprawled across the floor, nearly upside down. The impact against the wooden edge sparked a sudden flare of agony along the Arbiter’s lower back that quickly faded into a dull, almost numb throbbing. But if he tried to move his legs, he would quickly find out that they would no longer obey.
In the tunnels, the students who had wisely—or not so wisely—chosen to run away were near the end of the path thanks to the frantic pace set by the seven staff members behind them, leaving the less athletic winded and gasping for breath by the time they reached a set of metal rungs that led up to a trapdoor on the bottom floor of the lighthouse.
White paint flecked off the walls and left behind patches of dark gray concrete along the interior of the lighthouse while various metal barrels and empty tables stood unattended, rusting and aged. The stone floor, however, was swept clean and small utensils and bowls were stashed in a pile within a bucket near the door, still wet from a recent cleaning. The smell of damp earth and rain lingered inside the structure and watery shoeprints led up the winding staircase that spiraled to the lighthouse top. Shoeprints, and droplets of blood, light enough and sparsely enough that the injury seemed only minor.
Outside, the island’s official ferry waited, the old decoration on its hull long washed away by sand and surf. The vessel bobbed rapidly, buffeted by the storm winds and the simmering ocean waves while water streamed off the deck. Despite its lonesome look, the boat was constantly supplied with fuel and ready to use on a moment’s notice, though who would commandeer it remained to be seen.
A week deadline. As usual, for any questions refer to the GMs.
Angel is still with Rhohan and very mute + very legless. She is free to be awake, half-awake, or unconscious as her player decides.
For the tunnel group, there are four maids and three butlers behind you guys and the Amigos are also quickly approaching the ferry.
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.
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