JingWelcome! I hope the large variety of roleplay genres and styles here to fit your needs (and you can always create one if there isn't one). Don't be afraid to ask others for help in the off-topic section or the roleplaying discussion section where people are always ready to dispense advice about writing. Enjoy your stay!
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Welcome back to the Guild! However long you stay, I hope it's an enjoyable experience!
๐๐๐: ๐๐๐ฅ. ๐, ๐๐๐๐ / / ๐น๐๐๐ โ๐๐๐ ๐๐ค๐๐๐๐ / / ๐๐๐๐๐ฅ๐๐ ๐ฆ๐ค๐ / / ~๐๐๐๐
The first thing he heard was the sound, even before the impact splashed sand and dirt into the air where the beach met the edge of the forest. Nathaniel spun to see the lighthouse roofโtop room and allโskid a short distance, shedding concrete and support beams as it gouged the ground. He surprised himself, more than anyone, by staring only a moment before whirling back around, sprinting now for the pier where the ferry floated in the strangest rendition of a holy grail yet. Orla was hot on his heels, running alongside the floating torso of Angel and lifting the height of the far end even higher, thickening the wall as she moved. Kelly sprouted more living trees, the hulking wood constructs bursting from the ground and the steaming wall itself to overwhelm the students on the other side, stepping on the burning embers of their comrades without a trace of pain. They marched mindlessly, footsteps a drumbeat to the roaring rain.
Ian took the earth around him and raised a cutting sandstorm, the particles whirling quickly enough to nick the wood of the trees they surrounded, sending a tidal wave of moving sand over the wall to bolster the attack, replacing what sand had initially been weighed down by the rain. The particulate matter nicked and scraped at skin, lodging into clothes and orifices and moving still, vicious in their determination to rend at exposed skin like sandpaper.
Far ahead of Nathaniel, Thiโs flesh had parted across all her limbs like shredded rags, revealing the hideous augmentations of metals and magic that propelled her forward across the wet sand at a pace faster than any human could ever achieve. She was already at the ferry by the time the lighthouseโs head landed, the decapitated building hardly fazing her.
She would have left without them, too, Nathaniel knew, if he wasnโt the one carrying their trophy. The orb pulsed violently over his shoulder as he ran, flattening the earth in front of him to make movement easier and manipulating his legs even when they tired quickly of the breakneck speed. Orla raised the barricades behind them, too, fencing out any potential pursuers.
Flashes of fire from the dragon in the sky burned another wave of trees that stumbled forward a moment longer before crumbling to ashes, but more and more came, their numbers absurd, like a colony of ants. Zoeโs rot held them at bay, spreading like lightning except where the dragonโs fire burned too quickly for the infection to spread further. Around the students the trees melted to sludge, black ichor where they once stood, their endless progress kept at bay only by the sheer monstrosity of the powers they faced. And still more came, dying as quickly as they appeared, but the rate of creation and decay zeroed out and not in the studentsโ favor.
The wounded shadow beast recovered from the shock of the lighthouse attack first, clawing at the bright-haired girl on the ground nearby, the first swipe lacerating the backs of both forearms to the muscle and slicing deep into Callanโs legs. Misery, however, would not be budged so easily without its ownerโs control, the monster weapon both subservient and defiant to its creatorโs will in its own inexplicable ways. As Rhohan swung again, aiming to rip the wounded superhuman girl into pieces, a flash of an intangible, purple blade struck his leg.
There was no pain at first, only a dampening of energy, as if a switch somewhere had been turned off. Then the monster form shuddered and flickered, dispersing in a rising stream of jagged lines. The axe followed gravity, biting into a human, cutting clean through the upper half of the young manโs body. A heavyset man with dark skin and curly brown hair already soaked in the rain stared at Callan in his last moments, amber eyes wide in death and jaw slack in surprise as he struggled to understand what had happened.
But death waits for neither epiphany nor last words and the focus dimmed from his eyes seconds later, his severed torso spilling blood freely into the rain-soaked dirt.
Yaaaay, anniversary! Put your completed forms in the pad before the end of November (though the sooner the better) and hopefully we can find someone to make noises that sound vaguely like your character.
Check GM notices in Discord for pad link.
Check GM notices in Discord for pad link.
๐๐๐: ๐๐๐ฅ. ๐, ๐๐๐๐ / / ๐น๐๐๐ โ๐๐๐ ๐๐ค๐๐๐๐ / / ๐๐๐๐๐ฅ๐๐ ๐ฆ๐ค๐ / / ~๐๐๐๐
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 Zhangโs 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 hadnโt accounted for the excess of soldiers at the usually unguarded estate and the unpredictability of otherwise โharmlessโ powers from the estateโs servants.
A familiar flash of light in the distance, bright enough to mimic daylight, and Nathanielโs 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 muchโtoo 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 workโpredicting the future was impossible without a proper seer in their midst and for all his connections the Amigosโ 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 girlโs missing legs and mutilated throat, her body swinging like a broken rag doll with every step of Rhohanโs 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 Dreamcatcherโs monsters would appear to block their path.
The group neared the pier quickly, Nathanielโs 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 couldnโt make it back in time, that was their problem to deal with. To their left, dawn lingered beyond the horizon, the morningโs shades still hued in navy and the muted darkness of an overcast sky.
โWait,โ Thiโs voice called out, stopping the group instantly, their quick response a product of years living on high-alert. โThere is someone. Not ours.โ She pointed into the distance, towards the lighthouse entrance, eyes sparking purple and black light as her bodyโs modifications adjusted her vision.โFourโno, fiveโI think.โ
And the Amigos had always been known for tearing through anything that stood in their way.
โKill them. Get to the boat. Anyone who gets left behind stays behind.โ
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 beastโs hunched back. Rhohanโs 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.
โThi, remove as much of her as possible. She needs to be lighter.โ
โI can remove several organsโthey are the heaviest parts after the muscles.โ
โSure.โ
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 womanโs 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 Angelโs 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 girlโs back and severed key spinal nerves to prevent Angelโs 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 girlโs 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 Angelโs 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 โexcess.โ At least, whatever excess Thi could take away at that moment without immediately endangering the captiveโs life. There would be time to remove more if they returned to their base.
โIs this light enough?โ she asked Nathaniel, hand slowly reshaping back into something vaguely human.
He tested it, lifting the girl with his telekinesis.
โLight enough.โ 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. โOrla, wall. To the docks.โ
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 Thiโs 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.
โGet back inside, hurry!โ
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 manโs wiry muscles. An angry scrape crossed his brow, near the hairline of messy, layered auburn. He looked the athletic typeโa 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.
๐๐๐: ๐๐๐ฅ. ๐, ๐๐๐๐ / / ๐น๐๐๐ โ๐๐๐ ๐๐ค๐๐๐๐ / / ๐๐๐๐๐ฅ๐๐ ๐ฆ๐ค๐ / / ~๐๐๐๐
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 โFatherโ 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 manโs ability to create powers at will. They had fought and the revelation that the Amigosโs 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 himโto use him, of course, as was the way of the dog-eat-dog world in the favela.
He didnโt 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 childโs fever dream in his country, and he had long outgrown it. Letting Isabelle run off to certain death while they abandoned her for the townโs ferry wasnโt his first time deciding someoneโs life and it wouldnโt 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 wasnโt 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 howโs and whyโs 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-closerโs 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 converterโs 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 stupidityโand certainly not for collapsing an entire cave on themselves. The rest of the group had taken the retreat order well, especially when it wasnโt their lives on the line for failure.
And that was the Fatherโs 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 gangโs main investors, the man had enough weight to negotiate with the Father directly. Lose one, gain one, and he could only hope the clientโs sway would temper their leaderโs wrath.
๐๐๐: ๐๐๐ฅ. ๐, ๐๐๐๐ / / ๐น๐๐๐ โ๐๐๐ ๐๐ค๐๐๐๐ / / โค๐๐๐๐'๐ค ๐ผ๐ค๐ฅ๐๐ฅ๐ / / ~๐๐๐๐
โHold your fire!โ 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 soldierโs 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 sniperโs perch before it carved a scorching path towards them. Rendered concrete and tiles proved to be of no resistance to the laser. โA hot knife through butterโ was a severe understatement here. Just as the beam destroyed the nest it swerved violently, crackling gunfire forcing the mageโs attack off-path before his blue-haired ally rushed him out of the line of fire.
Gregory couldnโt 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 butlerโs 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 manorโs 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 teleportersโ feet. Blurs of red and blue gratefully seized the opportunity provided by Siena and Brentโs 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 flowโ5 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 roofโs 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 wasnโt 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 roofโs 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.
Sienaโs 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.
Brentโs 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 Arbiterโs 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.
๐๐๐: ๐๐๐ฅ. ๐, ๐๐๐๐ / / ๐น๐๐๐ โ๐๐๐ ๐๐ค๐๐๐๐ / / ๐๐๐๐๐ฅ๐๐ ๐ฆ๐ค๐ / / ~๐๐๐๐
In the tunnels, the students who had wiselyโor not so wiselyโchosen 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 islandโs 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 momentโs notice, though who would commandeer it remained to be seen.
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.
But then who will make the lube?
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