Knight Sylvestre
Location: the Neighborhood
The pressure set in—the pressure of having limited to to navigate a labyrinth in a city potentially under siege with limited time. Like a constant nagging, it dwelt unwelcomed between Cyril's ears, shortening his temper. Very soon he grew sick and tired of the samey-looking houses, but his steeled himself with the knowledge that he was on the right path this time. As he grew closer and closer to the cluster of unique buildings in the distance, he needed to gain a vantage point less and less, but the dual efforts of jumping and jogging around left him a little short of breath. The vanguard stopped and put his back against one of the brick mailboxes, sliding down until he was seated on the ground. Idly he watched the front of the house he found himself before, for this one sported a unique fountain inside the curved walkway that led to the front door, and before long Cyril breathed as steadily as the fixture babbled. Standing up, however, brought a new and troubling revelation in the form of a hollowness in his belly. Recognizing the sensation in an instant, the knight scowled. “Idiot,” he told himself. More than likely, the abandoned home in which he spent the night contained food that he might have helped himself to. He glanced sideways at the building with the fountain. “Do I really want to waste more time?” he wondered aloud. Of course, he knew the answer. For now, he'd move on, carrying his punishment for the rookie mistake of not scavenging when he had the chance.
His face full of irritation, Cyril continued on his way. To maintain the greatest possible tactical advantage in case of attack, he strode down the center of the street. There were enough rubber-wheeled, metal carriages around to serve as cover in a pinch, but a Knight Sylvestre put unflinching trust in the integrity of his shield.
Tap. Tap. Tap. The butt of Cyril's glaive sounded off against the asphalt, its tempo swelling bit by bit along its owner's anticipation as he approached his first destination. Finally, the street opened up into a wide lot that lay alongside the structures he'd been seeking, dotted with more cars. Cyril's eyes were drawn to the cheery-looking pair of buildings, in particular the strange-looking pumps outside the father one, but he ignored them for a moment to sidle up to and kneel by one of the cars. One of its doors was open, despite the night's winds, and on the ground next to it were the saturated remains of a brown paper bag filled with groceries. Though by no means a picky eater, the vanguard hoped that he wouldn't have to resort to eating that garbage, even if there was what appeared to be a protective sleeve around the meat. Pondering for a moment why someone would leave goods laying around on the ground to go bad, he turned his attention to the store in front of him.
Polblart Neighborhood Grocer, the giant green-and-red letters above the door told him. Inside, he could see the answer to his hopes. One halberd shaft to the glass door later, the vanguard was inside a place that he expected some might call heaven.
Food, and various packages of food, occupied every surface. Giant crates of produce dominated one area, and he made a beeline for them. Many sat on shelves that he found, to his surprise, to be chilled, and outfitted with miniature sprinklers to prevent the vegetables from going bad. Cyril laid down his weapon and reached into the mist, washed his hands, and then grabbed a carrot the size of a gladius. It was gone in mere moments, despite its size, and out of sheer wonderment the man paused before moving on. No wonder there were so many houses; a place like this could feed an entire city from his world, if it were restocked regularly. It was nothing less than a smorgasbord, and he realized that if he could figure out some of these technologies, he might be able to make life back home a lot better.
Coming here might have been the best thing that ever happened to me, or my world, he mused, wide-eyed, before his expression turned sour.
If I survive. He could not afford to let his amazement distract him. Someone out there -many someones, actually- wanted him dead. With renewed speed, Cyril hurried around the market to assemble and devour a healthy, not-too-large meal, and to stock up on provisions in his sack. He kept his weapon close at hand, a feeling of dread having settled upon him.
The God Hand
Location: Outside the School
@GreenGoatWhen the priestess reached out for guidance, the spirits came again in earnest. This time, more kami answered her call, though not all of them quite as helpful or appreciative as those who communicated with Juniper prior. Word had, it seemed, spread quickly in the spirit world. Lurking just out of sight, in the shadows afforded to them by the east's rising sun, more nebulous eidolons watched and listened. The more benevolent kami kept an eye on the intruders and provided what help they could, but when asked for a 'destination' required a little more specificity. Inquiries about the Wishing Machine were met with collective befuddlement. If such a thing did exist, they led Juniper to conclude, it wasn't within their territories. They could, however, tell of a strange energy coming from the south.
Given the current status of the tournament, however, investigating paranormal activity wasn't exactly on Juniper's checklist. Finding her next opponent was more pertinent. Under normal circumstances finding a single human in even a few city blocks would have been a long and arduous task, but the remarkable rarity of life within the City of Echoes allowed the kami to point Juniper in the general direction of her imminent foe: a cluster of neighborhood shops. Unfamiliar names were used, like 'gas station' and 'convenience store', but her guides guaranteed her that following their advice would mean a quick rendezvous with someone who meant her serious harm.
The Fungal Knight and The Blood Devil
Location: Amusement Mile – Echoed Dead Man's Rock and the Shore
@Banana@RoughDragon1A moment's stunned silence answered Bonesword's request, though he could tell that the line hadn't given out because he could still hear Oren breathing. The Crucible's announcer, it seemed, suffered from slight congestion. A few moments passed before a snide chuckle, barely suppressed at all, reached him through the link. On that noise's heels, Oren's voice came in a low, flat tone. “Yeah, alright buddy. I'll help you out. Calling one now.”
“Ring, ring,” said he.
“Hello?” came his swift response.
“Hey, I got a guy who wants to talk to College staff,” Oren inquired. “Ya know anyone who might fit the bill?”
“Well, sure,” he laughed. “I'm College staff; they're paying me to oversee all communication, after all.”
Pleasant surprise rang out through his voice as he exclaimed, “Gee willikers! In that case, Bonesword here has something to tell you. Why doncha talk to him direct?”
“No problem,” he agreed. There was a brief pause, and Oren addressed the skeleton once again. “Good morning, my calcium-enriched friend! I'm with the College. What's all this about clowns?”
The repeated impact of wooden rowboat on metal sent a sudden and reverberating clamor through the derelict ship, shattering the serenity made of little waves washing against the shore, the breeze whistling through the hull, and a low, steady hum of electricity from within. In the first couple of minutes, however, nothing jumped out at Saria, and neither did any suspicious movements filter through the edge of the swordswoman's vision. With any immediate danger out of the way for now, and the shipwreck's ambient eeriness not a problem for a hardened slaughterer, Saria could explore.
Only a few minutes' inquisition into the wreck would be enough to determine that there was more to it than met the eye. Above a certain point in the interior, there were visible additions. The floors, slanted like the entire ship, had been converted into a staircase. Rooms on the staircase sported platforms that lay at such an angle on the slant as to make a nearly-level surface, and on these platforms were a variety of furnishings far too clean and industrial to have been a part of the vessel originally. Several of these converted chambers appeared to be laboratories, recognizable to Saria even if far more modern than she might be used to. One was botanical in nature, containing various plants in hanging boxes arranged like shelves, each one basking in a different amount of light courtesy of the hooded bulbs implanted in the bottom of the shelf above. Another lab bore walls lined with terrariums, each containing a small animal or two, ranging from lizards to hamsters to tarantulas. Most striking of these was a large, cylindrical glass tube in the middle of the room, floored with soil and containing a tall thorny brown bush illuminated by brilliant spotlights from all angles. One cable led from their hub into a hole in the ceiling, and the other to the window, where a miniature solar array was attached. Visible in the profuse light of the exhibit were several garden snakes, each about eight inches long and a half-inch thick. They did not react to Saria's entrance whatsoever, and slithered around without a care.
Other cabins included a mechanical workshop, a bedroom, and a bathroom. One appeared to be a pool, but featured telltale clues of having been lived in. Designated by the sign, a metal ladder led up to the deck. Up there, everything was remarkably shipshape save the lifeboats, which were missing. One thing stood out: a flag tied to the railing, with a capsule wrapped up in the cords. Inside the capsule was a piece of paper.
Final log of Dr. Francesca Marini, former genetic and cybernetic specialist of Talon.
Though they all have abandoned us, one by one, I have endeavored to finish my work, but in the end I have selfishly chosen life. The fuel has run out; by tomorrow morning, the power will shut off, and Specimens 1, 2, and 3 will escape containment. Given the results of my testing, there's no better place for them to escape than a shipwreck where they'll be marooned, but I cannot say if this place will hold them forever. If you're reading this, I urge to you to call an airstrike and destroy this ship ASAP. I have already taken everything of value; there's nothing here among my research but a fate worse than death. I don't know what lies on the shore of this strange City, but my niece and I will take our chances. We picked up the tracking signal for subject T-030 “Brucie” last night, and will attempt to rendezvous. Dio sia con voi.
End log.From the main deck, the soothing sounds of wind and sea could be enjoyed easily, but the hum of power was nowhere to be found.
The Cereal Killer
Location: Holy Grounds – Old Basilica
@ProProAbout two hundred and fifty meters removed from where the myriad structures of the Holy Grounds formed a crowd, and on a slight incline next to the single river that lay downstream of the Mosque that stood atop the trio's convergence point, the Old Basilica stood--an old man rising to greet the day. Hewn of rough, dark gray stone, and roofed in tiles of a rich, rusty color, it possessed a single, unadorned steeple and ashy brown doors thrown open. It gave the impression of a well-used outskirts church visited by soldiers on their way to or from war, praying for victory or offering thanks for surviving the conflict. Curiously, unlike any other building in the region, it showed signs of outside interference. Like an aged establishment undergoing renovation it sported some scaffolding, plastic veils over the life-size statues to either side of the entrance, a sort of foam walkway leading in, and posts embedded in the earth around the perimeter with solar-powered lights on their tops and lengths of cord connecting them. Even without entering, the church's visitors could catch a glimpse of something inside that didn't belong.
Through the entryway, down the central aisle, and on top of the dias that once held the communion altar, a bizarre machine sat like a resting beast. In terms of approximate size and shape, it wasn't too different from a steam locomotive. Pipes, compartments, fins, ribbing, and a whole host of other doodads and shapes adorned its cylindrical surface, most of it sporting the metallic black-blue of obsidian. In the front, where the engine's chimney might be, a circular portal four feet across contained a recess that poured the same inner light that shone from other parts of the contraption more faintly. On thought, this hole appeared to be sucking light
in, and intensifying it into particles just as they entered the eye. If Runch took the time to count, he'd number thirty-three pits the size of his palm surrounding the recess in a circle, all dark. At waist height, there extended from the machine a little podium that bore a dial very much like the face of a clock tower.
Everything about this huge, unnatural device screamed 'other'. Yet, its purpose wasn't hard to identify. Before the pirate stood nothing more and nothing less than the Wishing Machine, the purported miracle engine that would grant anyone's innermost desires had they thirty-three souls to spare.
With very little difficulty, Oren flat-out ignored Jin's interruption, and addressed Sophia's question instead. “I very, very much doubt it. Call Clotho an outstanding case of bad luck. As I mentioned in my announcement, things are moving and shaking in the 'oh-so-quiet' City of Echoes, but nothing else really suggests much of a connection to any other competitor. I'll look forward to your reply, 'Centi'-phim!”
The announcer swiveled in his chair to check the computer screen that showed a map of the entire city, with colored dots representing each of the contestants according to the GPS trackers hidden in their phylacteries. Jin and Sophia were close, given their starting locations, but some distance separated them still. As much as he wanted one of the fights to get underway, he felt that figuring out what the giant bird-thing was took precedence. Taking off his glasses, Oren groaned and rubbed his eyes with his palms. Just a little more than a half-hour in, and already his retinas were buzzing from overexposure to screens.
There's just too much to manage. When ya gonna get me outta this dump, Barnaby? He stood up, plodded over to the window, and threw it open. Light streamed in over his pale hair and skin, and jokingly Oren gave a hissing noise before glancing out over the City. From his vantage point in the echoed tower, he could see a huge chunk of the Governance Hub -flooded as it was- and a little beyond. For a few quiet moments he stood there, until he could ignore his setup no longer. The Crucible's announcer plopped back into his chair, took a sip of coffee, and waited for the next event.
A few moments passed before the com channel with the announcer came online. When the phylactery let loose, it wasn't with a helpful reply but with the telltale sound of someone gulping down a drink. A distinctive clink told the perceptive captain that the drinker's teeth had hit ceramic in the course of the consumption, and it didn't take a genius to put together material and time to assume that Oren was polishing off the last of his morning coffee. When he did answer, it wasn't in any way related to Teller's request. “Y'know, in terms of breakfast we're very much alike, you and I. Scavengers, doing the best we can with what we find. No complacent citizens, we've seen enough of the world to know how to survive. Of course, I don't know much about you, and you know very little about me. Well, any good relationship starts with getting to know the guy. As such, here's a tidbit for you: for me, today started with a tub of yogurt, a banana, and jam slathered on nontoasted bread. I drank some nice juice straight from the bottle, and I opened the coffee bag I've been saving for today. Your friendly operator needs all the energy he can get!”
Oren chuckled. “Of course, I'm not the one ya wanna get to know better. I'll honor your request,but I'm tellin' ya all this to make up for how much of a waste what you're askin' is. Lemme just say your next opponent ain't exactly the chatty type. Without further ado, allow me to present: Smiley!”
Click. The demon's phylactery mic switched on, but without the depths of the gluttonous monster's stomach, vocalization would be nigh-impossible even on the nonexistent chance that Smiley was aware of his prospective enemy's attempt at communication. Oren's line, meanwhile, vanished without a trace, leaving Teller to enjoy the fruits of his first call for help.
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