Lugubrious

✧ Adventure Must Continue ✧

Helena

Once given a few moments for contemplation the supreme specter began to rattle off a series of orders, his hollowed voice echoing through each guardian he addressed. Helena's own assignment surprised her for a moment, since Volaris seemed to be limiting her mission, but after a split second she delivered a knowing nod. Of course. Given our unknown situation, he wants to devote as much personnel as possible to scouting the area, and a fuller roster means more ground covered and fewer weaknesses for exploitation. My Lord is one step ahead, as always. Jack's presumed offer to secure the Cathedral's perimeter was approved, though Volaris also appointed him own slimy creation to join the gentleman in this task. Helena could not immediately perceive why Rule would be chosen for such a task, but could only imagine that her master harbored some hidden knowledge about what exactly was going on out there. A moment after she came to this conclusion, Volaris' briefing concluded, and the guardians dispersed purposefully.

A few minutes later Helena set foot in her old haunt once again. On the way in the sight of numerous posted guards and armed defensive measures told her that her lieutenants had carried out her orders to the letter, as reliable as ever. With the mobs on general alert, she knew their leaders, left idle, would be prime picks for her elite scouting squad. When she passed through the gateway of the Iron Lounge, she spotted the six of them standing around a table, weapons at hand and in heated conversation—Odile the naga, Gretchen the witch, Hollow the war lich, Tungus the troll, Aulau the sandworm, and Psugeosh. The moment they became aware of their commander they fell silent, snapping to attention. Even with their faults, the sight of them filled Helena with a touch of pride, the sort not felt since the glory days of her first life. Though not as strong or significant as any of the guardians, they fought for the guild with all their strength and had reaped many a reward for its glory. This vital mission would, however, call for more subtlety than either Aulau or Hollow could provide.

Having made up her mind, Helena proceeded to make her announcement. “Our Supreme Lord Volaris has bestowed upon us a task of great urgency. The Cathedral has been transported by unknown means to an unfamiliar location, and we must get a lay of the land. I will lead Gretchen, Tungus Odile, and Psugeosh east. We will move with speed and stealth.” She made sure to place great emphasis on those two words. “If we are discovered, which we won't be, we will capture and bring our finders here alive. Given the nature of this mission, this will not be considered a learning exercise. Any failures to comply will meet retribution. Those not selected will remain here to await further orders. Am I understood?”

Six voices rang out in reply. “Yes, ma'am!”

Jack

The moment the great doors creaked open, a blast of cool, fresh air hit the Patch King full-force. A sharp breath of surprise escaped him as the flames within his eyes and maw surged momentarily. He welcomed the sensation, but not its unfamiliarity. For as long as he could remember, quite literally, exiting the Cathedral of the Moon meant walking into a miasma of death and dark magic, swimming in curses and littered with hidden monsters, all blanketed in fog thick enough to choke a man. Yet all Jack could see now was an ordinary forest. Clean, lush....pleasant, even. The sight seemed as extraordinarily normal as it did untenable, for as of only a handful of minutes ago the guild hall lay devoid of outer defenses. That would not stand. By now Anna's magic surely lay across the building's walls, so it was time for the Patch King to go to work.

Making his fingers into a tent, Jack strode across the threshold. Behind him followed a small army of plant monsters, from skittering pumpkin spiders to towering pumpkin warriors. Within this throng a lone splotch of purplish-black stood out like a sore thumb, and to Jack this stranger seemed out of place in more than that. “As always,” he began, his manner that of a perfect dandy, “I am beyond thrilled to make the acquaintance of a fellow guardian, particularly one of such esteemed caliber. Were I not gratified to treat you with every ounce of courtesy you deserve, I confess I might be trembling in my boots to merely exist near one whose strength and status so immaculately dwarfs my own.”

After reaching a satisfactory point, Jack cracked his knuckles -more for show than practical effect, given his lack of bones-, wiggled his fingers, and then cast his arms up like a magician beginning his opening act. Points of light covered his hands, and from them poured a fountain of seeds. They went every where, and his minions hurried to scavenge them up before scurrying out in all directions. A few moments of this later, Jack ceased the flow and turned his hands forward. This time when seeds appeared they shot like bullets, embedding themselves into the ground wherever he aimed them. “If I might be so bold, however, I would dare to ask of you a favor. I am simply at a loss as to why the venerable Rule34, a scourge of the battlefield second only to the Supreme Lords themselves, would be assigned to the lowly role of perimeter defense.” He moved as though in a dance around the perimeter, spraying seeds all over. Meanwhile, his gourd entourage attended to the ground beyond his reach. “If memory serves, your talents -while, of course, commendably vast- do not include ones catered to taking over and securing territory.”

At length Jack's journey brought him back to the Cathedral's front entrance, and by the time he stood there once again, preparations were complete. Turning to Rule, he gave a slight bow. “Naturally, you would be more than able to eviscerate any poor curmudgeon who assailed the front door. Yet, I cannot help but hypothesize that you, as creation of our excellent Lord Volaris, are possessed of special knowledge as to what we may be facing.” With a flourish Jack gathered himself once again, holding his hands up in an elaborate pose. “Hence your seemingly unfitting assignment. Excuse me a moment, sir...”

Kneeling, Jack placed his hands upon the ground. The vines composing his arms unwound, digging into the earth aglow with life energy. All around the Cathedral, the ground began to shake. After another moment, the soil exploded all at once. Enormous green vines, thick tangles of black briars, twisted trees dripping with moss, dense patches of corn, and of course, innumerable pumpkins sprang to life, growing to full size in moments. Leaves grew, matured, and fell to earth in a matter of moments, fallen across gnarled roots that burrowed into the soil like fingers digging into sand. Pumpkin plants carved their produce into jack-o-lanterns, their vines twisting into eerie shapes. Skitterjacks sat themselves in every nook and cranny, their unblinking green eyes vigilant. Before long, a vast field of creepy flora blanketed the area, stuffed full of pumpkin monsters just waiting to cut loose.

Jack released a pleased sigh as he returned to his full height. “Ahhhh! How truly delightful, to be allowed to 'stretch my legs' in such a manner. It is the rush of the conqueror, I imagine, for as a warlord may take a land's people, I may take the land itself. I am truly thankful your creator gave this honor to me.” Fiery eye winking, Jack turned back to Rule. “Speaking of, I do not mean to presume, but were you thinking of satisfying my curiosity?”

Tatter

Blinking in surprise, Tatter composed herself and remained as still and quiet as she could manage, Only after the complete departure of the other guardians did she address Volaris, her cloth hands clasped behind her back. False as her face was, it portrayed rather convincingly the mixture of worry and confusion that plagued her as she spoke. “Y-yes? What do you wa...ah, sorry, I mean, uh, what can I do for you, my Lord?” Her mind raced to try and picture what Helena, ever the picture of dignity and discipline, would do in her place. Think, damn it. I've never even spoken to a Supreme Lord other than Yseult before. How am I supposed to act? One wrong move and I could be banished! Along with her concern, however, there existed a strain of intrigue. What exactly could she do for him that necessitated a 'special task'? Her abilities and duties were, of course, potent as they were unique, but only Yseult had ever made use of them. The more she thought of it, the more interested Tatter became. What would Volaris ask of her? Some new, exciting, devious use of her magics? Etiquette or not, she needed to know.

The Crucible - Winner Take All

Bit by bit the sun descended across the horizon, its reddish luster turning the cloud-strewn blue sky to yellow and orange, until the embrace of night inked it dark blue, purple, and finally black. Darkness fell over the City of Echoes, a place where the unnatural quiet turned modern buildings into the ruined monuments of a forgotten age and every storefront sign into an epitaph.

If the City was dead, though, it was the restless sort of dead. Hook-clawed, scrabbling monsters lurked in the darkest shadows, particularly in the areas that must have once maintained the densest populations, but those familiar, unintelligent threats did not leave their territories to walk abroad like the pale things that appeared that night. Their white, wispy forms evoked the tales of ghosts, but their feet never left the ground and they circumnavigated obstacles that presented themselves during their haunting patrols, keeping their eyes out with the watchful discipline of hunters on the prowl.

While these solid specters differed drastically in appearance, some mirrored others exactly, suggesting that there existed only a select number of specific kinds. A number of them bore inhuman features, like the noisome, blobby things with minute legs and cavernous maws that squirmed around, hunger wafting from them like the stench of death, or the gorgeous women with draconian features who strutted imperiously about, their reptilian eyes scanning every corner. Walking machines of remarkable size and sophistication, betraying no hint of a human operator, shook the ground with every footfall; feral creatures that stood upright, clad in ceremonial garb, leaped across rooftops using their vicious claws. Below, fungus-infested skeletons waited on streetcorners, sentinels with swords drawn. Perhaps more oddly, more human entities also composed their ranks, like the brawny men in striped suits, soldiers with futuristic gear, and slender assassins.

All through the night, the drones lay in a powered-down state, waiting for their internal timers to roll around to morning and have them begin the hunt anew.

-=-=-

The rays of dawn poked through the perennially clouded sky, illuminating a city no more ravaged by abnormality than it had been the night before. Outside each of the remaining competitors' havens, the flying machines sent by the tournament's vanished announcer whirred to life.

This included one that, at an unknown time in the night, arrived at the temporary abode of Pithy, its previous keeper eliminated the preceding evening. It pointed toward the thicker city, yet from angle so low to the ground that it scarcely avoided scraping it.

Once found and consulted, the drone assigned to Lily maintained an upward angle, its orientation such that if Lily returned to street level its back would be facing south, where the skyscrapers gave way to rows of smaller buildings that grew thinner and thinner until they reached the City's southern border.

In Oldtown, Runch's own guide indicated a generally northwest bearing—generally because the drone changed its angle often and suddenly, as if his next opponent was teleporting around.

At seven o'clock the drones each gave a series of beeps before launching into a prerecorded message. “Hello and welcome to the big leagues!” came the voice of the Crucible's bespectacled commentator, known to some as Oren and others by that name's inverse. “If you're hearing this that means you've made it to the semifinals. That means two big matches: one in Uptown and one in Downtown. Once that's sorted out, there's just one more little brawl to tidy things up, and then your dreams are a reality!” The words rang with enthused finality, but after a brief pause another message followed it up. Though the voice belonged to the same young man, his tone sounded drastically different. “Soooo....here's the scoop,” Nero said, his voice low and serious. “If you're getting this message, it means things have gone bad. The tournament's still on, in the sense that if you collect all the souls and find the wishing machine you'll have it granted, but don't expect to receive any help from me or the College. In fact, if you haven't already met some of them, there's a good chance they'll be out for your blood. But beware: all research indicates that there's something else out there, something...fundamental. The College had help finding you, and I'm sure that whoever -or whatever- wanted you here hasn't gone anywhere. Good luck.”

Having heralded the dawn of the third day, and something more deep and sinister than anything the contenders had yet encountered, the drones fell silent once again.

JoJo's Bizarre Adventure: Verum Autem Ex

Barely had Arthur completed his entrance than the parlor's door popped open again. Having received nothing from the other two so far, the businessman turned his eyes toward the newcomer, and they landed upon a well-built fellow with a rather punk rock aspect. His tattoos, fingerless gloves, earrings, and hairstyle -which the older man could best describe as 'faux hawk'- marked him as someone Arthur would not care to interact with under normal circumstances, but from the moment the stranger entered he seemed to have eyes for Arthur alone. He proceeded to pass out business cards to everyone, coming to Arthur last, who snuck a glance at his card to see the younger man's name. Leonard Skinner. This formed only the first gift the former wrestler was to receive, however, for in the wake of the business card he found himself offered a notebook and a pen. With some of his fondest memories still sharp despite the time that passed since, Arthur recognized the gesture a second before Skinner made it clear.

Before he could say or do anything, however, the older woman interjected with a rather weird, sweeping statement. Is she acting or something? Arthur wondered. Her words made him think that she saw the others, himself included, as mere tools valuable so long as they were 'interesting'.

A broad grin took over Arthur's face, and with a chuckle he accepted the man's request. “It feels like ages, but it's the same warm feeling as back then.” His muscles remembered the old motion, and in a flourish Arthur emblazoned his John Hancock upon the notebook page. After passing it back he clapped his new friend on the shoulder. “There y'are, son. I tell ya, at my age it's damned good to be remembered. I been saying since the beginning: my fans are the best there are.” Stepping back, he rested his arms by having each hand take a hold of its nearest suspender's upper portion, half-turning to the others as if to make sure they were watching before returning to Skinner again. “So-!”

He found himself cut off once again, this time by the secretary. Arthur blinked a few times, wondering how he hadn't noticed her presence. Of course, in the world of business the number of such people proved far too high for the average person to keep track of, and their duties and demeanor combined to make only a meager measure of significance, but could he really be so deep that he didn't register her existence? This is why I'm doing this...to get away from the numbing routine. Not bothered to bring up the rear, he followed the others down the short hall to the CEO's pleasantly-furnished office. Understanding almost immediately that Mr. Armstrong would be getting down to business, he crossed his arms and listened at rapt attention to his briefing. He mulled over each revelation as it came, the most shocking being the existence of some sort of sickness capable of granting Stand abilities. “Fascinating...” he murmured, lifting a hand to twist one edge of his mustache. Could that be what happened to me in St. Louis? It's possible, yet Miss Choux is the one he mentions as having contracted it, and this crisis seems fairly new. Regardless of his own origins, this sickness posed an incredible threat even putting aside its typical lethality. More than most Arthur knew the dizzying heights of power that the abilities of Stands had the potential to reach, and he didn't even necessarily need to look beyond his own feats to realize that.

Part of the way through, the strange woman started playing with that weapon of hers, and as Arthur glanced her way he witnessed her summon her Stand full in the open. A sleek beast-man, seemingly composed of futuristic materials—the businessman watched with raised eyebrows, his mind echoing with one word: 'brazen'. This woman was either out of her mind, crazy confident, or more probably, both. It took some panache to call out a Stand on a whim like this, even if its appearance didn't offer any hints to its abilities.

After the outline followed the instructions, and Arthur nodded along. Not too different from some of my own ventures, though I imagine this will be far more frequent and dangerous. He didn't think twice about being told to avoid unnecessary killing, since that already constituted a tenet he lived by, but not everyone in the group felt the same. His expression turned aghast as the women let loose an angry outburst that, while centered around her extreme displeasure at being told not to murder other human beings, also included the noteworthy tidbit that she'd already claimed hundreds of lives. “What...a handful,” he muttered, his voice sharp, as she wrapped up her tirade. Yet even then she wasn't done, for the next moment she vanished and reappeared across the room.

The gears in Arthur's mind began to turn. Teleporting itself and her. Though...it's seemingly nonsensical to use a Stand's abilities just to show off. Even someone possessed of supreme confidence wouldn't do that around people she doesn't trust, if she understood the number-one rule of Stands. Could it be that it -Paralyzer- is just incredibly fast? And with that name...surely people aren't still naming their Stands after their powers? Yet it seems plausible for this one. Perhaps it makes everything else slow. But speculation could continue for hours. He needed to do what he could in the time he had, and fortunately, he'd already laid the groundwork for neutralizing this troublesome Blue woman at a moment's notice if it became necessary. The way she spoke to and looked at other humans almost made him want her to try him.

Giving a slight sigh, he returned his gaze to Mr. Armstrong. “Assuming you'll give us the information we need to do what you ask, I've got no questions, and...” Arthur punctuated his determined declaration by clapping his hands together. “I'm ready to lend a hand.”

Capes of Denver: A Worm RP

The feedback from Captain Morales made the Margrave want to swell with pride, but he kept his impulses in check and merely gave a “Hm!” with accompanying smirk. “As if anyone should have expected anything less from one such as I,” he assured the the senior cape as he adjusted his scarf. He proceeded to say nothing else, and neither did Morales, leading to a seconds-long pause. The silent seconds passed with only a sniff on the Ward's part, whose unaware, unflinching eye contact persisted throughout.

Recognizing after a moment the situation's lack of sustainability, the Margrave executed a dramatic turn that sent the tail of his overcoat billowing while he placed a knuckle against his chin to engage absolute thought. “Hmm,” he postulated, wondering where to go from here. After another few seconds, these engaged in astute reflection, he found sudden cause to snap his fingers. “Right, that golem.” He cast a self-sure smile Morale's way before marching back toward the convention center, telling nobody in particular, “Let's see whether or not the so-called heroes have managed to make a mark in that melodramatic, muh...uh, motherf...megalithic monstrosity...” The articulate antihero trailed off as he sped up, approaching the entrance by which he'd previously exited at a brisk jog. An incredibly loud noise out of nowhere made him jump, but both it and its infinite potential implications failed to impede his progress for longer than ten consecutive seconds, and the Margrave went inside.

A decided lack of action convinced him at a glance that the situation was under control. The stony colossus, no longer in motion, looked to be in several pieces, and while the damage caused to the structure was by no means insignificant, the Margrave could detect no red smears or wailing do-gooders to signify any casualties. “It would appear,” pronounced he, “That we rocked them. Must have been some real losers to be trounced this fast...a pity, I'd have liked to see the looks on some faces after completely negating the golem situation with my phantasmagorical powers. If only any of my alleged 'teammates' weren't too busy going goo-goo to cover me as I got close.” Speaking of—he spotted Alessa, Lillian, and some goopy weirdo a couple hundred feet away.

Hands in his pockets, he waltzed over. “Another battle, another beatdown,” he remarked breezily as he arrived. “You'd think some two-bit nobodies would know better than to throw themselves at a whole convention of Capes, but hey, everyone's got to learn somehow.” He clapped his hands together. ”Alright, who missed me?”

JoJo's Bizarre Adventure: Verum Autem Ex

“And you're certain it doesn't have cheese?”

The cashier could keep herself from rolling her eyes, which would in the eyes of Dairy Queen's policies be considered a rude gesture to any customer, but she could not keep the unamused flatness out of her voice or the trace of a sneer from her lips. Even though she'd only been working at this location for less than a year, it felt like a lifetime. Every day people came by with the same stuck-up attitudes and flagrant disregard for common courtesy, their complaints seldom differing by more than a few words. It felt like a role-playing game where she'd exhausted all the NPCs' dialog options several times over. If not for the numbness, it would have been infuriating. This customer, in particular, rubbed her the wrong way. Huge and imposing, with a ridiculous mustache, stupid outfit, and an annoying smile she knew was an overdone fake, he was surely testing her patience. More than a minute to figure out what he wanted to order? Changing his mind mid-order? She bet he did this all the time, probably at every fast-food place he stuffed himself at.

“...Yes sir.”

The red-whiskered mad nodded, received his card back, and stepped to the side. A few moments later his milkshake came out. After turning it upside down in her franchise's characteristic display of the concrete ice cream's consistency, the cashier handed it over, who held it in his hand. Minutes passed, with the large fellow standing patiently by for his order to appear. As the wait approached the four-minute mark, the ice cream in his hand began to melt over the side of his cup, though he didn't notice until the cool, sticky liquid trickled onto his fingers. Aghast, he rushed over to the utensil counter, pulling out napkins to try and mop the mess up. Twice he looked over to the main counter, but no orders seemed to be coming, so at last the beleaguered man simply dropped the whole shebang through the hole into the trash can. The dispenser had, unfortunately, run out of napkins. Popping over to the main counter, he asked, “Excuse me, do you have any spare paper towels?”

Looking over from the customer she'd just dealt with -the last in line- the cashier grimaced. “Oh, did you spill everywhere?”

Bushy ginger eyebrows furrowed, and their owner pulled his dripping hands back. The notion of giving her the response he felt she deserved did occur to him, but he took a more positive route. With a strained smile he replied, “No, I didn't. If you wouldn't mind, may I have some pa-”

“Arthur!”

Arthur St. Anger glanced over to the young man who held a brown bag in his hands—his order had arrived. “Thank you,” he told the deliverer, and opened the bag to retrieve the napkins nested inside. After wiping his hands and disposing of the remains, he headed for the door without another word to the waiting taxi outside.

“Thought you said you'd be less than six minutes?”

As Arthur piled in, he gave the cab driver a sheepish look. “My apologies!” He replied, some of his annoyance coming through in his tone. “Things took longer than I thought.” He glanced at his watch. “Nine-thirty rush, I suppose, though I must have just missed all the people.” The cab began to move, resuming its journey to the destination Arthur requested at the airport, for which a supposedly quick stop at Dairy Queen had been a detour. Another year, another taste of American fast food. Would have preferred a Subway, but this was on the way, and after a long flight surely a little indulgence is understandable. Settling in, Arthur retrieved his Grillburger, but something yellow and gooey perched on the light sandwich's patty caught his eye. He gave a great sigh. “Delightful.” Good old bland, tasteless American cheese. Couldn't these stores just use cheddar? Or deliver the milkshake along with the food so it doesn't get a chance to melt? Ah, well. I imagine the employees aren't paid enough to care. I understand that such work is tiresome and unsatisfying, but that doesn't mean they need to take it out on us by doing a poor job. Still, a shame that his early lunch turned out so disappointing.

He shot a furtive glance at the cab driver, who appeared to be minding the road, as usual. Holding the cheeseburger in one hand, he spread the other's fingers wide, facing the palm toward it. Unseen to his oblivious chauffeur, a silvery glimmer filled the back of the car, and on its heels came a purple-tinged wave. The sandwich began to vibrate, growing blurry, until out from it popped a wedge of American cheese. When Arthur examined the former cheeseburger again, he found no trace of the distasteful contaminant. “There we are,” he murmured to himself as he placed the cheese inside the bag, quite pleased. “No problem that a little innovation can't resolve.”

-=-=-

Staring at the great white building with hands on his hips, and his suitcase resting beside him, Arthur declared, “So, this is the domain of the eminent Speedwagon Foundation!”

Eyes half-closed, the cab driver threw him a look. Did this guy just not have a filter between his brain and his mouth, or did he imagine himself narrating for some reality drama? “Uh. Yeah. Just like you wanted. That'll be ten eighty.”

Arthur removed his wallet from a zipped pocket in his purple slacks, and from it produced a ten and a one. The process took him a few moments, since unlike Canadian money the bills shared a very similar if not the very same color, but he did not mind. There wasn't a lot of American cash remaining, afterward, but he could always get more, or just use his card. Once paid, the taxi driver appeared to forget that Arthur existed, pulling away without even waiting for the former wrestler to distance himself from the vehicle's tires. Arthur, however, just chuckled. “Hm. Whether in Ottawa or Washington, living in a big city means living life a mile a minute. Then again, even Ottawa wasn't this rushed.” He turned his eyes back toward the structure that, to a Canadian, could practically have been the White House. After grabbing the handle of his bag, he proceeded down the walkway bordered by well-kept lawns, toward the front door situated in the middle of the grandiose building's three arches. He wiped a small shred of lettuce from his mustard shirt and straightened the front from where it had ridden up during the cab ride, then put on a contemplative face. “So, here it is. The gate to a secret world, hidden in plain sight. Let's see what you have in store.” He pulled open the door and sauntered inside.

Staff ushered the new arrival to a waiting room, relieving him of his baggage as he went. Upon pushing open the door, he found himself in a neat little room with tables, chairs, plants, and a few paintings, stately as one could ask for. In that first moment he also saw that he wasn't alone. Two young women had arrived before him, one in garb he could only describe as gothic with dark hair and expression to match, and the other far more delicate-looking, with purple hair and a shrinking demeanor. Neither looked particularly amicable, but that wasn't Arthur's problem. “Good morning!” he thundered. “I wasn't told much, so I didn't expect others to be summoned as well, but I am nevertheless glad to make your acquaintance.” He slammed himself down in a chair, figuring that neither particularly wanted to shake hands, though his decision to refrain from entering what they might consider their personal space did not mean he would leave them alone. “My name is Arthur St. Anger. Perhaps you've happened to hear of me? In my earlier years I was a wrestler of some renown, though I don't like to boast...too much, that is! Either way, it's always a great pleasure to meet people like you, tied together as we are by the threads of fate.”

✧ Adventure Must Continue ✧

Helena & Tatter

With every new face -or, for want of a face, presence- that entered the room, the already-thick tension filling the Scrying Sanctum simmered down even further. More well-versed than most in the domain of etiquette, Helena prided herself on being able to get at least a passable idea from her fellow Guardians, however inhuman, on how they felt, and behind the usual motions of respect, reverence, or -in one case- indifference, she could see the same somewhat-worried confusion that nibbled at the back of her own mind. Additional arrivals, including her 'brother' Jack, eventually confirmed for her the suspicion she'd had originally: that this was a comprehensive meeting of all significant personnel remaining. No Supreme Lord aside from Volaris had shown his, her, or its face, nor given any indication of their presence whatsoever. Helena felt with absolute sincerity that if her own eminent creator were present, even if not here already, she would have been able to tell.

But Helena knew nothing—no comforting feeling, no empirical evidence, no soul-borne bond. Yseult Concasseur, the Legion Duster, was not in the Cathedral of the Moon.

Kneeling at the ghoul commander's side, Tatter hid her disquiet less well. So long as the strands of Daywight Weave that composed her girlish shell were interlaced with any part of the ubiquitous carpets that wound through the guild hall, the Ubergeist could extend her consciousness through them. This allowed her to conduct a rough search of vast swathes of the Cathedral, most acutely in the Thaumaturgium, but the results did not please her. Everything seemed normal, given the heightened level of security, but nowhere could she detect any active trace of a Supreme Lord outside this very room. Nor could she send a Message to Yseult, try as she might. No doubt those others capable of emotion felt it also, threatening to erode their stalwart walls of absolute confidence in their almighty masters. The question hung in the air: What was going on?

This gnawing unease troubled some more than others. Immediately after her arrival, the one Helena recognized as Elizabeth addressed Volaris without hesitation or, seemingly, tact. Despite her preoccupation with discipline, however, the knife-fighter could not blame Elizabeth for her outburst. To her knowledge she maintained a closer sort of relationship with her creator, the esteemed Butcher, than many of the Guardians could boast of. Of course, many saw their makers as parental figures after a fashion, Tatter among them, but few received reciprocal feelings anywhere near as fullheartedly as the Damned Knight's 'daughter'. To a degree this bothered Helena, though never half as much as it did Tatter, whose youthfulness seemed to extend to both 'body' and mind.

With a sigh, Tatter retracted her strands from the wall patch where she interfaced with the Weave. “No use. Nobody here but us Guardians,” she whispered. Her eyes turned to Volaris, as did many of those present, who articulated a reply to Elizabeth's demands. They grew wide as she listened to him alongside Helena, learning with bated breath the destined demise of their world. The realization shook them both, though in different ways.

Lady Yseult knew about the end, and didn't tell me? Any of us? Tatter's glowing eyes fell upon the floor. She was okay with us all just...ceasing to be...and didn't feel like spending her last few minutes with us? ...I thought we were...like a family. Her fingers tightened into fists. And now she's gone, and I'm still here. It's not fair!

Trying to compose herself, Helena raked her hair back across her head. How hard it must have been for them, to know the exact date of reality's end. Even now, having survived, we came so close to oblivion...were I not made of sterner stuff, I might have collapsed. She glanced at Tatter, observing the anguish written on her face. Despite all the time the two had shared, she couldn't intuit what the being who so often took the role of 'little sister' was thinking. Still, her own position, and the duty it held, meant that she couldn't stay silent. Leaning over, the ghoul commander whispered to her comrade, “Steel yourself, Tatter. Yseult would have wanted us to put on a strong face without her, and represent through our actions both our worth as creations and hers as creator.”

An orange glow reflecting off the weave of Tatter's body caught Helena's eye, and she looked over her shoulder to find that Jack, standing on her other side, had leaned in as well. He gave a sagacious nod. “Alas,” he murmured, suppressing his voice a bit less well than Helena had, “Though fate has dealt us a poor hand, we must chin up and look to tomorrow. We don't know anything for sure yet. It falls to us to go on, and to find our mistress once again.”

The idea that Yseult might still be alive somewhere seemed to strengthen Tatter, and she put aside the thoughts troubling her to straighten up and put on a neutral face. After mimicking her, Helena affixed her eyes on Volaris, but inclined her head ever-so-slightly to the right to address Jack. “I'll say something.”

Giving another nod, the pumpkin gentleman muttered in reply, “I had fancied you would. Much obliged.”

First, though, Garlock spoke his bit, contributing little other than reinforcement of his reputation as a fatalist. Lord Daryl's other creation, however, more than made up for his flippancy with a frantic fury as audible in her voice as it was visible in her burning eyes. When her voice dropped to a nightmarish snarl, Jack jumped in fright, but Helena managed to do nothing more than deepen her frown. Maybe her mind was working to insulate itself against harmful thoughts, but she hadn't really considered the possibility that the other Supreme Beings existed no more. The very notion made her skin crawl. How could something like that even be possible? And if it was, on that question's heels followed one still more dire: what had caused it to happen?

Once an opportunity presented itself, the ghoul commander stood to attention, her boot clapping against the floor, and spoke up to Volaris. “My lord, it would be my honor to take a small party and scout out the surrounding area. In addition, if you approve, Jack will work to establish perimeter defenses, including sentries, until a more permanent solution can be found.”

JoJo's Bizarre Adventure: Verum Autem Ex

Character Sheet

Name: Arthur St. Anger

Gender: Male

Age: 46

Stand: Space Oddity

Appearance: Standing at 6'7” and weighing almost 300 pounds, Arthur is, though a little more portly than muscular nowadays, an imposing figure. His thick, short, burnt orange hair, while somewhat receded up top, is most splendid in his enormous walrus mustache, though his body hair is more than substantial. Laugh lines surround his dark brown eyes. Though partial to ordinary suits, when not on official business he tends to ditch the jacket and go for dark purple slacks with matching suspenders over a mustard-yellow Hawaiian shirt covered in different small animals. Black shoes and a black watch complete his average look

Personality: A pleasant man, strong-willed and confident, amicable to strangers and an unfailing ally to friends—Arthur St. Anger is someone hard to dismiss or ignore, especially given his general showiness and over-the-top, almost hammy behavior. Arthur is, however, more than a big goof. While his smiling heart is by no means a mere facade, he does harbor a less visible side; he is pragmatic, wanting to be in control at all times, and sports very few compunctions about doing what he feels is necessary, though his overriding principles are good. For instance, he believes murder is wrong, but if someone were to attack him or his family, he would have no qualms about shooting such an individual first and asking questions later. As such, it can be said that he is both intelligent and instinctual, a man unafraid to stand up and fight for what he believes in, but more than content to be a lovable spectacle most of the time

Skills: Though one might look at Arthur and see either a brute or an oaf, he is neither of these things. While it's true that he possesses a massive amount of physical strength which his lingering mastery of grappling can put to great use, his heart and mind may be his greatest weapons; he is empathetic, considerate, and clever quick to understand things about others, including what they are feeling, making him able to win other people over. In short, he is charismatic to and likable for most people, though of course he can also be more than a little intimidating, particularly when he employs a certain pragmatic cunning without hesitation

History: Born in Oshawa, Canada, Arthur suffered a troubled childhood. The commonplace absence of his mother, an indulgent woman who fancied herself part of a society significantly higher than her household's wealth would imply, meant that his overworked father couldn't spare much time for his son. Ostracized at school for his size, Arthur got into his fair share of fights, more than often losing them due to his slow speed and then taking all the blame. Things looked dark for him until he found an idol, shining in the dark—ChallengeMania, the show based around the Northern Championship Wrestling organization. Awed by the pillars of masculinity who battled in events of incredible strength and tenacity, telling sagas of heroic faces and devious heels, Arthur devoted himself to the idea of becoming a wrestler.

Before long, he felt that he found a place where he belonged. Gaining friend after friend from his classes, he trained his physique along with his skills. The tenets of wrestling seeped into his normal life, turning his aspirations toward excellence in order to rise above all that would put him down. His redoubled his effort in school, and things turned for the better. He was determined to do it all wearing a smile, only wavering in the depressing period during which his parents divorced. After graduating high school, he split his focus between a warehouse job and wrestling, working at both until he could enter both a local wrestling league and attend Trent University Durham. Though things were difficult, he never ceased in his struggle. During his time at school, working on a degree in business, he became acquainted with a certain Bree Selvick, and natural chemistry between the two bloomed into a good relationship. Years later, in his crowning moment, Arthur stood in the spotlight with the local champion's belt around his waist and his fiancee cheering him on.

After that, the years trudged by. Arthur's burning spirit cooled, though he continued to wrestle alongside his labor as a marketer. This did not change much after he and his wife moved to the capitol of Ottawa, though it wasn't too long after that when Bree gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl that she and her husband named Seth and Aster. After a while, however, things settled down, and gradually Arthur began to grow dissatisfied. He felt as though he'd fallen into a rut, and yearned for something different, or perhaps something forgotten: the glory of his earlier days. He used some of his leverage in the industry to look into various venues of wrestling, visiting different places across Canada and the United States in search of thrilling novelty. It was in this manner that he stumbled onto something utterly abnormal.

To this day Arthur can scarcely recall what happened in a remote part of St. Louis, but he can remember glimpses of a hidden MMA ring, a frigid cell, a kaleidoscopic light in his mind, a headless figure of shadows and steel far too large to be human, and a tattooed man standing before a great clockwork insect. As far as he knows, it might have just been a nightmare, but he cannot question its repercussions. Since that hazy day he has never been alone, accompanied by a silvery seer that nobody else can see, coming and going at his beck and call to accomplish incredible things. Just as he wished, his life did get more interesting; every so often, whether as Arthur the businessman or Saint Anger the wrestler, he happened upon someone else harboring a hidden side not unlike his own, commanding powers as variable as they were strange. Some encounters ended in anticlimax, truce, or even friendship, but many ended in violence, forcing Arthur to take measures to protect himself and his family. Drifting away from the wrestling world, he worked to strengthen his own abilities and expertise. As a result, his experience and knowledge grew over the years, and as of late the former wrestler from Canada has become something of an establishment in the enigmatic world of Stands. His desire to rediscover the secret society in St. Louis that started him on this new path remains strong, but his number-one priority never did change: to protect and care for his family.

Other: Joseph

Stand Sheet

Stand Name: Space Oddity

Stand Parameters:
Power: B
Speed: D
Range: D
Staying: B
Precision: C
Learning: D

Stand Description: A bipedal, close-range, wearable, power-type Stand, Space Oddity takes the form of an oversized humanoid of ornate, celestial metal. Its size is such that despite its thinner frame its hands are about the same size as its user's. As such, it often only manifests from the torso up, rising from the ground behind or near its user. Rather than a head, it has a number of angular metal struts jutting out from its collar somewhat like the ramparts of a tower; its true head, a miniature maelstrom of purple energy with a golden, diamond-shaped locus in the middle, only appears when the Stand uses its power

Power Description: Space Oddity's ability, which is anything but simple, revolves around compound words. Most explicitly, it is able to split apart anything truly describable with a compound word into the two things that compose that compound word; this power also works in reverse, able to fuse two things together into something else so long as those two things' words make a compound word when put together.

This is accomplished by projecting a purplish wave from the Stand's hands, which travels quickly and upon contacting a suitable candidate for fusion or de-fusion becomes an aura around it, a suitable candidate being something that is already a compound word or is within a few feet of something else with which it can become a compound word. Once a candidate is surrounded with the aura, it begins to vibrate and give off a shimmering effect, and Space Oddity either gestures with its hands to pull the thing apart, or to bring two candidates closer together until the candidate/s either split or merge in a surge of cosmic energy. The result or results of the Stand's ability can be concrete, but often time the word describing it can be multiple things, so Space Oddity uses context clues o precedence, including its surroundings, to choose what is done. Faithful representation is balanced out with what makes the most sense with reality as well as consistency, often picking what the most people would first think of when the word in question is spoken to them.

More Information

-De-fusing something can have supernatural or abstract results. In such cases, adjectives are typically applied to their surroundings where applicable, and verbs are enacted
-By default, a thing is only a candidate for defusion based on its real, normal name, but if Space Oddity hears a noncandidate described as something that would make it a candidate and judges it accurate, that thing becomes a candidate
-Only nouns can be candidates for fusion
-Living things are more difficult to act upon, taking more concentration and time, leaving the Stand and its user vulnerable
-A living thing defused by the Stand's ability retains its soul, defaulting to whatever product more closely represents what came before; two living things fused together result in a combined soul, though it can be separated
-While Space Oddity acting on its own projects energy from its hands, its effect can also be achieved by touch if its hands are worn by its user, and in such a case candidates must either be physically pulled apart or shoved together

Examples

-Fusing an inedible hunk of dough and a nut together to make a delicious doughnut
-Fusing a house key and a length of chain together to make a keychain
-Fusing a plastic sun and a pair of spectacles to make sunglasses
-Fusing a razor blade and a light switch to make a switchblade
-Defusing a cupboard into a cup and a board
-Defusing a raindeer into rain and a deer, resulting in a normal deer and causing spontaneous rain in the current region
-Defusing a teardrop into a tear and a drop, resulting in a gash being ripped in the closest available surface and a potent momentary increase in gravity in the surrounding area
-Defusing a smartbomb into a bomb (a round black bomb with a wick, the most recognizable representation of 'bomb') and 'smart', which manifests as a temporary intelligence boost for everyone in the vicinity

Other:

JoJo's Bizarre Adventure: Verum Autem Ex

Character Sheet

Name: Arthur St. Anger

Gender: Male

Age: 46

Stand: Space Oddity

Appearance: Standing at 6'7” and weighing almost 300 pounds, Arthur is, though a little more portly than muscular nowadays, an imposing figure. His thick, short, burnt orange hair, while somewhat receded up top, is most splendid in his enormous walrus mustache, though his body hair is more than substantial. Laugh lines surround his dark brown eyes. Though partial to ordinary suits, when not on official business he tends to ditch the jacket and go for dark purple slacks with matching suspenders over a mustard-yellow Hawaiian shirt covered in different small animals. Black shoes and a black watch complete his average look

Personality: A pleasant man, strong-willed and confident, amicable to strangers and an unfailing ally to friends—Arthur St. Anger is someone hard to dismiss or ignore, especially given his general showiness and over-the-top, almost hammy behavior. Arthur is, however, more than a big goof. While his smiling heart is by no means a mere facade, he does harbor a less visible side; he is pragmatic, wanting to be in control at all times, and sports very few compunctions about doing what he feels is necessary, though his overriding principles are good. For instance, he believes murder is wrong, but if someone were to attack him or his family, he would have no qualms about shooting such an individual first and asking questions later. As such, it can be said that he is both intelligent and instinctual, a man unafraid to stand up and fight for what he believes in, but more than content to be a lovable spectacle most of the time

Skills: Though one might look at Arthur and see either a brute or an oaf, he is neither of these things. While it's true that he possesses a massive amount of physical strength which his lingering mastery of grappling can put to great use, his heart and mind may be his greatest weapons; he is empathetic, considerate, and clever quick to understand things about others, including what they are feeling, making him able to win other people over. In short, he is charismatic to and likable for most people, though of course he can also be more than a little intimidating, particularly when he employs a certain pragmatic cunning without hesitation

History: Born in Oshawa, Canada, Arthur suffered a troubled childhood. The commonplace absence of his mother, an indulgent woman who fancied herself part of a society significantly higher than her household's wealth would imply, meant that his overworked father couldn't spare much time for his son. Ostracized at school for his size, Arthur got into his fair share of fights, more than often losing them due to his slow speed and then taking all the blame. Things looked dark for him until he found an idol, shining in the dark—ChallengeMania, the show based around the Northern Championship Wrestling organization. Awed by the pillars of masculinity who battled in events of incredible strength and tenacity, telling sagas of heroic faces and devious heels, Arthur devoted himself to the idea of becoming a wrestler.

Before long, he felt that he found a place where he belonged. Gaining friend after friend from his classes, he trained his physique along with his skills. The tenets of wrestling seeped into his normal life, turning his aspirations toward excellence in order to rise above all that would put him down. His redoubled his effort in school, and things turned for the better. He was determined to do it all wearing a smile, only wavering in the depressing period during which his parents divorced. After graduating high school, he split his focus between a warehouse job and wrestling, working at both until he could enter both a local wrestling league and attend Trent University Durham. Though things were difficult, he never ceased in his struggle. During his time at school, working on a degree in business, he became acquainted with a certain Bree Selvick, and natural chemistry between the two bloomed into a good relationship. Years later, in his crowning moment, Arthur stood in the spotlight with the local champion's belt around his waist and his fiancee cheering him on.

After that, the years trudged by. Arthur's burning spirit cooled, though he continued to wrestle alongside his labor as a marketer. This did not change much after he and his wife moved to the capitol of Ottawa, though it wasn't too long after that when Bree gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl that she and her husband named Seth and Aster. After a while, however, things settled down, and gradually Arthur began to grow dissatisfied. He felt as though he'd fallen into a rut, and yearned for something different, or perhaps something forgotten: the glory of his earlier days. He used some of his leverage in the industry to look into various venues of wrestling, visiting different places across Canada and the United States in search of thrilling novelty. It was in this manner that he stumbled onto something utterly abnormal.

To this day Arthur can scarcely recall what happened in a remote part of St. Louis, but he can remember glimpses of a hidden MMA ring, a frigid cell, a kaleidoscopic light in his mind, a headless figure of shadows and steel far too large to be human, and a tattooed man standing before a great clockwork insect. As far as he knows, it might have just been a nightmare, but he cannot question its repercussions. Since that hazy day he has never been alone, accompanied by a silvery seer that nobody else can see, coming and going at his beck and call to accomplish incredible things. Just as he wished, his life did get more interesting; every so often, whether as Arthur the businessman or Saint Anger the wrestler, he happened upon someone else harboring a hidden side not unlike his own, commanding powers as variable as they were strange. Some encounters ended in anticlimax, truce, or even friendship, but many ended in violence, forcing Arthur to take measures to protect himself and his family. Drifting away from the wrestling world, he worked to strengthen his own abilities and expertise. As a result, his experience and knowledge grew over the years, and as of late the former wrestler from Canada has become something of an establishment in the enigmatic world of Stands. His desire to rediscover the secret society in St. Louis that started him on this new path remains strong, but his number-one priority never did change: to protect and care for his family.

Other: Joseph

Stand Sheet

Stand Name: Space Oddity

Stand Parameters:
Power: B
Speed: D
Range: D
Staying: B
Precision: C
Learning: D

Stand Description: A bipedal, close-range, wearable, power-type Stand, Space Oddity takes the form of an oversized humanoid of ornate, celestial metal. Its size is such that despite its thinner frame its hands are about the same size as its user's. As such, it often only manifests from the torso up, rising from the ground behind or near its user. Rather than a head, it has a number of angular metal struts jutting out from its collar somewhat like the ramparts of a tower; its true head, a miniature maelstrom of purple energy with a golden, diamond-shaped locus in the middle, only appears when the Stand uses its power

Power Description: Space Oddity's ability, which is anything but simple, revolves around compound words. Most explicitly, it is able to split apart anything truly describable with a compound word into the two things that compose that compound word; this power also works in reverse, able to fuse two things together into something else so long as those two things' words make a compound word when put together.

This is accomplished by projecting a purplish wave from the Stand's hands, which travels quickly and upon contacting a suitable candidate for fusion or de-fusion becomes an aura around it, a suitable candidate being something that is already a compound word or is within a few feet of something else with which it can become a compound word. Once a candidate is surrounded with the aura, it begins to vibrate and give off a shimmering effect, and Space Oddity either gestures with its hands to pull the thing apart, or to bring two candidates closer together until the candidate/s either split or merge in a surge of cosmic energy. The result or results of the Stand's ability can be concrete, but often time the word describing it can be multiple things, so Space Oddity uses context clues o precedence, including its surroundings, to choose what is done. Faithful representation is balanced out with what makes the most sense with reality as well as consistency, often picking what the most people would first think of when the word in question is spoken to them.

More Information

-De-fusing something can have supernatural or abstract results. In such cases, adjectives are typically applied to their surroundings where applicable, and verbs are enacted
-By default, a thing is only a candidate for defusion based on its real, normal name, but if Space Oddity hears a noncandidate described as something that would make it a candidate and judges it accurate, that thing becomes a candidate
-Only nouns can be candidates for fusion
-Living things are more difficult to act upon, taking more concentration and time, leaving the Stand and its user vulnerable
-A living thing defused by the Stand's ability retains its soul, defaulting to whatever product more closely represents what came before; two living things fused together result in a combined soul, though it can be separated
-While Space Oddity acting on its own projects energy from its hands, its effect can also be achieved by touch if its hands are worn by its user, and in such a case candidates must either be physically pulled apart or shoved together

Examples

-Fusing an inedible hunk of dough and a nut together to make a delicious doughnut
-Fusing a house key and a length of chain together to make a keychain
-Fusing a plastic sun and a pair of spectacles to make sunglasses
-Fusing a razor blade and a light switch to make a switchblade
-Defusing a cupboard into a cup and a board
-Defusing a raindeer into rain and a deer, resulting in a normal deer and causing spontaneous rain in the current region
-Defusing a teardrop into a tear and a drop, resulting in a gash being ripped in the closest available surface and a potent momentary increase in gravity in the surrounding area
-Defusing a smartbomb into a bomb (a round black bomb with a wick, the most recognizable representation of 'bomb') and 'smart', which manifests as a temporary intelligence boost for everyone in the vicinity

Other:

✧ Adventure Must Continue ✧

Helena Lichter

First came the ice, a miniature deluge of sparkling white chips from the cooler behind the bar. Into the glass afterward sloshed a sizable serving of tonic water, the stream lessened bit by bit until its overseer stopped the flow at what she envisioned to be the three-fourths mark. With that out of the way, only the gin remained, and with practiced precision the bitter liquor lofted into its resting place. In two deft turns the cap to the gin bottle found itself tightly fastened once again, and the next moment the whole container lay on its shelf as if nothing ever happened.

Behind the bar counter, the smartly-dressed military woman grasped the glass, her fingers exerting a delicate pressure. She wheeled it around in a little circle, making sure that the drink's components were mixed. Satisfied after a few seconds, she allowed herself a slight smile as she brought up a sliced lime from a covered dish and squeezed it into the glass before impaling it upon the lip. “Two bitter flavors, unpleasant on their own,” she murmured in her liltingly-accented voice, then inhaled deeply to take in what little scent the finished product offered. “Put together, they cancel out one another's faults, and make something altogether excellent. That is the essence of gin & tonic. But that principle can be applied elsewhere, no?”

“Commander Lichter...”

In front of the bar stood a squadron of thirty skeleton warriors, standing at attention in various stages of boredom. Before them were two more unique monsters at attention, one a voluptuous naga pyromancer, and the other a wizened witch. Of the two, the former had been the one to speak, her rather catty tone complimenting her ill-fitting, sloppily-worn uniform. A meter to her left, the wrinkly green crone stooped with head bowed, silent and proper.

Helena ignored the naga, having started to drink her creation. A half-minute passed as she continued to take sips, twice stopping and making as if she were about to speak, then seemingly changing her mind and returning to her gin and tonic. “Lieutenant Odile,” she said at length, her voice steely. “One cannot alter her own nature, but the lengths to which you seem to go to remain inflexible beggar belief. Lieutenant Gretchen has been making a clear effort to adapt -more so than the other lieutenants- but you refuse to accommodate even her. Your creator had other purposes in mind for you, I think, than military responsibility, but General Bitrate left long ago. It would be prudent to dwell on today's lesson.” Setting her glass down, Helena crossed her arms. “But if you do not heed me, perhaps Tatter will be able to sort you out in a more...direct manner.”

The naga went white, her mouth opening and closing, though no sound came out. Leaving her to work the threat over, Helena addressed the witch. “Lieutenant Gretchen, please relay to Lieutenants Hollow and 'Tungus' that your next mission will be to the Silverdrift Mines, to put down the infection festering there and retrieve the Wretched Core. That is all.”

After the witch bowed and turned to go, her skeleton troop and the terrified naga in tow, Helena beckoned over a member of the Iron Lounge staff—a moleman. “Inform the staff to prepare the room for a number of the Supreme Lords. I'm not sure of the arrangements of this celebration of theirs, but we must be ready when they ret...!” The knife-fighter went silent as a voice echoed through her head. She -no, all the guardians- had been summoned.

---

With a tremendous noise the old, sturdy door burst open, slamming into the wall beside it, to admit Helena to the Thaumaturgium. She sprinted in an unnatural manner, very bent forward and low to the ground, her arms and legs pumping farther and faster than a human's ever could. Rounding a corner of the wooden balcony, she reached for the carpet. Her fingers grew, morphing into brutal claws, and their steely tips dug into the deceptively rigid surface of the carpet. They ripped right through and stuck in the wood beneath, allowing her to turn right on a dime and launch forward once again without losing much speed.

As she barreled toward the Scrying Sanctum, an ephemeral, high voice called out from the ether. ”Hey, what gives!?” Alongside Helena, the carpet rippled, and rising strands of it billowed upward to keep pace with her. The strands detached from the carpet, and in a matter of moments they wove themselves together to form the upper half of a young girl, the loose weave on her torso and lower arms billowing behind her like tentacles after some sea leviathan. ”If you're gonna come into my turf and rip up my poor carpet, you better be ready to re-shelve all the weapons in your lounge!”

In a voice remarkably even despite her exertion, and one tinged by disdain, Helena replied, “Tatter. I wouldn't do it anyway, so it's no use. And shouldn't you be in the Sanctum already?”

The ubergeist shrugged, which looked a touch off with unformed forearms. ”Eh, I'm already super close. Could pop in anytime I wanted. What do you think's going on?”

Helena slid to a stop, the elaborate door to the Scrying Sanctum just ahead. “No idea,” she admitted, taking a moment to smooth out her cloak and adjust her cap. With a flick of her wrist, her deadly ghoul talons receded. “Last I heard the Supreme Lords all went out for some kind of event, but if Volaris is here, something may have happened. Did you lock down your area?”

Giggling as if her fellow guardian was an idiot, Tatter replied, ”Duh! The Thaumaturgium's always ready to party. You shoulda seen what I was working on. Actually, it was an ongoing mutation, so depending on when I get back I bet it'll be REALLY interesting.” She stopped by the door as well. In preparation to go in, her whole constructed body wove itself into humanoid form, complete with a flowing robe. Tatter gave Helena a parodied bow, and in an outrageous attempt at a formal voice told her, “After you, madaaame!”

Helena rolled her eyes, and marched inside, with the little spirit floating in on her heels. Already present were Baron, as eerie and uncanny as ever, as well as Garlock of the arena, as well as Volaris himself. Just the sight of the great being, his nightmarish form as imposing as it gets, made Helena take in a sharp breath of air, her heart quickening. Behind her, even Tatter straightening up, her simulated face grown serious. The two took their places along the chamber's walls, standing at rapt attention in the fleetingly beautiful glow of the scrying pool.

Capes of Denver: A Worm RP

“Come on, come on! This way! Move quickly, but keep hold of your senses! Don't trample any poor children! You're not animals! Move quickly, but stay calm! Keep it together and everything will be fine! With this many heroes, you have nothing to fear!”

Though somewhat close to shouting himself hoarse, the Margrave wore a triumphant smile. The crowds of civilians occupying the convention center seemed close to depleted, and he now stood above the last stretch of the flow, directing their motion from atop a park bench. He had, of course, worried that in their uncontrolled fear the people would have made a mad dash for safety, running down anyone in their way, and potentially leading to even more casualties than a stray villain might have caused. However, the sight of the populace remaining rational during its escape gladdened his heart. He did wonder why, but for lack of a better explanation, fell upon a single gratifying conclusion: that these people did believe in their heroes. Dozens of capes rallying together for their protection, to cooperate against an evil uprising...it must have inspired the ordinary men and women, making them feel as though as long as those heroes stood tall there was no reason to give into panic. The thought of losing out on the battle's excitement did occur to the Margrave, but now he felt happy with his lot—plus, there wasn't much of a chance of dying to a stray bullet or stone shard out here.

While scanning the crowd for injured or distressed, however, the Margrave perked up, forgetting about the melee inside the building. Something didn't seem right. The flow of people had been disrupted, and though the overseeing Ward couldn't quite identify how, he thought he could tell from the pattern that its cause lay in an individual moving sideways. But why? Surely no scum-sucking troll would try to get his kicks by messing with an evacuation? His mind raced. He could not throw away the possibility of it being linked to the Rockers' emergence; in fact, a less outrageously-dressed (not to mention less outrageously-armed) Rocker could have slipped into the crowd. Such a fellow would be beaten down the moment he tried hurting civilians, of course, so what could he be after? The Margrave scratched his chin. If there was some vagabond in here, and I'm not just overthinking things, how could he do the most damage? Not by attacking civilians, but...he could try to take a hostage or otherwise threaten them into going somewhere else. He snickered. Heh. Not while I'm around. His eyebrows shot up, just as a large figure detached itself from the crowd and sprinted his way. “Oh!”

With a cut-off cry the Margrave took a full-body tackle that bowled him over the bench's back and slammed him into the ground behind. If his chosen pedestal had not been in front of a planter filled with flowers, his career might have ended just there with a head cracked on concrete, but instead his full weight came down on prickly but nonlethal flower-clusters. Still, the hit drove the air from his lungs, and his vision swam. When he started to struggle, he found the man on top of him, pinning him down completely. Hands closed around his neck, and blind terror took hold of his mind. “Guck...ack...khhck!” He pried at the hands, scratching with his uncut fingernails, but his foe appeared to be made of sterner stuff. Blackness began to creep in on the edges of his vision, and it became harder and harder to resist.

“Hey!”

Another shape barreled into his assailant, sending him tumbling. The Margrave could see a fat man with a baseball hat and a beard, someone no more remarkable than your average truck driver. He could see some fear in this man's eyes, but determination too. Nearby, the Rocker got to his feet, but before he could retaliate two more civilians came at him from behind. They grappled him, taking hold of his arms and keeping him in place, until a moment later the trucker slammed a wild punch into his gut. Wheezing, the Rocker collapsed, and a couple more civilians joined in to kick him. As the Margrave watched, the trucker strode over and reached out a hand. “C'mon, bud. Let's get you up.”

The Ward took the offered hand and was hoisted to his feet. After massaging his temples and shaking his head to clear the last of the haze, he clapped a hand on the trucker's shoulder. ”Thank you, sir.” He glanced at the others, standing over the defeated villain wannabe. ”Thank you all. If not for you I might have been dead. Guess that makes you even better heroes than me! ….As supremely effervescent and phantasmagorical as I am. Go ahead evacuate, I'll clean up here.”