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NOTICE: The ‘Motive Note’ has been updated in the Court Record Truth Bullets section.

paging @Vocab; you were right this time, my bad!

The performance ends, and there is great applause. The man on the stage, tall and dressed in a green coat and matching scarf, takes a theatrical bow but remains where he is. He steps up to the microphone, an honest smile on his pale face.

“Thank you! Truly, you are too kind to this humble poet!” He clears his throat, the chilly air having taken its toll on his voice. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, I have one more surprise in store for all of you!”

He signals backstage, and an older man comes forward with a guitar in hand. There is a surprised cheer from the crowd, especially when the guitarist starts playing some soft opening chords.

“Most know me as a man of words, not melodies,” the poet continues. “But now with the help of an old friend, I am here to show you that the wonders of art know no boundaries!”

The guitarist picks up his tempo as the applause dies down, playing a distinct blues rhythm. The poet begins, not singing, but fitting his words to the instrument:

“The blue sky fell on me like a great hat,
And loyal friend, I had one: the fog.
Amongst full plates, I hungered
Before fiery furnaces, I froze!”

The combination worked very well and created a fantastic atmosphere on the stage and in the audience, who did not expect to hear much music at this gathering.

“...and somewhere among the autumn litterfall
In an old thorn bush, on which only
A sinful star's crooked colour falls:
I, Daimyon Londe, will rest
Blessed and blasphemed everywhere!”

The poet ends the last note with outstretched arms, taking in the final applause.

“And so goes the No Man's Ballad. Thank you!”

Daimyon let out a wistful sigh as he reread the recollection of his last performance before being hospitalised. Illness had struck him down at the worst time; he had been full of energy and vitality, genuinely living a second flush of youth.

He remained hopeful, however, that the ballad would not be Daimyon Londe's swan song. Besides, that was not even what he was looking for when he opened up his trusty notebook; he merely stumbled upon it. He was looking for a different memory, namely the one shedding light to the bunch of unexplained scars tattering his chest. They were small and thin, covered under his shirt and he had only noticed when he had first taken a shower here. Even then he had ignored it until today when he decided that he would finally get to the end of the matter. Smaller accidents and injuries slipping his mind were not uncommon, but if it even had a modicum of importance—and those scars looked like they did—he had recorded it in the notebook.

Alas, that did not seem to be the case. He skimmed the thick document carefully, but it brought no fruition. Resigned, he put it back down on the wooden table, lay back in his chair and breathed out. His eyes wandered back to the other writing sitting conspicuously on the table: the mysterious book he had procured some time ago from the study. The unshakable gut feeling that the piece was vital persisted, and thus he devoted more and more time to it. These recent days, most of his waking moments had been spent trying to crack and understand its secrets; it had him like a man possessed. Even its title was cryptical: he had managed to figure out some additional letters, making it the ‘Ryoshi Membook’ when read together. What became clear at least that it had once been a schoolgirl's personal diary, something certainly not meant to be published. How it got to a hospital library was beyond him, but it just added to the overall eerieness surrounding the book.

Of course, it was not the title that held his interest the most. He had read through the book more thoroughly and found, aside from numerous pages that had been unmistakably ripped out, a few entries that were, for the lack of a better word, censored. Almost every identifiable name in them got plastered over, as well as details of seemingly essential events. Hungry for information and a mind bursting with imagination, Daimyon had decided to restore these pages to the best of his ability, using context cues to assemble the missing pieces of the enigmatic girl's life. He had made good progress already, though unfortunately, it came with the price of him being cut out of the loop with matters concerning the rest of the Infinite group. He had caught bits and pieces of big things going down but generally stayed out of the action.

It would have been the same today too, had he not heard a commotion outside. There had been a few before, but this was the first time that he was not too engrossed in anything else to care about it, not to mention this time the centre of the action seemed to be particularly close. Also, was his nose misguiding him or did he just smell smoke? That was certainly unusual. He stood up from the table and stretched out his numb legs before picking up his e-handbook and opening the door.

The sight of the opposite room wide open with a number of people standing inside registered in the poet's mind at the exact same instant that a terrifying ding hit his ear:
“A body has been discovered. The patients have a limited time to collect evidence before being called into the court of carnage. Do your best everyone!”

“W-what? A...body?” he uttered, an inexplicable force pushing him forward into the room ahead of him. He did not get farther than its door before the image that had been looming in the background as he approached came to the forefront: a woman strung up by her wrists, her write dress bloodied by several—

“—Marianne!” Daimyon exclaimed. She was the only one who he had honestly spoken to in a few days: she had knocked on his door to check on him when he was just getting into his restoration work; he had even noted her thoughtfulness. And now she!

The same force that drove him this far now shut him down completely. He only managed to make it to the corner of the room before he had to lean against the wall for support. He shut his eyes as if to escape from the scene, but the image only got more vibrant in his head. The room also came alive with a cacophony of sounds: people shouting, talking, crying; some entering the room, others leaving in a hurry. The initial shock passed for Daimyon, too, overtaken by crippling...numbness? Why? Why was he not feeling anything? Marianne was important to him...was she not?

It took him several minutes to recompose himself. His incessantly vibrating e-handbook was what snapped him out of it finally; opening it up he saw numerous ‘truth bullets’ already discovered by the more acute Infinites. Of course...that was how things went in Axis Mundi. If you kill, you have to get away with it too.

They were not going to let that happen.

Grasping onto this shot of determination to shake off the numbness, he looked around in the room—the murder scene. He took out his notebook to make some observations but was rather surprised to find out that he had forgotten to bring his pen. Though his room was close, his first instinct was to reach for the desk here to procure a writing instrument. The table, however, was blackened—not unlike the killer—by the fire and there was nothing on it. The room in general was a mess, and Daimyon almost turned around and left for his own. Not before he nearly stepped on something, though: a pink card of some sort lying on the ground nearby, its edges charred but mostly intact. It stuck out sorely from the scene, and the poet found curiosity getting the better of him.

Curiosity had the right idea, for once.

The card had a single sentence written on it:
‘They were the original infinite trickster, before the current one.’

They? Who? Marianne? The Infinite Trickster? That did not sound right—and was entirely too suspicious to be an ordinary writing by the room's owner. He slid it into his notebook for safekeeping; perhaps it would serve a purpose at the trial.

Having also found a replacement pen amongst the scattered debris, Daimyon felt compelled to sit down at the table. He could feel it: the swallow of his imagination was taking flight again. A glance back at Marianne's lifeless body and right then and there, on the burned table, he began penning down a piece.

Daimyon did not expect a helpful answer from anyone in the room. That would have been all too easy and life, this master of dramatic plays, usually did not deal with those. In fact he was already mentally prepared for an exhaustive and exhausting search throughout the entire facility, as the small notebook could have hid or been hidden anywhere, by anyone. when a reply that was not simply helpful but affirmative actually came, he was...rather stunned.

“I have.”

It came from Marianne, the Infinite Herbalist, who stood pensively at one of the food counters. The poet quickly walked up to her, his expression a curious mix of relief and apprehension.
“Is Where have you seen it? Please,'s very important to me.”

The herbalist’s eyebrow quirked and she shifted her weight to the balls of her feet as she searched Daimyon’s face. In one arm, she balanced the tray with the meagre breakfast offered to the infinites, whereas the other hand grasped at the cord necklace before trailing down to one of the pockets on her hospital gown, nonchalantly as possible.

“Of course,” she began, her teal eyes curious and catlike blinking up at him, “It could have belonged to anyone, Daimyon. It might not even have been yours…”
That was a blatant lie. Of course it was his. There was literally not a single soul else it could have belonged to. The way the prose flowed, disjointed and—
“Pardon me for asking, Monsieur, but just what is it that is so important about this book? It seems to have you do you say it, flustered?”

About life not making things easy...
The woman was curious, understandably so—Daimyon could see it on her that she was not used to him being like this.

“Flustered is a great word, if a bit weak for the situation still...” He let out an anxious sigh. “Ah, it is simply of great value to me, both physically and symbolically. It has always been with me and I wrote numberless poems into it throughout the years...truth be told, I feel rather incomplete without it.”

“Poetry, yes.” the herbalist continued skeptically, her arms crossed almost defensively over her chest for the better half of a minute before she took a less threatening stance, body language open and more chilled out. Of course, something about her tone of voice didn't fit, accusatory at best, “...even the best poets probably do not write their works every minute of every day. Infinite Poet or not, Daimyon...something is odd about this notebook.”

Still, she reached into the hospital gown pocket and pulled out the small, tattered brown book. It was in no worse condition than it usually was. In fact, it was almost as if the herbalist took extra care of it whilst it was in her possession, as brief a time as it was.
“I found this on the floor of the resort last night, chéri.”

Her eyelids sank in a curious squint though her pupils narrowed further. Still, she gave the Infinite Poet a deceptively warm smile. She coolly held the notebook out with one hand, the other casually stuffed into one of the pockets of the gown. “I was there for some work after the trial. Is this the notebook you have been looking for, Daimyon Londe?”

The poet waved away Marianne's ‘suspicions’ with a strained laugh.
“You are correct, it's not exclusively for poems. I immortalise plenty of memories, moments worth remembering into it as well—it's quite general purpose, you see!”

Calling the expression on his face a smile would have been generous, but it still did not speak of the thoughts that swirled in his mind upon one realisation: she had read into it. He did not blame her...okay, he did, because privacy and whatnot, but he was much angrier at himself for apparently dropping the precious document in the resort. Despite everything, however, his eyes shone with undoubted relief upon seeing that it was indeed his notebook Marianne was holding. Perhaps this living nightmare would be over sooner than he thought...

“Yes! Oh, haha, that is it indeed...thank you, Marianne.”
He reached out to take back his possession.

...but where he should have felt no resistance, the fingers of one Marianne Roche remained tightly clutching to the little brown book, her head cocked to the side but with much less of a smile and a much more worried expression than she had allowed herself for the entirety of their conversation.

“I would like to know what is going on, if you please, Monsieur Londe.”

Although the herbalist did not let go, he held his hand on the notebook, looking into her eyes in a silent plea that bore no fruit. His hand soon fell to his side, however, his head slumped and he let out a defeated sigh. He knew he could have tried to deflect the issue, but from the determination that emanated from the woman, he also realised that there would be no pleasant result to that.
“Very well,” he spoke in a quieter tone. “Not here, though. Let' room, yes, that should be sufficiently private. Let's go there.”

Marianne found herself staring blankly at the ceiling of the Infinite Poet's bedroom, her dark hair in a mess and sprawled all around her form as she lay on her back on his bed, the only part of her seemingly belonging to the setting being the hospital gown, only barely hanging onto her frame because of th—!
The gears in her head turned slowly and she found her lips parted, almost panting softly as she tried to form words again and again, but somehow coherence was lost on her.

“ that really, really...true, Daimyon?”

Daimyon stood, his arms crossed low on his chest and eyes idly fixated on the floor next to the bed, carefully examining every speck that dotted it. His posture was slouched, making his tall figure appear shorter—as if it was a deliberate attempt to somehow disappear entirely from the room and from existence for a while.
“...yes. I...guess you could have figured it out by yourself, given time with that notebook...but yes. Are you happy now?”

“Yes and no.” the young woman sat up with a little wince, taking the opportunity to let her eyes scan the poet's figure. He seemed dejected, and why wouldn't he be? She was glad but...not quite in the way she had wanted to be.
“I'm glad you told me. I was thinking you were a minion of Davis, or something like that. Still, chéri…”

She soundlessly stepped off the bed and closed the distance between her and the taller man. Her eyes didn't leave his for a second, even as she leaned in closer and…
...put a hand on his shoulder, giving it a warm pat.
“I don't know what to say. ...I did want to be wrong, but not like this. I am very, very sorry. Does anyone...know?”

The poet tensed when feeling her touch; a few seconds had to pass before he could relax himself at least enough to answer her.
“No one, as far as I'm aware. I wish you didn't either. But alas! Life is cruel, its paths leading us to unknowing doom. Still, hah...” He allowed himself a chuckle, despairful as it was. “...silver linings, they are always there for me. But you'll have to promise that you...stay silent on the matter.”

He finally looked at her again, much in the same way as he had done in the break room, now also giving the expression voice:
“...please, Marianne.”

“I promise not to tell a soul, so long as I am alive and you do not wish me to.” she chuckled hollowly. It was funny, to talk about life and death in this place. You never knew which one was out to get you in Axis Mundi. “But if you…” she found her voice trailing off, lost on the idea for a handful of seconds. “...if you die here, what would you will me to do then, Daimyon?”

“Quite the question, hah...” he noted, but found no reason not to answer. “Death doesn't end everything. People, we Infinites especially, leave behind legacies...I hope to leave one behind, too. And I want it to be for my poems...not for anything else.”

“Then this secret will die with us.”

The Infinite Herbalist searched his face, though couldn't keep the melancholy from her own. She carefully reached her hands out, shaking a little, as she took his face into them, gingerly tilting his head down to look at her again. It seems he had been avoiding her gaze for a large part of the conversation, and...only met her gaze when he wanted something.
“...did it not make you feel...alone, Daimyon?”

“I...dare say I was blessed with a powerful imagination. It...helps bearing through it all.”
His lips curled into a small smile. His words were right on more levels than she thought—the scent of nature's perfume on her was very apparent now that she was this close, especially the minty smell of her hands on his face. As he closed his eyes for just a moment, he found himself in a flower garden, bright and lush. Just the sight helped alleviate the leaden despair that sat on him.
“ really helps.”

“I also promise to try and help that.” Marianne couldn't help but smile a very peculiar smile at noticing his serene expression. ...he was so vulnerable like this. It was definitely different to see someone relax, in this tense atmosphere. It was...familiar.
Seizing the opportunity, she gently thumbed over his bottom lip before her arms moved around the taller man's neck, and he could feel her body pressed flush against his as she (on her tiptoes) gave him as protective an embrace as she could manage.
“I promise you will not have to be alone anymore, Daimyon Londe.”

His smile was only broken for a moment by a surprised look as Marianne, quite suddenly, hugged him, before it returned to extend on his face wider than ever. His mind failed him this once—he had no idea what made the woman do such thing, but he did not complain. He wrapped his arms around her to answer the gesture, giving her a few gentle pats on the back.
“You is cruel at times,'s also a hell of a story writer.”

He let them linger like this for a few more precious seconds before finally breaking away. Daimyon straightened out his clothing with a few quick motions and once again stood up tall, his hands tied behind his back—his signature stance, and the lively smile returned to his face.
“Thank you for everything. In a way, I'm...glad it was you who found it. Now...” He swiped up the opened notebook from the table, closed it and smoothly slid it into his shirt pocket. “...I don't know about you, but I am rather hungry! Shall we head back to the break room?”

“Ah! Most definitely! I find myself quite famished…!” the herbalist replied when the couple’s hug came to a close, her attention being torn away from the corner of a neatly folded piece of paper jutting out of the notebook that just disappeared into Daimyon’s shirt pocket. A kind of heat rushed to her cheeks with a stray thought and made her a smidgen giddy, even as she nodded enthusiastically up at her companion. He had ‘rescued’ her when she first landed in this place. It was only a matter of happy coincidence that she could do something similar for him. “Somehow, in this place, I never seem to be able to have a proper breakfast. Perhaps that will change today. ...after you, Daimyon. May your smile never cease and your silver linings never fail you.”

In his dream Daimyon walked a long, winding road embedded onto a vast hillside. The sight of encompassing greenery accentuated by a few rocky peaks rising above, the hushing sound and breezing touch of the wind that fluttered the many blades of grass—it was all exceptionally vivid. The hill, however, did not give any cause for wonder and awe: without as much of a tree or a even a colourful flower in sight, it was rather drab. The sky was cloudy, the sun did not shine to guide the traveller's path. And yet he went on, tired but driven forward by an inscrutable force.

Something struck out at the side of the dirt road that caught his eyes right away. An injured white swallow writhed in the grass, a tiny flash of red trickling down its wing. Daimyon stopped and knelt down beside it right away.
“Oh no...who did this to you, little friend?”
He murmured, gently gathering the bird in his hands. Before he could pick it up, though, it cried out in pained chirps which made him withdraw.
“Oh hmm...let me see what I can do for you...”

His attire was a loose-fitting set of worn brown garments, and he tore a sheet of cloth from the arm to fashion a bandage for the small wound. Holding the swallow, he carefully wrapped it around its wing and fastened it. The bird seemed to respond favourably, trying right away to flap its wings. It looked like it only needed a little help.
“There you are, friend. Ah, I wish I could stay with you until you fully heal, but I've no doubt you're also aching for the skies...come on, then!”
He picked it up, this time without resistance, taking one last moment to marvel in its pure beauty, before he extended his arms and...

...let out a groan as he woke up. His limbs felt heavy but his head felt the heaviest, like he had spent the entire last day memorising ancient Greek classics. He had to stay lying for a few more minutes before he could even sit up, though thankfully the dull ache cleared quickly. Suddenly feeling much brighter, he stretched out his numb arms and legs and reached for his notebook on the bedside table.

...and caught nothing but air.

His heart sank and his head turned so quickly that his neck almost broke into it. Despite his best attempts he was not an orderly man, but there were a few things he never forgot to do—such as placing the small book onto the table every night before heading to sleep. And yet, this morning, the plain brown table was empty.
He sprung up like he was shot out from the barrel of the gun and began frantically searching around in his room. The usual sense of composure and easy-going attitude that he had usually emanated was nowhere to be seen right now as he turned everything upside down amidst panicked murmurs to himself. He checked everywhere he could: under the bed, on the writing table—which actually had two books on it but not his notebook—, the wardrobe—including going through the pockets of every single outfit stored in there—, the bathroom, he even opened up the first-aid kit in a desperate last-ditch effort.

To no avail. His notebook, his trustworthy companion throughout the years, his treasure trove of poems and memories and so much more, was nowhere to be found.
And to rub salt in the wound, his pen got lost with it.

He sat back down on his bed, and tried to recover from the shock. Without the sole anchor of familiarity in this unknown place among unknown faces, the unruly tides threatened to push him out to the endless sea, never to find shore again. He took deep breaths, whispering ‘calm down’ time and time again. Words did not work this time however, and he had to take a cold shower to regain at least some of his presence of mind. Once out and dressed, he grabbed his e-handbook—which was still at its place, or else he would have really lost his mind—and browsed it for a few minutes before getting out of his room and walking down towards the break room.

The long hallway was quiet, but the break room was lively—in the sense that there were people in there, not that those people were in any way qualified for the definition. The morning daze still hung over most, although some discussions were already ongoing. Daimyon, however, was not here for any of that: he was not in the mood for chatter, he did not feel hungry, and even Jezebel's ‘affection stand’ was not something he considered in the moment.

“H-has anyone seen my notebook?”

Inspiration was unpredictable, and a notoriously fickle mistress. Authors, artists and other poor souls endlessly yearned for its blessing, its touch, so that through them it would create the next masterpiece that would rock the world. Sometimes it never came, sometimes the conduit was inadequate and the fruits, disappointing. One needed to be careful when they felt that this long-sought muse had finally descended upon them and took them into its embrace, for such a grasp could turn into suffocation, and would not let go until they either produced a work so magnificent that it transcended even the words magnum opus, or their mind shattered under the weight.

Perhaps all of this were just mad ramblings, but Daimyon did truly feel afraid of the latter happening. The gears in his head, which usually consumed inspiration at rapid rates resulting in the poet's prolific career, were now sputtering and screeching under the constantly mounting sensations. He saw himself through his mind's eye wading through a viscid swamp in an ever-thickening fog, chasing the sun in a vain attempt to find a way out of this suffering. Whenever he snapped back to the real world, he had to realise again and again that it was not at all better. He wished to completely tune out, just this once, but he could not go against his long-established, almost subconscious nature. Like a stray cat who had wandered onto the bus highway because it was excited by the noise, the curiosity of his imagination was insatiable.

Thus, he watched and listened to everything and tried to process the unfolding events despite his failing mental faculties. The reveal that Davis, who was a figure of righteous retribution just minutes ago, was actually the mastermind of this whole ordeal was so stupefying that Daimyon was inclined to agree with Monokuma: it all seemed like the director of the play got a bit too excited and accidentally dropped the final revelations on the audience after the first few scenes. It made no sense artistically—or in any other way, for that matter—and Davis did little to explain before leaving the stunned crew behind, potentially once and for all.
Barely a minute after that, Lucas was also snatched and everyone was back on the rollercoaster, heading to the next ‘attraction’. Another classic blunder, as far as theatrics were concerned: if these two significant events happened some time apart, it would have made for excellent pacing. Packing everything too tightly together, however, made for quick desensitisation and wasted emotional impact.

Daimyon stopped himself there. Was this his new coping mechanism, ejecting himself from the harsh reality and judging everything from far away, with a critic's eye? Even still, he did not like it. Apathetic, ever objective, almost cynical—this was not him. And he never wanted to become like that.

The site of the execution was another coaster ride which was blatant repetition and a creative failu—no. Lucas was trapped in there, and while he was a despicable murderer, he was also an Infinite and shared in the group's struggle for the brief time he had been with them. Daimyon grieved for him silently and buried his head in his notebook once the deadly ride set off—his overeager imagination filled out the details just fine. He could however not help but take a glimpse at the investigator once it was all over. His body was untouched, but his face was pale and frozen in a silent scream.

Death was a major part in many an artist's work, and while it was far from being Daimyon's favourite topic to write about, he did occasionally dwell on it. And yet, despite all the wonders of the mind, no depiction, no flurry of words could come close to describing how it felt seeing death from up close. This realisation also struck the poet as the glimpse became many seconds of unbelieving gazing, and he did not reach for his notebook to attempt putting the sight into words. Earlier, before he was too caught up in his own thoughts to do anything but go with the flow, he had the idea of giving a sort of eulogy in the form of a short poem for the dead, but that thought was also lost in the moment. The off-hand and cold remarks from some of his fellows were but a further twist on the dagger entrenched in his heart, and he left the group shortly after. He heard Davis talk on the many screens on the hospital walls on his way, but barely paid any mind before entering his room and locking the door behind.
@Majoras End I don't know if it was intentional, but in the current state those pics (especially the first one) look like the figures used in the case summaries at the end of each trial! Pretty neat. :P

@FamishedPants @Scallop I hope you'll decide to join us - plenty of space for fresh Infinites for the grinder!

The case carried on, with speed that could be compared to Daimyon's imagination when given the slightest creative spark. It whizzed past sensible limits and dove straight into absurdity—continuing the apt metaphor. As to how accurate the parallel was beyond this point, only those with access to the deepest recesses of the poet's mind could know. Because he surely would not tell anyone. Either way it was reality that mattered, and reality was a bunch of Infinites semi-or-more naked, stripping out of their suffocating garments at feeling the heated tension in the atmosphere.

...that was not exactly the reason for it, still, it played very well into the grand image of the case escalating into its climax. And that was it was all about, was it not?

Taking the literal centre stage like a true protagonist was Davis, whose...reveal was further assisted by a wind that was definitely not natural, convincing Daimyon that Monokuma and thus the mastermind also saw this entire situation as a play. That would have been relieving, had they asked the actors in advance or if actual life-ending death was not part of the script. These itsy-bitsy details killed any chance of all but the most transcendent artistic pleasure, which it would have been thoroughly tasteless to indulge in at this point and time.

So the poet pulled his head down from the clouds and refocused on the situation. He realised that his original reasoning for it held no water—it only got hotter, and the bear's attempts to contain the madness were reminiscent of the times he had given himself a good bonk on the head to stop whatever thought process had been running amok inside. He put a hand on the ribbon that decorated his white shirt and briefly adjusted it with an awkward chuckle that expressed his perplexity in the grand scheme of things. Then he peered inside his notebook again, jotting down a few more thoughts into the drawn timeline that he hoped would be his lighthouse in the fog.

Marianne Roche, meanwhile, remained silent throughout most of the case. She recomposed herself and did not lash out at Davis when he took up defending the putain she had burned to a crisp before, but instead eyed daggers at him, Bliss and a few others that caught her ire in the procedure.
“Although I would not be surprised if her every word turned out to be incoherent babbling...” She spoke up when Cyrus called into question the validity of either Lucas' or Bliss' account. “...but even she would not be stupid enough to lie at this stage of things. The contradiction...” she paused and turned to point at the Infinite Paranormal Investigator, with her other hand still clutching the tube on her necklace. “...lies with you, monsieur!

...Daimyon's lighthouse was made of paper, it turned to be, as its foundation crumbled when Lucas' account turned out to be errored.
“Hah, what are we but humans, flawed by design...” He shook his head, crossing out the entire timeline with an X before looking up from his book. just the right moment.

His attention, like everyone else's, was immediately captured by Krista who had walked up Lucas' podium. Without as much as a word, she ripped open the man's clothes, revealing a set of bruises—they would not have been cause for alert on people like Isaiah or even Alice, but on a paranormal far as Daimyon knew, ghosts could harm anything but one's body, being immaterial and all. That meant... way!

“No...!” Daimyon cried out after Krista's bold accusation, horror previously unheard in his voice. “I cannot believe...such a heinous act, perpetrated by one of us? An Infinite, a friend? Impossible!”

Alas, the hope was for naught. The other suspect, Calvin, was forcibly cleared of guilt, and Davis, with surprising composure, broke down the crime with its every detail, from the setup to the execution. The poet tried to interject, he tried to find some way to clear Lucas' name, all made sense. It all came together to form the account of a vile murder, resulting in the death of a man the whole group had treasured dearly. Daimyon hung his head down in disbelief, the pen shaking in his hands.

Even when the choices presented themselves in the final vote to determine the culprit, he could not bring himself to fully believe that one of his fellows murdered another. He let the timer tick down but in the end, afraid of repercussions if he did not vote, chose himself. It changed nothing as the majority was clearly convinced and thus, Lucas was chosen. When Monokuma confirmed it, Daimyon could only look at the investigator and weakly echo Davis' queries:

@Mae How are the timelines going to work, I wonder? Can everyone choose what era/situation to be reborn into? Because that'd almost make it like a series of 1x1s or small groups contained in one large RP (even though I'd like the freedom of it). And if that's the case, how can it be ensured that one player is not alone in their timeline and has some others to interact with?

Or will the whole thing be more centralised, with everyone (or most people) always playing one era out before collectively moving to the next? Some kind of hybrid, perhaps?
Wow, now that's a concept I haven't done before...also looks very well thought-out and complex, will have to give this a few more reads to get it all figured out (especially the dice/reroll system)...for now though, purely for the concept and the setting(s), I am definitely interested!

@MyCatGinger also thanks babe, I don't browse RPG often by myself <3

Daimyon was sad. Not because of the obstacles the group ran into in this trial, but rather how they tackled them. All sense of respect and formality went out the window, landed on a road and was run over by a ten-ton truck. At least that was how the poet felt when he heard his fellow Infinites shouting, cursing and cussing each other out. He felt the tension hanging in the air above them from the first moment, but only recently did it start feeling like a guillotine that could drop down on them in any moment. Daimyon certainly did not like the lingering dread, but he liked seeing his friends turn on one another chasing a killer who may not even be from amongst them even less.

He stayed silent over most of the discourse and tried to focus on note-taking, but even his keen ears had trouble separating the wheat from the chaff—the rational thoughts from the mudslinging. The only exceptions he found were Noel and Max, bless their hearts, who had not raised their voice so far and had not deviated their focus from the case. The poet did jot down their very much sensible thoughts, mainly about the usage of a certain iron file and the cut in the stalagmite being evidence of a trap. Caora's performance also made him crack a small smile a few times—the little boy was electrified and threw out points left and right, unyielding no matter how many times he had been shot down.

He was not out of hope just yet...!

“Fellow Infinites, my friends! Please, I plead to thee, cease this!” Gathering up his determination, he spoke up again, raising a finger in the air. “This is no way to salvation, these sinister sayings! Seeking solutions should be our scheme, shouts and screeches only shatter and split our consensus!” After this impassioned plea, he lowered both his hand and his voice. “The way forward is on a paved path and we must traverse it, facing each obstacle as they appear before us. We are stumbling in the fog right now, but we have a lantern!”
What exactly that saving lantern was, however, he did not know right away and so he looked back down into his notebook—the writing on the almost-full page was messier than he would have liked, although he did have a nifty diagram of a timeline in the middle with the events written into ovals. Some of these ovals were still empty, but after hearing Lucas' account, he thought of a crucial detail that could fill many of these blanks.
“Who reached the cave first?”
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