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To the large Russian's question, Lilliane almost instantaneously shot a glance of death. "Yes, that's what my associate told you. I'm responsible for getting it to where it needs to go." Her response was just as bitter as she was to the forgetful girl. A lot less venomous, though. Probably because it looked like the man holding the pallet could lift her up by the skull with one hand.

Choosing to ignore Chloe's full name (she didn't choose it herself, did she?), she introduced herself curtly. "You can call me Lilliane." Friendliness wasn't exactly in her repertoire, but living in Nazi occupied France did that to people. She could have just been an ass, though. Who knew, what with all of the extenuating circumstances. "Right, well, just so we're clear, if we're caught with anything here⁠—⁠especially the guns that I assume you all have⁠—we'll all be put against the wall. In more ways than one, just so you know."

With that, she began to head towards the farmhouse. Time was money. Well. Time was not getting caught and subsequently shot in the face.

"Let's head out as soon as possible. I'd rather not be caught out by some crazed Germanic gunmen."



The foul stench was getting to the sea dog. To a normal person, the stench of rot and bog water could be tolerated or ignored. His large physique could only recoil into itself to avoid the foul air. Seeing his imposing figure curled up and his large, clawed hands holding a much too small, soaked in spirits handkerchief to his nose was a sight to behold. Klaus was having an absolutely miserable time in the swamp on the outskirts of Bludmach. Why did he even come to a place so far away from the sea?

The answer was responsibility. Having someone who—quite literally—joined the guild the previous day take an urgent, high-difficulty mission was a big red flag. Doing such a thing either meant you were sandbagging for most of your life or were an overconfident shmuck. The latter was always more likely. Having one of these types was bad enough, but two of them were bold enough to run headfirst into that four star quest wall. It wasn't like those elusive jobs undertaken by the greatest mages, though. Unless there was something really wrong, there was really nothing to stop people from overextending. Common sense, maybe, but nothing else.

With Eldrid raging against the runner, the sickened Klaus piped up to rebuke her.

"Oi, don't make trouble. Yer part of a guild now. Bein' a knob fucks it up for the rest o'us."

He didn't really acknowledge the fact that his passive bonus to a party's intimidation played a pretty major part in getting the poor marsh runner to cart them in the first place.


Entering the mess hall, Renauld was overcome with hearth and home. Even though it had only been the third or fourth day since leaving Andeave, the stress and anxiety of the winter landscape alienated the ice mage. A room full of strangers had never felt so familiar or friendly. Well, about as friendly as Renauld could muster. He got his bread and soup. For once, a warm meal that didn't cut into the roof of his mouth nor cover it in grease. Still an outsider to the fort, he sat with his party and wolfed it down. He ignored the noticeable pains of his scratched palate. To call it divine would be an overstatement. It was root soup and bread. Still, it beat what he had eaten for the previous half-week by a landslide.

When Katya asked where Muu was, Renauld had a general idea on where she was. He didn't—and couldn't—know exactly where she was. He was at least attentive enough to know that she was taken to whatever sickbay this fort had. The gap in knowledge made him not answer the question. She was fine. Probably. Unless they were trying to shove foreign objects up her rear, really. He had no real idea if a prayer could cure sickness or how advanced medicine was, especially if people could just pray the hurt away.

Maybe she would have gotten the leeches.

Still, he wanted to conserve his strength for the return. Traversing back through the wilderlands was going to be miserable. As a result, he relaxed at the table.
What's wrong with heterochromia?


he's being a grumpy boomer, dont worry about him


The duties of a partisan were always dangerous. The looming threat of assault, humiliation, detainment, or even execution was a very real risk for everyone involved. Every day was a search for anything for their cause. Documents, food, medicine were all procured from the sympathy of others. Munitions hidden under the bread baskets of the young were, unfortunately, not an impossibility. For Lilliane, supporting those brave enough to fight was her duty. Currently, it lead her to a long, empty strip of farmland with a small handful of partisans to welcome a plane.

For Lilliane, the details of the landing came the day before. Her request for any sort of medical supplies was a necessity for those who fought with guns and bullets. It was easy to figure out if someone was a partisan if they were injured. It was pretty hard to explain gunshot wounds. What little supplies the nationals had were rationed, making it difficult to procure enough for even the smallest of injury.

As the small plane became audible to the partisans, Lilliane gave the order. They each lit their hay stacks, flickering orange lights illuminating a makeshift runway. As soon as the plane touched down, the partisans dumped buckets of water over the blaze with a sizzle and a plume of smoke. The dark of night did well in hiding the dissipating smoke from any distant eyes.

While before they were relatively safe before, they weren't anymore. Time was now of the essence. The arrival of a global tour of nationalities in odd outfits carrying an entire pallet with them made it considerably harder to explain everything away as countrymen who wanted to get blasted in the middle of a field. Even Lilliane was wearing the clothes of a rural countrywoman in order to blend in.

One of the strangers—a woman wearing a leather jacket—came up to her. Whether it was because she was the closest, smallest and least-threatening looking, or was actually chosen because she was more or less in charge was a mystery to her. She chose the right one, though, which was impressive enough.

"I'm certain you can remember orders for more than two hours." Lilliane told the overt operator. For someone like Lilliane, working with competent people was a necessity. Even the simple question of "What's first?" filled her with disdain for the one who asked it. It made it seem like they had no idea what was going on. "We're moving to a secondary location to spend the rest of the night. Anywhere around here is much too hot."

The arrival of the large man carrying the pallet had punctuated the venom in her words. It was harder to take a childish looking woman seriously when a person nearby could pick her up by the skull and dunk her into the earth.
👀
When asked by Ahmya about the court, Yda gave a polite answer alongside a correction.

"The young master isn't the duke. The Lord Corbain, his father, is. He's beholden to the king. The court is an expression for nobles around here. It's mostly about the political theater that nobles go through."

Cinder's question of animals was met with another polite answer.

"Most animals around here are pretty docile. Rabbits, deer, birds. Bears and wolves occasionally. Monsters are repelled, so it's safe in that regard. I still wouldn't recommend you going without a guard. The bears here are really something."

Once they stepped out of the forest pass and into the clearing where the fortress resided, Ahmya had asked Yda a considerably important question. Again, her answer was polite. Not extraordinarily friendly or unfriendly, but polite.

"Washroom is inside, first floor, fifth door on the left side of the left hallway for women. Men's is on the right. after you enter the foyer."

Orsender had then asked Yda about food. Food was always important. After all, soldiers (of the gods, in this case) traveled on their stomachs. Suddenly falling from the sky and smashing into the ground at mach 3 had a tendency to awaken the stomachs of those who hadn't eaten in, well, forever.

"As for food, ask the servants. He'll tell the cook to get you guests a meal."

As the large oni began to size Yda up, the disinterested knight suddenly glared directly into his eyes. From relaxing, glancing at the landscape and closing her eyes, she had aggressively made eye contact with him almost exactly when he began to think about a fight. Almost instantly, she went back to a more laid back and lackadaisical expression (as far as a knight could go, really).

Meanwhile, Annalee had went ahead and entered the residence first. Revealed to her (and by extension anyone else who entered) was a grand foyer. Above her, a crystalline chandelier filled with illuminating magic stones cast light into the crevices that sunlight couldn't reach. The floor was covered in ornate tiles, rough from years of walking but still maintained well. Two round stairs formed a circle leading up to the second floor. To the left and right, a hallway. To the front, a great, ornate door shut tight. Next to one of the six half-pillars holding a vase, a suited old man with small, round glasses on the bridge of his nose rubbed dust off of a vase.

"Ah," the old man replied to her sudden vote. His voice was hoarse from years of speaking. "I shall fetch a meal for our guest...s."

Orsender freely entered the residence as the old man spoke, nothing to stop his aggressive entry. Not that anything would, except for maybe a door jam. Annalee would have had to bust through it first, if that was the case. While initially startled by the sudden appearance of the oni, his wizened experience (or perhaps reaching the age that danger no longer phased him) kicked in and he went straight back to business. The old man gave a bow to the guests and walked down the right hallway.

Before she entered, Sayako's paranoia resulted in little more than almost stumbling over a few roots. Her attempt at visual intimidation for free booze had resulted in little more than a feeling of staring at a brick wall.

"You can ask someone inside for that."

It was still polite. Not friendly in the slightest, though.


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