Qia

Camp Athens - Closed

<Snipped quote by PatientBean>

Absolutely not doing/haven't done the same thing. At all~ c:

@The Savant

omg...

Camp Athens - Closed

Jk. Boii I'm worse. I started prepping my sheet before things were even set up.

𝔻𝕠𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕚𝕠𝕟: ℝ𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕤𝕔𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕊𝕦𝕣𝕗𝕒𝕔𝕖

@PatientBean

Realms of Sun & Shadow

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_{Location: Outside Eye of the Beholder
Interactions: Nyla (@The Muse)}

---

Thalia stilled.

It wasn’t the name-drop that pricked her composure, but the blade beneath its velvet delivery—a strike honed by rehearsal and sharpened by intent. Lark’s low growl vibrated against her leg, a counterpoint to the woman’s smile. Her fingers curled deeper into the dog’s fur, anchoring herself in the heat of his body even as her posture signalled control. Such verbal barbs had long since lost their sting; now, they merely pricked her patience like thorns snagging fabric.

“I was,” Thalia conceded, flicking snow from her sleeve as if discarding the title itself. “Almost.” She gave the word back to Nyla like a stone she’d been handed—warm from memory, but useless all the same. “But as you suggest, the past holds little sway here.” Her gaze swept Nyla’s face, lingering on the artful drape of her lashes, the too-perfect part of her hair. A performance, this encounter. Every syllable was staged in the way the other wanted and felt powerful standing on.

“Curious,” Thalia continued, regardless, her voice honey-wrapped iron, “you seem awfully well-informed for someone I’m not meant to remember.” She didn’t move, but something in her stance shifted. Less guarded. More grounded. The noblewoman in her straightened. The farmer in her stayed steady. “As for what brings me to Dawnhaven, I’m here because I want to be. Unlike some, I don’t need a throne or its connections to feel useful.”

A pause.

“Nor do I chase men who mistake hesitation for choice.” Her smile flashed, brilliant, the kind that had once disarmed those in higher positions than her. Mainly powerful men, but useful with Nyla’s type as well. The crunch of snow beneath her boot punctuated her advance, subtle, deliberate. Not aggression, but a reclamation of space. Her power.

This stranger’s saccharine inflections, her casual invocation of titles Thalia had shed like an outgrown cloak…it reeked of practiced manipulation. She recognized the breed: performers who waltzed through politics as consorts and confidantes, harvesting secrets with whispered promises and artful sighs. Courtesan, Thalia guessed. A creature groomed to blur the line between pillow talk and interrogation, trading faux intimacy for influence. Her own dalliance with Flynn had been a pageant of restraint—stilted walks through orchards, scripted banter over porcelain teacups, a single kiss permitted beneath the hawk-eyed scrutiny warranted in those types of engagement matters. She had been a prop in his parable of princely duty, never grasping, never demanding. Always waiting.

So when this disguised viper hissed of scorned destinies and squandered favour, as though Thalia had fumbled some coveted trophy…

The smile that curved her mouth was not a kind one.

“Enlighten me,” she said, her voice level, “were you this invested in his past when you were busy being his present?” She let the polysemous barb hover while identifying the exact emotion she felt at the moment:

Not jealousy in the slightest.

To imply she had chased a crown that had never truly been hers to wear, while standing there draped in smug amusement, as if she hadn’t once been the one tucked behind palace doors, veiled in secrecy, and, if Thalia’s instincts were right, discarded just as quickly. It was the gall of it. That’s what it was. She had never chased him. She’d been told to wait, to posture, to smile, and to play the part until the script shifted. So when this woman implied she’d been passed over... well. It could never be envy.

It was contempt.

She tilted her head, hazel eyes glinting. “Though…I suppose everyone needs a story to tell,” she added, feigning a light frown. “Some of us just hope not to be the mere footnote.”

Realms of Sun & Shadow

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_{Location: Seluna Temple
Interactions: Ramona (@enmuni)
Mentions: Katherine (@SpicyMeatball), Persephone (@PrinceAlexus), Flynn (@The Muse), Amaya (@c3p-0h), Aliseth (@Dark Light)}

---

Time dissolved as Elara leaned into the wall, its unyielding presence the only tether to the present. Her eyes traced the carving on the opposite wall—Seluna’s figure caught in an eternal pivot, sleeves billowing as though the stone itself had frozen mid-breath. No regal repose here, no aloof divinity. This was a goddess carved by calloused hands, her edges blurred by the desperate touches of both artist and follower. Elara’s throat tightened. How many had clawed at depictions like this one, seeking a deity who moved, who reached? She could almost picture the grooves of Seluna’s outstretched palms gleaming smoother than the surrounding rock, polished by the press of lips and whispered pleas.

Elara’s gaze dropped to the floor beneath it, to the subtle discoloration in the stone already starting to develop where knees had knelt. The temple might be new, but suffering was an old stain, seeping into stone as inexorably as groundwater. She pictured the faithful sinking, uncushioned, their bones grinding against the floors. Pain as penance, she mused, or perhaps proof of earnestness. Katherine would bring a pillow if asked, but that would mean returning to the main hall—to Ramona’s scrutiny, to the owl’s unblinking judgment.

Handmaidens don’t request comforts. They endure.

So, Elara stayed rooted, though she could not stop her mind from wandering once more.

A cold memory surfaced: her mother’s funeral. Not flames, but ice—a shroud of frost-laced linen, a bier of glacial splinters carried seaward by the midnight tide. Elara had stood on the shore, her hand clasped in her father’s, watching the floe fracture under the moon’s glare. No pyre’s heat to thaw her grief, only the endless hiss of waves swallowing what little remained. “The sea returns us to the stars, where we may find Her, the highest of all,” the priest had intoned, but all Elara could hear at the time was the creak of ice surrendering to dark water.

She hadn’t prayed since. Not truly. Rituals, yes—the lighting of votives, the murmured blessings over the princess’s untouched supper. But prayer? That demanded a voice she’d buried beneath service. To kneel here would mean confessing the rot in hiding beneath her obedience: the envy festering whenever Amaya found comfort in the prince, the rage coiled like a serpent when her own needs went unspoken.

Handmaidens don’t beg. They serve.

Her fingers drifted to her throat, nails scraping where her mother’s pendant once lay—a Lunarian opal, lost the night she’d been chosen as Amaya’s attendant. She’d torn it off, then, fearing its frost-blue shimmer, despite her love for the colour and who had given it, would betray her heritage, her simplicity among the court’s throng. Now, the absence ached. What would it cost to admit it aloud? To say what she knew to be true in the depths of her being.

I miss her. I miss myself

The goddess’s eyes bored into her, unblinking. Start small, her silence seemed to urge. Start true.

But the truth was a dangerous thing for her. She’d learned this when she’d tucked Amaya’s hair behind her ear in the garden, fingertips lingering, a first of many trespasses desires disguised as tenderness.

Handmaidens don’t want. They wait.

Yet the floor beckoned, its spotted patches a testament to others who’d knelt trembling and revealed before their goddess. She imagined the ice floe again, her mother’s body receding into the horizon. What did you pray for that night? She asked the memory. Did you beg Seluna to spare me this life?

Her knees struck stone before courage could falter. Cold seeped through her skirts, sharp as the sea wind she’d cursed as a child. No words came, however, only the scrape of breath, the drum of blood. She pressed her palms to the floor, half-expecting frost to bloom beneath them.

Where to start?

With the unsaid. The undone. Perhaps.

How honest?

As the ice that splits beneath a mourner’s weight.

She closed her eyes. The temple held its breath. Somewhere, waves gnawed at a distant shore, relentless as regret.

Flynn’s name rose first, unbidden as snowfall in a drought. Not Amaya’s. Not her own. His.

She didn’t recoil from the realization, and didn’t question it either. If anything, it almost made sense. He was the one she understood least. The one who stood just far enough outside her orbit to feel safe to pray for. He had always been… there, though, hadn’t he? It had been easier to hold him at a distance when he’d existed only in letters and hearsay, in Amaya’s reflective pauses, and the tight-lipped murmurs between palace staff. Elara had allowed herself the indulgence of disdain then. It had required no effort to resent the man who was not present enough to earn Amaya’s loyalty.

But now, flesh and bone and weary eyes, he’d become a crack in her carefully curated indifference. To pray for him was to kneel at that fracture, to fill it with words before her own deceitful heart ruptured entirely. Maybe that’s why it was easier to kneel and think of him. Whatever pain he held was less tangled with hers. His soul was not a mirror to her own but a question mark. She didn’t know what he truly believed behind all that Aurelian might, whether he still prayed despite his goddess’s absence, or if he even thought she was listening.

But Elara still bowed her head in silence.

Let him carry only what he must. Let the rest fall away.

Her fingers curled tighter.

He took my words…and gave them true meaning.
He spoke them, and she listened.
Not because he meant them more. But because he was allowed to speak louder.

Let him not lose the part of himself that still sees her. Not the princess. Not the prophecy. Just… her.
Let that be real. Let it be enough.

And if she gives him the part of her I could never reach,
Let him protect it. Let him be worthy of it.
Let her never look at him the way she looked at me. Like she was already letting go.

She swallowed.

And if I must lose that place, let me mourn it here.
Unnoticed. As is expected of me.

She kept her head bowed, another name surfacing a bit harder than the last.

Aliseth.

He’d offered no grand gestures but only a moment’s clarity—a circle drawn in white dust, his gaze level as he’d given her permission to be anything other than a role. Not as a command, not a plea. More like a reminder that choice, like ice, could cut both ways. She’d buried the words deep, but now they thawed, sharp and sweet as spring melt.

Let him keep his belief in choice.

Let the world not wear it out of him.
Let the road ahead not grind down the man who stood in a circle and made space for me to see myself.

Let him never become the kind of man who gives only so others might take.
Let him never be a root left buried so someone else can bloom.

She remained still, eyes closed, the final whisper of Aliseth’s name lingering like the warmth of his coat, familiar now around her shoulders, but not hers. A kindness she had not truly earned, as far as she was concerned.

Her lips parted, but no sound came. She knew who would come next. Knew the shape of the name that hovered, unsaid, on the back of her tongue. It burned just thinking about it.

Flynn had been a horizon.
Aliseth, a door ajar.
But Amaya was the altar; she would willingly bleed herself dry, in service to her.

Elara’s breath caught, trembling just shy of a sob.

How could she pray for someone whose name was difficult to say now without choking on its syllables, even in thought?
Whose absence she had survived, and yet still mourned?
Whose gaze, even now, made her feel both seen and discarded in the same breath?

But the goddess waited.
And the silence was no longer patient—it pressed in like hands on her shoulders, guiding her to the final truth she’d avoided.

So she let the wound speak, for the internal bleeding to flow.

Let her know peace not tied to prophecy.
Let her know rest not earned by sacrifice.

Let her stop pretending that survival is all she deserves.
Let her choose joy. Let her want it more than anything.
Let her remember how.

Let her not forget me.

If she must love him, let her love him fully.
If she must leave me, let it be for a reason that does not shatter what we once were.

I have served her without question. I have stood beside her in silence.
I would have died for her, even if it meant dying unseen.

Please, let that mean something.

But…most of all…

The goddess’s gaze appeared sharper as shame seared her mind, her throat, not for the prayer itself, but for the selfish tremor beneath its selflessness. Yet the words spilled out still, treasonous, transgressive, and tender.

_{“Let her live. Let her be free.
Even if it is not with me.”}

…

The knock wasn’t loud, but after so much silence, it echoed like a bell.

Elara jerked upright, lungs seizing as though yanked from the depths of a drowning dream. She did not turn. Her palms lingered on her knees, still warm from prayer, the sacrilegious words now ash in her mouth. When she finally lifted her gaze, it was with the deliberate slowness of one confronting a storm on the horizon. Ramona hovered in the archway, her silhouette smudged by the hall’s torchlight, a woollen shawl clutched in her hands.

It was only then that a voice drifted in from the main hall. His voice.
Flynn.

Elara stilled again, this time like prey sensing movement in a field.

Of course.
Of course, he was here.
Temples bring people together for a reason, someone had said. She didn’t remember who now. It didn’t matter. Because whoever it was hadn’t accounted for irony.

Her eyes shifted back to Ramona, who still stood there, shawl in hand, uncertain. Waiting. It was at this time that a bit of movement caught Elara’s eye—nothing dramatic, just the brief gleam of what little light there was on damp skin, the curve of fingers… and webbing?

It was gone a moment later, hidden again as Elara turned her face away. No gloves. That was it. Just cold hands and a forgotten barrier. Elara’s voice, when it came, was quiet but clear.

“Thank you,” she said, the words unadorned, without embellishment, but not empty. “Truly.”

Then, without reaching for the shawl, she shifted, sinking back down beside the wall with a tired sort of grace, her spine finding the curve of stone behind her. She pulled her knees close, arms loosely wrapping around them.

“I imagine he won’t be here long,” she murmured. “And even if he is, it is not to pray.”

A faint, rueful breath escaped her, not quite a sigh.

“I’ll wait. Until he’s gone.”

Realms of Sun & Shadow

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_{Location: Frostmoon Lake -> Town Square
Interactions: Céline (@Beard Dad)}

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Orion watched in silence as she veered off the path, cutting through knee-deep snow like a woman on a mission. He didn’t follow; he only turned slightly to keep her in view, crimson eyes tracking how she tested the unfinished platform with clinical care. When she removed her hood and let the wind bite at her ears, he said nothing, though the gesture didn’t escape his notice. Most blightborn concealed themselves. This one did not. Or no longer chose to. A statement, perhaps. Or a risk.

Orion had made a different choice once, long ago, when the truth of what he’d become had still felt like a foreign infection lodged in his marrow. He’d hidden it. Not out of shame, but for strategy. For safety. For others. He had worn gloves long after he no longer needed warmth. Dimmed the red in his eyes with tinctures and rituals that left him aching and raw. Held his breath through the mutters of demon and traitor as if he’d chosen this. As if he’d chosen to die.

Even now, with the truth unhidden, the instinct remained. Stillness instead of confrontation. Silence instead of declaration. Masks, always.

But Céline had removed her hood.

When she returned to his side, snow clinging to her boots, her voice was steadier than before.

“ Doctor Moreau, practitioner of the medical arts. Though I find the full title rather stuffy and am open to continuing on a first name basis…should it please ‘My Lord’.”

“Doctor Moreau,” he repeated, voice smooth, though his brow arched faintly at the full formality. “Well. That does out-stuff ‘Advisor to the Prince.’” His tone didn’t change when she teased, no chuckle, no scoff, but there was something subtle in the shift of his gaze and an earned faint exhale, the closest he came to amusement.

“‘My Lord’ belongs to men who polish their ego with titles,” he said, brushing snow from his sleeve with a gloved hand. “Call me Orion. Unless you’d prefer the pretense.” He paused, studying the platform she’d tested. Its warped planks groaned under the wind’s insistence, a metaphor he didn’t bother to voice. Then, he started walking again, slowly, giving her time to match his pace.

“If your mind’s as sharp as you say,” he added, “you’ll probably be speaking with the prince before long. He tends to notice when someone’s serious about staying. Although….” He hesitated, unsure of whether to mention recent events or not.

“Tensions are… high at the moment,” Orion continued, “A noblewoman and her handmaiden were attacked not far from here. One of the guards was killed during the confrontation.” He could’ve said princess. It wouldn’t have been untrue. But names had weight, and titles were heavier still. Best to keep it light for now. Céline didn’t need this sort of intrigue clouding her first set of steps into new parts of Dawnhaven. And if she knew who he meant, she’d show it either way.

He let the silence hold after his last words, watching her for a breath longer than politeness warranted. Snow drifted lazily from the eaves of the buildings above, the quiet settling again like a blanket that neither of them had asked for.

“You said you’re a doctor,” he repeated, the words neither praise nor indictment. “Intentions are currency here. Until they’re not. Until a child’s fever breaks into delirium, or a soldier bleeds out under your hands, and suddenly your miracles start to smell like heresy.” He tilted his head, the movement slow, predatory. “They’ll forgive a human healer for failure. But you? They’ll call it corruption. A flaw in the fabric of your…” He gestured vaguely at her. “…condition.”

He stopped at the edge of a narrow alley where a low wall offered brief shelter from the wind.

“They’ll need you here,” he said, softer now, almost rueful. “Right up until the moment they decide they need someone to blame a lot more. The prince’s favour might shield you until it doesn’t. Politics, Doctor, is a fickle patron, you may come to find.” His gaze drifted to a nearby building’s skeletal frame visible beyond the alley. It was a work in progress, a clinic, as an attempt to bridge the gap between the people here and the incidents that were bound to occur.

“You’ll build your walls, stock your shelves, suture their wounds. And one day, you’ll stand at a threshold: your oath, or your life. There’s no clear third path. So, do you still step forward then? Or do you disappear into the snow?”

He didn’t expect an answer right away. Most blightborn, or people really, didn’t have one for the kind of questions he liked to pose every so often. Not a real and well-thought-out one anyway.

Years ago, mainly out of curiosity, he'd asked the same question to a healer in Aurelia who’d sworn she'd stand her ground when the fear came. And she had—right up until the torches reached her doorstep. Then, like so many before her, she’d vanished into the night and left others to clean the blood off the cobblestones.

Orion hadn't blamed her.
Not exactly.
But the town had.
And there’d been consequences.

His eyes drifted past Céline then, following some imagined path beyond the alley walls—one paved not with snow, but with memory. The kind that settled quietly behind his ribs, unspoken but ever present. For a moment, he seemed far away. Still standing beside her, but tethered elsewhere.

Then, with a faint shift of breath, he blinked and looked at her again.

The question, in the end, wasn’t about commitment for him, not as he’d alluded to earlier with the prince’s wish for steady hearts.

Rather, it was about consequences.

Recollections: Primal Sinister

In collaboration with(@PatientBean) as Quill

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---

No answer.

Elena let her knuckles fall while frustration simmered beneath her ribs with the elusion of surprise. The outcome felt inevitable, a script she’d half-anticipated since glimpsing the bakery’s polished facade through the taxi’s window. The place had been scrubbed to hell and back. Not just cleaned but erased. Like someone was trying to pretend nothing had ever happened, that the screams and blood and monsters had been part of some overactive dream. And honestly? Part of her understood the instinct. Survival often wore the guise of amnesia. Yet the practicality of it curdled in her throat. Denial required swallowing too many questions, something that she loathed to do. It just wasn’t like her to not ask questions.

Pursing her lips, she found herself leaning on the door, eyes drifting out of focus as her thoughts circled back—not to the blood or the screaming, but to the man who’d sat across from her just minutes before it all started. The thing that had attacked him had spoken. That’s what he’d said, hadn’t he? It had told him his name and things he’d never revealed to anyone. It had told him he couldn’t run, because it was waiting.

And then she’d offered mere platitudes, even went as far as dismissing him as simply not mentally all there. Proof, she’d demanded, as though monsters were paid to respect clinical thresholds.

A dull ache bloomed where Elena’s skull met tempered glass as she leaned into the pressure. Not penance, exactly—she’d made peace with being fallible at the beginning of her investigations. Still, what if his frenzied account hadn’t been psychosis but some type of prophecy? A rehearsal before the main performance, perhaps? The timeline gnawed at her: his subdued exit, the seventeen-minute gap before the bakery’s windows exploded, the thing’s laughter echoing all round her and the ones who’d survived the encounter. Correlation didn’t equal causation, her mind insisted. But her usual dependency on logic felt flimsy against the memory of his face. How raw and specific his terror had been.

Elena opened her eyes to the smear her breath left on the door. What should she do now?

In answer, there was the clicking of heels.

Quill was beyond frustrated. She had done her job to the letter. She found the contact, set up a meeting, and the client didn’t show.

In her experience, this meant one of two things: either the client didn’t care anymore and the case was dropped, or they were dead. Given the nature of things, Quill assumed the latter. Which meant she was not about to get paid for the work she did.

So Quill did what she always did when she needed to vent her frustration: she went axe throwing. Sometimes you just needed to fling a sharp object at a target. And it helped. But as she worked through it, her mind raced back to the bakery. Out of everything connected to the case, all of those pieces fit into place. Except for the events of that night. She only just happened to be there at that time and witnessed the events that left two people dead and many more scarred.

So Quill returned. Something was nagging her. Perhaps she could get answers. From Freya or Freya’s father.

As she walked up, she saw a woman looking into the window, almost lost in thought. She looked familiar, and it hit her that she was one of the people in the bakery from before. Quill walked up cautiously. ”Hello? Are you okay?”

Elena didn’t startle at the voice, though its suddenness prickled the hairs on her neck. She studied the fogged crescent her breath had left on the glass before finally turning, a slow pivot that gave her time to school her features into something resembling composure. The woman standing before her wore an expression that hovered between concern and curiosity.

“Define okay,” the young woman said, peeling herself fully from the door, posture straightening. Her gaze swept over the woman before landing on eyes that held neither pity nor accusation. Recognition clicked. “If you mean physically,” she continued, “then yeah, I guess I’m fine.”

“I think I remember you, though. You’d brought the first aid kit, right?”

Okay, normally people just said yes when asked if they were okay. This woman clearly did not understand the unspoken social rules. Despite this, Quill did feel a twinge of concern. Whatever was going through her mind was a kaleidoscope of unspoken trauma.

”I mean, are any of us okay, really?” She meant it as a joke, but couldn’t help but note how true it was. ”I mean, I’d like to think I did more than ‘bring a medkit’ but that is a thing I did. I believe we introduced each other, but on the off chance we didn’t, I’m Quill. Wrong place, wrong time sort of deal there, but what can you do in this town? Mind if I ask why you are staring so intently into there?” She gestured to the bakery, noting how clean it looked. Like nothing happened in there.

Elena quelled the heat rising in her cheeks, willing her posture to remain neutral. Names exchanged? She couldn’t recall that occurring. Everything after the doppelganger appeared felt like it had been recorded underwater—muffled, distorted, and framed by adrenaline and the sharp tang of fear. Additionally, Elena’s own role felt laughably small in retrospect: a frozen witness, unblemished till the very end. The word soured in her mind. Luck. And what a bitter aftertaste it wore.

She adjusted her stance, the pavement’s grit shifting beneath her shoes. “I, uh… don’t actually remember if names were exchanged. Sorry.” A pause, brief but heavy. “My… friend had to be taken to the hospital, and, well…” Her voice softened as she added, “My name’s Elena.” She offered it like a truce as though reconstructing a bridge she hadn’t realized she’d burned.

Elena turned toward the bakery’s window, its pristine surface reflecting a funhouse distortion of the street. “And I guess I was staring because…I think I was just trying to figure out if it still felt like the same place despite all the—” Elena gestured vaguely to the spick and span of the place. Her arms then folded loosely across her chest, but it wasn’t defensive—more like she was just bracing herself.

“When I first walked in, it was warm. Smelled like matcha and butter. People talking, and laughing, going about their day. You know…normal stuff.” Her brow creased faintly. “And now? It looks like everything was just... reset.”

Quill could see the bakery looked pristine and wondered why that was such an issue. Did Elena want the bakery to look like two people had died in it? But she could kind of see where she was coming from also. Quill took things in stride but she knew not everyone had as tough of skin as she did.

” I can only speak for myself, but what happened was tragic. But life has to move on. It doesn’t mean we forget the past or those who were hurt, and it doesn’t mean we pave over it. It may not feel like the same place anymore, but things change, for better or worse. The first obstacle is putting one foot over the threshold and seeing how you feel. And understanding there’s no wrong way to feel about things.”

Quill did not disclose that she was instrumental in helping the bakery overcome the challenges and start anew, as it didn’t feel like the right time. ” Would it help if I went in with you? If you wanted to, I mean. I have business inside.”

Elena blinked, the offer landing like a feather on a bruise. Quill’s presence exuded a quiet pragmatism, and it unnerved her more than hostility would have. Or, perhaps it was simply that a part of her felt that it would have been easier to understand. Hostility, rage, even fear, those were languages she could parse. But serenity in the face of an aftermath? That suggested a fluency in horrors Elena wasn’t sure she wanted to comprehend, despite her experience during the events of the Cataclysm. But could she respect it a little? Maybe.

“I wouldn’t mind some company,” Elena replied, unable to resist when she asked, “but what kind of business do you deal in…if you don’t mind me asking?”

Quill expected this and debated how to answer. ” I’m an investigator of sorts. A fixer if you want to be simple about it. I get paid to fix problems. No one knows anything about my job if I am good at it. What happened here a bit ago wasn’t the usual for me, before you ask, but I've seen some shit. Handled the mess myself in there, if I am being honest. It’s why I am back here. I lost my current contact and am hoping the owner may have more work for me.”

Quill sidled up the door. ” What about you?”

Elena’s brow lifted slightly, a subtle flicker of something between admiration and guarded wariness. It was a very Cloverfield job title, that was for sure. Vague enough to sound official, but specific enough to make people think twice before asking too many questions.

“Ahh, you did that, huh?” Her tone carried no skepticism, only the keen edge of a researcher spotting a promising lead. Guilt’s fog had thinned, replaced by the crisp clarity of curiosity. “That’s… impressive.” The compliment escaped unvarnished, surprising her with its sincerity.

Quill’s role was impressive, yes, but also a bit unnerving.

Elena wasn’t squeamish, but her instinct had always been to watch the fire, not walk into it. She documented, she connected dots, she brewed things that nudged memories loose or softened the edge of a particularly bad one, but she wasn’t the one who lunged into messes with a first aid kit and a cool head.

She was not like Quill.

….But it would be cool if she could be, somewhat.

Her own investigations had mostly consisted of small interviews, exploring neighbourhood legends, and looking over old photos she’d scoured for inconsistencies. Once or twice, she’d slipped into a condemned building to follow up on rumours, always careful, always quiet. Her magic, like her presence, was designed to observe, not confront. It was easier to pull meaning from patterns than to break them.

People like Quill stood at the center of things.
Elena, in comparison, hovered at the edges, scribbling in the margins.

At Quill’s return question, a wry smile tugged at Elena’s lips. “Depends on the day,” she said, shrugging with a nonchalance she didn’t fully feel. “Most of the time, I help my mom run a little tea shop on the South Bank. We mix herbs, sell remedies, and help people sleep or breathe a little easier there.” The admission felt simultaneously mundane and revealing, like disclosing she moonlighted as a mere librarian or something. Steam and cinnamon, not magic work. Yet the shop’s backroom told another story—jars labelled in her mother’s looping script, client intake forms tucked beneath the counter, the occasional visitor who stayed way too long with the excuse of “dreams they couldn’t forget.”

Quill's eyes lit with a subtle dreaminess. Would that she could run a small business and pretend the world outside was not on fire. Connect with the community, build upon relationships, and provide people with a simple service of comfort.

But that was not her life. She knew she couldn’t do it. Life threw her into a blender and expected her to swim against the blades. So here she was, cleaning up after people’s messes and ensuring everyone else never knew what was going on.

” That sounds rather cozy. I’m a little jealous. I may have to stop in one day. God knows I could use a moment to calm down and breathe.” Quill scanned the street, wondering if it was weird of them to be standing outside for so long, gazing inward. ” I imagine what happened isn’t typical for you either? I know there’s more that goes bump in the night, I was more hoping that there were people who never had to hear it.”

“If you ever do stop by, the tea’s on me.” Her voice was soft, but sincere. “Fair warning, though, it might make you remember something you weren’t planning to.” She held Quill’s gaze, letting the warning settle. It wasn’t a threat. Just honesty. The shop’s blends had a way of unravelling carefully knotted memories, coaxing truths to the surface like roots from wet soil. Some clients never returned after the first sip.

At Quill’s next words, however, Elena’s smile faltered. She turned her head slightly, just enough to glance at the window again. The reflection caught both their silhouettes now—one angled and elegant, the other slighter, with her hands buried in her jacket pockets like she was holding something in.

“Yeah,” Elena murmured, the word barely more than an exhale. “Not typical.” She gnawed her lower lip, tasting chapstick. The admission that followed felt like peeling a scab. “I used to think there were people who’d never have to know about that stuff, too. People who could stay… blissfully separate from it all.” Her brow furrowed faintly. “Then the Cataclysm hit, and I realized that distance doesn’t mean immunity. It just means you haven’t been touched yet.”

She shifted her weight slightly. “That’s... part of why I’m still out here, I think. Trying to make sense of it all.” Then, more lightly, “ So thank you for your offer. Assuming it still stands.”

”Of course. We can take it slow.” Elena’s words hit the ramparts in her mind. The Cataclysm shifted everything. Quill had to admit it was good for business. People would rather pay others to handle problems than face them on their own. Still, it was darkness and taking too much of that led to danger.

Quill walked over to the door, waiting on Elena to make the decision for herself to step in or not. ”Sometimes you need to rip the bandaid off, but sometimes you need to take it slow. Neither is better than the other. It’s just what you need at the moment.”

Elena’s fingers curled around the strap of her bag, a nervous tell she didn’t bother to hide.“Slow sounds good, then,” she said after a moment. “Although… the owner didn’t answer when I knocked, so we might need to find another way in. Like some kind of contact she left you, maybe?”

Quill had Freya’s phone number. She supposed she could call her. ”I could, but I know there is a back way in. That’s how I got in last time. Either way works, it’s not like we have ill intent, yeah?”

“Yeah… no ill intent,” she agreed. “I mean, worst case scenario, we get accused of being nosy, which would be fair, just not inaccurate.” Her gaze flicked toward the alley where a back entrance might be tucked away, before returning to Quill. “Lead the way, then. If it’s still open.”

Quill led the way towards the back door she had entered the last time she was there. She did a quick scan because she did not need the cops to show up and ask questions. Once she was sure it was safe she checked the door.

It was locked.

”Yeah that would have been too easy. Ok, don’t judge.” Quill took out her set of lockpicks and got to work. She didn’t use them often as she preferred using words to get into places she was normally not allowed, but sometimes it paid to be able to crack a lock open.

After a few minutes she heard the sweet click and opened the door. ”Voila!”

Elena raised an eyebrow at the lockpicks, but to her credit, said nothing. Well….almost nothing. She couldn’t exactly help herself. Something about the glint of metal between Quill’s fingers struck a chord. Tools like that weren’t exactly rare where Elena had grown up. After all, when on the southside, you either learned to jimmy a window open because your landlord was three weeks late fixing the front door, or you knew someone who could. But there was a difference between survival tricks and the kind of precision Quill seemed to work with, and Elena wasn’t sure if that made her more curious or more cautious.

“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” she murmured, her voice teetering between dry amusement and genuine respect. She leaned slightly to peer past Quill as the door creaked open with a sigh. Elena took notice of the sunlight fracturing against freshly mopped floors. The air smelled of industrial lemon cleaner and something beneath it—damp plaster, maybe. “ Uhh….non-amateur ladies first?” The grin that tugged at her mouth then was half self-deprecating, half invitation.

Quill could tell Elena wasn’t greatly comforted by her skillset, and she could hardly blame her. ”Hey, a girl’s got to have accessories. Better to have them and not need them than need them and not have them.”

Quill took the invitation to go first and stepped over the threshold. The smell took over what should have been met with bread and pastries. Instead, it smelled polished, clean, like something needed to be covered up.

Well…duh.

” Suppose we should go to the front and make ourselves known in case someone is in here. Would really put a damper on our adventure to be shot accidentally because someone assumed we are thieves.”

Elena followed a half-step behind, her fingers brushing the door frame as she passed through, like she was half-checking for splinters or half-making sure it was still real. “Yeah, I’ve had enough weird headlines in my life lately,” she muttered, the dryness in her voice a flimsy shield against the memory of tabloid photos from the Cataclysm’s aftermath: blurred figures fleeing collapsing buildings, her own face half-hidden in the corner of one shot, eyes wide and unrecognizable to herself. “‘Curious Herbalist Gunned Down While Trespassing in Pastry Shop’ isn’t really the vibe I’m going for.”

She let her eyes adjust to the light, gaze moving across the blank countertops and neatly aligned chairs. A scene set, but no actors. Yet, one thing came back to her now that she was here again: The warped grin the thing wore when it peeled back its stolen face. Elena shuddered. Now, there was no sign of the thing, of course. The smell of lemon cleaner clawed at her sinuses, though. Elena’s eyes flicked to a spot near the far window, where she remembered crouching beside the child, Luciana, whispering useless comforts while chaos erupted around them.

The moment had felt like being on the edge of a story she didn’t understand. And maybe, in ways she had yet to know, that was still true.

𝔻𝕠𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕚𝕠𝕟: ℝ𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕤𝕔𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕊𝕦𝕣𝕗𝕒𝕔𝕖

In collaboration with(@The Savant) as Roach

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It was odd how fast the energy in a room or a whole community could change. Everything was more or less relaxing until screaming could be heard in the distance, shouting of words he couldn’t understand, and chaos erupted without a second for anyone to process what was going on. He was enjoying a meal at a shabby little restaurant where there was no inside sitting area — the only area inside was the common area to stand and wait for to give your order to the worker or wait to pick up your food, a public bathroom which was shared and barely anyone could reasonably or comfortable fit in it, and the back where all the magic happened.

A disappointed sigh sounded out as he set his sub down, what was all the commotion about? Roach decided to stand up and leave his items, but before he departed, he grabbed the citrus drink and downed it, and found himself moving. Picking the mobile device from his pocket to see if he could find a location on Selene or anyone else that he was supposed to be watching, just in case all hell broke loose. He didn’t want to disappoint any of his clients — however — he took two pictures out of his pocket while walking. A few days ago, a council member approached him and gave him a handful of pictures of dwellers and burrowers, and last night the same council member came around again. This time, the member gave him a few pictures of scavengers that they wanted taken care of.

The two pictures that seemed to catch his eyes the most were the older burrower named Pilka, who was roaming around Dominion without any consequences and bothering young women and the scavenger that had the nickname of Ratman, and people seemed to complain about him a lot. He has been running around without any consequences or punishment either.

Deciding to mind his own business for now instead of focusing on that job, he put the pictures away, and he noticed a few locations — Selene was the closest. Roach decided to cut through a few alleys and make his way towards the woman. Knowing how to slip through the cracks of Dominion, he got to the younger woman with ease, and he stepped out in front of her — purposefully getting in her way, “Hey sweetheart, what are you running from?” He was blissfully unaware of the duskhound situation, but he knew a commotion was happening, however, Selene was running with a purpose, and he kind of wanted to interfere with that more than figuring out why everyone else was screaming in terror.

She didn’t see him at first.

One second, Selene was cutting between two vending columns, shoulder-checking a dazed man still clutching a bouquet of light-reactive lilies, and the next, there he was. In front of her. Like a goddamn ghost with expensive shoes and the worst timing ever.

She skidded to a stop hard enough that the case at her ribs jabbed up under her arm, and for a split, searing moment, she actually considered whether barreling straight into him would be worth it. But instinct stalled her legs before her rage could.

His voice, that copper-warm drawl she’d once mistaken for charm when she was stupid enough to believe adults knew what they were doing, slid under her skin like a splinter. Her breath hitched, not from exhaustion but from sheer disbelief. Not because he’d found her. That was the least surprising part. But because he looked so fucking casual about it. As if the city wasn’t about to collapse inward on itself with the sound of teeth and screaming.

Selene’s gaze snapped up to his, her expression flat, but her eyes sharp enough to slice tungsten.

“Seriously?” she rasped, low and incredulous. “You pick now to play peekaboo?”

“You used to love that game as a child,” Roach teased with a sickening curl to the one side of his lips. “However, you aren’t that precious little girl anymore, but you are still precious, so I have to find you when things go south. Clearly,” his head tilted up a little to look at the people running around like chickens with their heads cut off, screaming, trying to find their children, and some of them were moving closer — all pathetic.

He sucked on his teeth for a second with a distaste for the chaos and he heard the screams more clearly — DUSKHOUNDS! — and he almost wanted to laugh. People were worried about duskhounds? They were one of the easier things to take down. He would be more worried about Grells or Lynes. Possibly tunnelers if they got close enough, and even those creatures didn’t bother him in thought. “Clearly, everyone is freaking out for such little reasons, quite pathetic don’t you think?” his eyes were covered in darker shades, like usual, and he looked so anonymous. Easily being able to blend into the background. However, his stare was strong, and he was looking directly at Selene.

“Come on,” Roach stepped forward and reached out towards Selene, going to grab her arm or wrist. “I don’t even know why you go outside half the time. You have a room. Isn’t that enjoyable enough? You kids have video games or whatever they are called,” His tone shifted to show how irritating Selene could be for him. She made him work so much more. Half of the time, he wished he could just trap her inside her house, but that would be a human rights violation case that he wouldn’t want to fight in court.

Selene’s whole body coiled at the reach. He barely brushed her sleeve before she jerked back a step, the case jostling under her arm, her free hand instinctively curling like she might draw something—knife, wrench, middle finger, didn’t matter.

“Touch me again,” she hissed, “and I swear to every rusted god beneath this city, I’ll lodge your hand so far down your own throat you can finally taste the bullshit you talk.” Her eyes—those mismatched eyes—didn’t even flinch as she said this. For a heartbeat, the light caught the ghost in his gaze: a reflection of the girl she’d been, all scraped knees and desperate to please. Pathetic, yes, but not her anymore. He always did this, though. Showing up late with that waxy, serpentine smile and treating her like she was still six and stupid. Still scribbling escape routes into her notebooks while pretending not to notice the cameras above her bunk.

“And don’t call this pathetic,” she snarled, advancing now, driving him back for once, “just because you’re too dead inside to give a shit about people getting hurt or threatening to hurt them and those they care about.” She, of course, was referring to Scotti when she said this. He’d threatened a kid. A scared, twitchy kid with too much heart and not enough protection. And Selene hadn’t forgotten it.

At first, he was taken aback by her outburst, but he was not surprised, not moving back much, and allowing a foot to fall behind him so he was secure. “Someone is feisty today. What happened? Didn’t get a shitty job? You know, I am always up to take on an apprentice,” he chuckled while putting up his hands like he was in defeat.

The man’s eyes sharpened as she continued her confidence, “I was only giving the kid some encouragement, sweetheart,” Roach spit those words out with distastefulness. As if he were not interested in this conversation, but he would continue anyway. “Plus, I wouldn’t actually hurt that little girl. She’s sweet. Reminds me of you when you were little. Too innocent for her own good. She walked right up to me and had a talk for about twenty minutes. Her daycare workers didn’t even notice, an awful bunch they are, I could have scooped her up if I wanted to,” Roach joked, but there was an underlying seriousness of concern in his voice. The concern that the workers were lacking, while it was so easy to get over that playground fence and talk to a little girl.

Selene’s jaw clamped shut, the tension radiating down her neck. Her fingers twitched once at her side. Not enough to draw suspicion from the untrained eye, but Roach knew her tells. Or he used to. That twitch meant she was calculating how many steps it would take to drop him.

Three, if he didn’t dodge. Two, if she led with her elbow.

She didn’t, though.

Instead, her voice came out quiet. Cold.

“You think this is you being funny.” She didn’t blink. “But I know what it is. You’re testing limits you already know. Reminding me that you could, but don’t. That’s what you do, right? Keep everyone grateful they’re not on the floor.” Her lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. More a scar remembered. “But don’t ever compare me to her again. She probably still sees good in people like you. Still hopes. I buried that part of myself before I left.”

The crowd behind her was thinning now, people running, shouting, scattering like rats. A deep, inhuman growl echoed somewhere close, just enough to crawl down the spine.

She didn’t look away from Roach.

“If you’re here to do your job, then do it. Tail me. Report in. Play watchdog for the bastards who still think I owe them something besides a thank you for my birth.” Her breath fogged slightly in the cooler artificial air. “But if you so much as breathe wrong in that girl’s direction again? I’ll stop playing this game. That’s what you can crawl back to tell my parents.”

The man waved her off, “Stop overreacting,” he huffed out while picking a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and a lighter. Taking one out, putting it between his lips, and lighting it up before putting the items away. Then he looked around the woman to see a duskhound tilting its head. “Stop talking,” he ordered her.

“And I don’t give a shit if you want to continue playing the game. I doubt your parents even care to keep tabs on you. I’m pretty sure they just forgot to take me off payroll,” he shook his head while taking a few steps to the right to get a better picture of the hound that was behind Selene. It was about thirty yards away, but it was trying to figure out where they were, but the screaming and chaos were definitely confusing it.

Plucking the cigarette from his lips and blowing out a cloud of smoke, “If you really want me to make it up in some fashion. I’ll go visit their mom later. Help her build those kids' college tuition and life, but I am busy right now,” he chuckled with a dirty sense of humor and put the cigarette back in his lips before pulling out a gun and switching out parts to it. It was a handgun, nothing impressive, but it was tactical. He was changing it from a stun-gun to a deadly weapon.

Selene didn’t laugh, but the sound she made was close enough to pass.

“Of course they forgot,” she said, the words dripping with acid as she continued to ignore his instruction. “Prioritize profit, purge the problem. That’s the family motto, isn’t it?” A bitter smile ghosted across her lips. “If I’d known that’s all it took to get rid of you, I would’ve tried to tank the family name way sooner.”

But her fingers curled a little tighter around the case.

“You know the family motto better than I do. I’m not a part of the Syn family,” he chuckled while switching the gun, and it began to buzz with power. It was a battery-powered gun; it shot bullets, but it charged up before blasting a piece of metal that would open up while stabbing into the skin and discharging the electricity that it absorbed.

Twisting the cigarette in his lips, “Also, you can’t get rid of me that easily, sweetheart. I’ve known you before you were born. One could say I am a little attached. I hate to say it. Maybe I even have a little piece of me that cares. I’d still check in on yah without a second thought. You do some pretty dumb shit,” he began to aim the gun at the beast.

Selene didn’t share her thoughts about anything he’d just revealed right away. She just stared at him, lips pressed thin, something cold and flinty settling behind her eyes. Then, without a word, she moved to walk past him.

“Whatever,” she muttered over her shoulder, the word dry as ash. “You’re not even the worst thing crawling around out here today.”

Duskhound roll = 10 (success)

When Selene began walking away, that was when the duskhound twisted its head and seemed to lock onto her movements. It was clearly jittering from the commotion, but it finally caught onto something that it wanted, and it began to charge. Quickly and efficiently. Aiming right for her without issue, before she would have felt its weight plunge her to the ground.

Roach’s Reaction = 13 + 2 (bonus) = 15 (success)

Roach didn’t react right away, not because he was old and slow, but because he was making a point. What point, exactly? Probably one that no one but him would understand. Though he was letting his gun charge that bullet before he took a shot with an electrically powered poof. Once that bullet dug into that Duskhound's flesh, the creature whined out and jumped away from Selene, and Roach was reloading that gun without hesitation.

Walking right over to Selene, not helping her up but placing himself right in front of her and looking at the duskhound, “You know, you should really watch out. You could get hurt,” Roach let out a condescending tone while charging another bullet up.

The creature began to growl out before that echoing cackle could be heard. It was trying to get Roach to move, but he stood there watching it. It began to sniff the area where the bullet entered its flesh, and then began to sniff the air. It was trying to locate him. The strategy of trying to find him showed how intelligent the creature could be.

Selene hit the ground hard. The case skidded from her grip, clattering just out of reach as the duskhound’s weight slammed her sideways, breath punched from her lungs. If not for the sharp crack of Roach’s gun and the sizzling whine that followed, it might’ve been the last sound she made. She didn’t say anything at first—not as the thing scrambled off, not as its shriek rattled through her bones, and not even when Roach’s boots planted in front of her. Only when he spoke did she finally look up.

That tone.

Like this was a lesson. Like she was a damn child again.

Slowly, with all the grace of someone running on pride more than pain, Selene pushed herself up from the floor. Her palms were scraped, her elbow throbbed, and her heart was a snare drum in her ribs. But her eyes? Her eyes could’ve lit a fire.

“Wow,” she said flatly. “Thanks for the tip, dad.” She spat the word like it had burned her. Then, grudgingly, so grudgingly it almost hurt, she stepped in behind him. Not because she trusted him. But because between him and the thing with claws and cackling teeth, she’d rather keep the known bastard in front.

She stooped to grab the case, wincing, then muttered under her breath without looking at him:

“You get bitten, I’m not dragging your ass.”

It was the closest she’d come to a truce. And the farthest she’d let him think it was one.

Roach laughed at her little sarcastic title, “You would have been better off if I were your father.” Her comment clearly amused him, and there might have been a sad truth to his response. He knew how her parents were, and he had a lot of unsaid things about them in his mind, but money was money. As long as he was getting paid, he wouldn't bite the hand that fed him, but he did snap at her parents a few times throughout the years — no reason to tell her that.

He shrugged, “Then be more careful, so I don't have to take my eyes off that monster,” as his gun buzzed in an alert state, as if fully charged. The beast lunged at him.

Duskhound attack = 16 (Success)

Even though the beast was hurt, it was proving that some pain and injury were not going to dwindle its spirits or its instincts to kill. Roach found himself hitting the ground hard while the creature's jaws clamped down on his arm, which naturally went to block his face. A hissing sound came from him as he felt the sinking pressure of teeth in his flesh.

His gun slid away from him by about three feet and he glanced at it before trying to position his foot to hopefully kick the damn thing off from him or get into a better position.

Selene Attack= 6

“Shit,” Selene spat, half under her breath. She didn’t want to move. Every survival instinct screamed to let the bastard get eaten. But she’d never been great at following orders, not even her own. With a grimace, Selene darted forward, snatching the gun up before her finger quickly found the trigger, muscle memory overriding spite. The shot erupted in a searing arc, grazing the hound’s flank and detonating against a holographic billboard. Shrapnel rained down, glass petals from a luxury perfume ad spiralling like shrapnel confetti.

“Fuck.”

The duskhound flinched, startled, but not hurt. And now, it seemed angry. Its eyes snapped toward her with predator clarity, and in that split-second, she realized what she’d just done: made herself the more interesting target.

“Fan-tastic.” she muttered, already moving fast, backpedalling, trying to circle wide. She kept the gun raised with both hands, but her grip was too tight, her breathing shallow. Panic pressed hard against her ribs.

“Get. Up.” She barked the command at Roach. The hound advanced, claws scoring the tile with a nails-on-chalkboard shriek. Her mind fractured, half calculating trajectories (weak spots she’d read about, such as its joints), half clawing through a memory: Roach, a decade younger, tossing her a pistol. “You miss with this thing, you probably die. Romance that trigger, sweetheart.”

Another shot. This one cracked louder than the first.

And this time, it hit.

The electrically charged round slammed into the duskhound’s front leg just above the joint, embedding deep before discharging with a gut-churning pop of scorched flesh and snapping ligaments. The creature screamed, a warbling, wet snarl, and stumbled, its lunge faltering mid-stride as one leg buckled beneath it.

Selene didn’t wait for praise. She pivoted and slid the gun across the tile toward Roach with a flick of her wrist, just in case the thing got back up faster than it should.

Roach was up and at it as Selene was barking out the order, and he was turning to her and the duskhound when his facial recognition alert went off. It echoed throughout his mind while he looked around quickly before shaking his head and focusing on Selene and the hound again — this was a problem that he needed to focus on. Not his alerts going off and telling him that there was someone around whom he was hunting.

“You are doing a wonderful job, sweetheart!” His voice was actually encouraging and possibly a little proud as he crouched down and picked up the gun. Putting another bullet into the chamber and charging it up. He walked over to the whining mass of fur and blood as he put a charge through the creature's eye. With a final yelp, silence, or at least the silence around them, while chaos was everywhere else.

This was when Roach began to look around to scan for that face again, and off in the distance, up on a cliff by a building where his alert began to go, he saw a figure. Letting his artificial eye do its work to zoom in and recognize the face. It was Pilka up on a ledge, hanging out. “Get home, sweetie. I’ll check on you later,” his voice fell from the positivity that held around Selene as he began to move towards his next target.

“Of course you’ve got another appointment,” Selene muttered, low, mostly to herself. Her gaze flicked up to where his focus had turned. A figure. Distant. She didn’t need facial tech to know it wasn’t her fight. Not today.

She looked back at the creature’s remains, then at the smear of blood on her sleeve. Then, finally, at Roach.

“You keep calling me sweetheart like it means something,” she said, her voice quieter now. “Like it’s a comfort. You forget I know what it actually means coming from you.”

She turned her back to him, tucking the case against her ribs with a wince. The drop-off would have to be rescheduled.

“No need to check in,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m managing just fine, dumb shit and all.”

And with that, she walked away.

“There is always a need, I’ll bring you takeout. You’re clearly grumpy and annoyed for some reason,” Roach waved her off while heading towards the man he was contracted to hunt down and kill. A pest of society.

𝔻𝕠𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕚𝕠𝕟: ℝ𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕤𝕔𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕊𝕦𝕣𝕗𝕒𝕔𝕖

I'll try to think of some ideas but put to death? How do you beat that xd

Do You Have RP Pet Peeves?

@BrokenPromise That’s really fair, and I appreciate the honest take. I’ve mostly done group RPs myself, so I definitely relate to having a bit of a comfort zone there, especially when the group dynamic just works really well. But I’ve been curious about 1x1s lately for the chance to dig deeper into character arcs without having to juggle too many moving parts, which is like...the biggest disadvantage for group rps to me.

The idea of investing time and then getting ghosted during setup is a little daunting for 1x1s though, so I think if I do end up delving into them it would be easier to start with someone I'm familiar with. I guess we'll see in time :) Thanks for the advice.