@Estylwen@ERode@Sifr@Psyker Landshark@AThousandCurses

AUDITORIUM

"Stay down... what is this? Just... just stay down...!" Gulliver's desperate pleas continued through grit teeth and bloodshot eyes as he looked upon the slowly approaching Iraleth, steam rising from his body as the last sparks crackled into nonexistence around him. She was dead on her feet, and yet the young Bronsteel couldn't help but find himself taking a slow step back as she neared the stage. "It's not right. None of this... none of this is-"

Splat.

Cut off from his own denial. Darkness. All at once, the sole light now emerging from his waning barrier of essence, only occasionally able to see the stumbling figure of Iraleth closing in slowly but surely. He tried to raise his hand to let loose another bolt, but even the act of moving his arm to perform the proper casting motions proved too much, letting loose a pathetic shock like the dying dance of loose wiring. "W-Wait... no, this can't be all there is, right? No, no, no... my essence can't be letting up so soon. Damn that Umbralist witch. I prepared for this day for months. I just need to dig deeper...!"

Despite all of the wailing, however, all of his words after the final window's darkening could only be heard by himself in his bubble of a world. To others looking upon him, they would see him flailing and screaming, attempting everything he could to turn around this cruel fate befalling him. It was only as his own voice died down that he realized how little he heard. Tears filled his eyes as he screamed into an unfeeling, unhearing darkness as he felt his barrier encroached upon by unseen phantoms. He recoiled as if being struck as he felt his Mannekin disappearing one by one, helpless and alone as his numbers whittled into insignificance in seconds.

Hildegunde was disarmed, the kimono-wearing Mannekin slapping her gun into the dark of the room while continuing his rush. With the feral tenacity of a cornered animal, the two engaged in a brief melee, Hildegunde's teeth and nails meeting nothing but sturdy wood. With the swiftness of a trained warrior, the Mannekin pushed her away with another palm strike. Taking advantage of the stagger, it would take to the air and attempt its finishing move - an axe kick directly onto her head. Before this could resolve, however, the Mannekin would be consumed by the shadows and faced the gruesome fate that the remainder of Gulliver's soldiers would be subjected to.

The sound of crushed wood and the popping of artificial limbs rang out across the darkened auditorium, the Mannekin struggling to break free and fight against this unseen force. It all proved futile, however, as this was clearly a level of offense that they were not equipped to handle. Each and every one of them was soulless, and there would be no meal for the famished darkness among the army that fell to pieces in its wake.

In the midst of all this, Gulliver with a thousand yard stare in sheer horror - mouth agape and hunched over in exhaustion upon seeing his army driven to defeat - it didn't take much to catch the boy by surprise now. "Are you really just... going to stand there?" The questioning, dejected voice of Davil would ring out so painfully close, in the condensed bubble in which the only sound in Bronsteel's world would exist. Gulliver spun on his heel in that moment and let out one last desperate bolt, a spark that acted as a glorified stun gun more than anything, and met only air. Davil sidestepped the piddling bolt with a sad smile on his face, getting close enough to the young Bronsteel to almost touch noses, looking right into his eyes.

"Because this bubble, right now, is a world in which only our voices can be heard, I'll give you a bit of advice, okay? See..."

Gulliver swung his fist, but Davil simply swatted the weak punch away and shoved Gulliver off the stage. As he fell, as if in slow motion, Gulliver's gaze was drawn to Davil's lips in this silent world between them, soon to dissolve in mere seconds. A sentence was spoken, and it was only the ill-fated Bronsteel that would hear it. Was it a separate spell from within this chaos that would allow this to transpire? In that moment it was unclear, but regardless, his brow furrowed in confusion and fear as the words registered. It was too late to worry about that now, however. The last thing he would see of his beloved stage was Davil's form, staring down at him with an emotion approaching pity.

Slam.

All at once, the barrier broke like glass, and so too did the silencing spell on Gulliver. Noise returned as his body hit the auditorium floor, and there would be one noise he would hear before all others - the approaching of footsteps, of which he knew it could only be Iraleth. He could tell she was close, and he was in a full-blown panic after being shoved off the stage. "I-I-I- Gaaaaaaaah!"

Primal instinct kicked in, and the disgraced noble began throwing amateurish haymakers into the darkness in the direction of Iraleth's approach. There was no longer a barrier. Not even the faintest glimmer of light near him. Exhausted and broken both physically and mentally, no more magic, Mannekin or defensive measures to fall back on, it would only take one punch to end his fish-out-of-water resistance.

A veil of darkness swept through the auditorium. Chunji instinctively jumped back as the mannequin in front of him had suddenly disappeared into the mass of shadow. With his opponent now gone, Chunji tried to observe his surroundings once more. All he could see was the darkness and its appendages. It was clear to him that the one responsible for the shadowplay was the girl above him, though that didn't matter at the moment. From what he could make out, Gulliver was experiencing a breakdown to his psyche. Perhaps it was a contribution of stress and mana deficiency. Regardless, the other students were handling the situation, so he didn't pay it too much mind.

From what he could see, the auditorium's decorations had be more or less been destroyed by the fights. Splinters of wood, debris of stone, and shattered glass was all that remained. It was to be expected. The Knight's reckless charge made sure that at least the center row of the auditorum was completely destroyed. Dusting himself off, Chunji went off to search and sit down at any chairs that remained partially unscathed from the fight. That was after all their objective. Defeating Gulliver was optional.

Though despite that, Chunji didn't let down his guard. With Gulliver in the process of being subjudgated by the Knight the mannequins spread through the academy would fall limp. Students would storm into the auditorium and there were not enough chairs for them all, so a fight was bound to happen. Regardless, a respite from the fighting was much needed in currently. Retrieving his medical kit, Chunji began to treat his wounds.

Aside from the accumulating exhaustion, the wounds were rather moderate at the worst. If anything stepping on the wood chips on the floor was probably the most severe injury. Quickly disinfecting and bandaging that, the only fight that happened with him in the auditorium was the chef mannequin and even then he managed to avoid the worst of it. The owl boy, the shadow witch, the knight, and the marskwoman did their part for most part. And he did his.

Chunji took a deep breath and relaxed. The calm after the storm.

In her exhausted, heavily wounded state, Iraleth barely noticed the bullet fly past her. The result of its impact, however, was far more evident. Darkness fully engulfing the auditorium. Bronsteel trapped, panicking soundlessly. In its place, the sound of mannequins shattering. For a moment, a thought pierced through the haze of Iraleth's weary mind: was this Umbralism? Had she made a mistake working with this shadow witch?

Her father had brought up the differences between simple use of darkness Essence and full on Umbral abominations. Despite everything that was happening around her, Iraleth felt no sensation of utter malice. No wrongness that had accompanied the cultists who burned down the orphanage. She would let it slide for the moment, then. Whatever was happening, it was so obvious that if this was an Umbralist, whoever was overseeing procedures here had to have noticed by now and taken action accordingly. And Iraleth doubted the High Bishop had selected the incompetent to shepherd his dream.

Something shattered, and Iraleth heard Bronsteel's screams and pleads once more. Evidently, he'd fallen from the auditorium stage somehow. Good. She hadn't yet worked out how she was going to have made it up there anyway. What elven blood flowed through Iraleth's veins afforded her limited sight in the darkness, and she could barely make out the outline of the privileged brat flailing about. It would be amusing, if she had any capacity to feel something that wasn't related to achieving her goal. One foot in front of the other.

Iraleth flipped her sword around to hold it by the hilt in a reverse grip, and closed the last bit of distance. One of Gulliver's punches actually landed against her face, but it was so pathetic that any potential pain didn't even register with her. Her right hand slammed the pommel of her sword into Bronsteel's gut, causing him to double over. Her left snapped out in a sharp hook to his jaw. Even in her wretched state, she still had enough presence of mind to pull the punch, such that he was only knocked unconscious instead of killed by a plated fist. It might have been her addled mind simply playing tricks on her, but Iraleth could swear she saw a tooth fly loose. Or perhaps not.

Regardless, she stared down at Bronsteel's unconscious form for a long moment, her limbs still twitching occasionally. A glance around the rest of the auditorium. Their battle had destroyed a significant amount of seats. She couldn't help but wince. If the faculty held the seating clause to be literal, Bronsteel might just get what he wanted in terms of limiting the amount of students. Iraleth didn't bother trying to vocalize any of this. She doubted she had the energy right this moment. Instead, she slumped up against the stage and practically collapsed into a sitting position, her sword planted into the floor next to her. Just a brief rest. She could afford that now that the threat was taken care of. There was still time before the deadline, right?

In darkness, Otis observed the end of this play.

Ciara was monstrous after all. He would maintain good relations with her and, if need be, pick the option of maximum annihilation if he had to kill her. Nothing less than that would suit someone who fully embodied their moniker of shadow-witch, not when she could deliver a true silence to the swarm of puppet-warriors.

Davil too, possessed something more than just excitable, heroic energy. The Strigidae had presumed a speech. Grand gesticulations, perhaps a brandishing of that chainsaw katana again. Goofball tactics. But though he could not hear what was being exchanged within the enclosed space of the barrier, the motions spoke for themselves. Davil, perhaps, also had a mask. Otis would recalibrate in response.

And finally, the paladin. By all rights, she should be dead. By all rights, if Gulliver had even the slightest instinct for close combat, she’d be the one lying down there. But she was the one standing in the end, even when her Ethos had burnt out entirely, even when her nerves ought to have been fried out. Otis didn’t trust in such ephemeral abstractions as determination and the power of will. He’ll have to find an opportunity to dissect her.

But that opportunity, and many others, would have to wait. The Master had fallen, and with it, the Mannekins would too. There were no more obstructions for the countless other students who sought out the auditorium, and when they reached it, what would they see? So few chairs. So few spots. In the gloom, he caught two of those who participated in the fight already relaxing, already focused on recuperation instead of preparation. Foolish. He would let them rot, if it wasn’t for the fact that he owed at least one of them something for their contribution.

And thus, the thought passed through, from the Seeker to the Hunger.

“Take all the chairs and toss them into my Door. The others don’t have enough strength to fight for twenty minutes over these chairs, especially if Ethos are introduced.” They could escape the chaos that had erupted at the top of the bridge, but they couldn’t escape the auditorium. If a brawl broke out, they would be caught in the action, no matter where they were. “Don’t leave a single one behind, Ciara. If you can’t retrieve them in time, destroy them.”

As the plan formulated between the accomplices, Otis himself was already heading up to the stage, hurriedly brushing off the wooden chips that had gotten caught in his clothes. What happened next would work out best if he could impress upon them an aura of authority. He needed to look perfect for what came after. And right now? What he needed was order.

“Davil! Help get the others up onto the stage and seat them down. That includes Gulliver. The rest of you, patch yourselves up. Ciara, join us once you’re done, and I’ll open the windows once more.” He stripped quickly, taking off his coat and his hat, running his fingers through his hair to smooth it out and slick it back. “Sit tall and be proud. If any of you show weakness at this stage, I’m throwing you to the wolves!”

What he needed was a perfect deception, to shed his position as a student and take on the mantle of an adjudicator.

Wingram Academy, Auditorium
@Nanaya @ERode @Psyker Landshark @Sifr @AThousandCurses

---

A brief flash of lightning, striking the side of Gulliver's barrier like a plasma globe. In it, she saw Gullivar staring agape into the face of Davil. Davil's expression was... off.

The bolt faded out, and darkness shrouded the stage again. Moments later, the shattering of glass. Her shadowy hands immediately confirmed Gulliver on the ground. The crack of a few well-placed blows, and all fell silent.

The knight, she presumed, had dealt the final blow.

Finally.

The telepathic connection shook. “Take all the chairs and toss them into my Door. The others don’t have enough strength to fight for twenty minutes over these chairs, especially if Ethos are introduced."

Her mind briefly thought of the frantic screams she heard outside when she ran through the hallways of the campus building. The other students, the slower ones, she didn't know what they were capable of. It went without saying, however, that she didn't want to tempt fate by having too many students, and too few seats. Gulliver was a prime example of students feeling comfortable in their Ethos.

Otis was right.

Many in their company were not in a position to fight more, not if it could be avoided. If they could exact dominance, they might sway the students to act peacefully. Dominance in this situation didn't necessarily mean who had the strongest Ethos. It could be as simple as... who had the most seats.

Ciara worked quickly, shadowy hands ripping the remaining seats up, row by row. She avoided the ones that were splintered into smithereens, instead focusing on the aisle and back row seats.

"Still so Hungry..." A Voice whimpered in the back of her mind.

Her red eyes narrowed. "I'm trying to concentrate-"

"The Light is weak, why not take it now?"

"Will you shut. up."

She paused briefly as shadowy hands around the auditorium tossed seat after seat into the open Door. One student was sitting in a seat she needed. She sighed, merging with shadows and reappearing in front of the boy. It was the one from before, the analyst.

"I need your seat." She said flatly in the darkness. Shadowy tendrils gently pulled the boy to a standing position while other appendages snapped the seat's base, carting it off to the Door.

She disappeared, reappearing on the stage as the last seat was chucked into the dark void of the Door. Otis mentioned something about opening the windows. She could do that in seconds, making everyone's lives easier. Shadowy tendrils gripped the shutters along the walls of the auditorium and, with a single breath, flew open.

Instantly, Ciara's shadows vaporized, reducing her to working with her own singular shadow.

The auditorium, bathed in sunlight, was a sight for sore eyes. The ruins of the mechanical giant, still steaming a bit as it lay crumpled. Wood chips and splintered chairs in the center front of the auditorium. Not a single place to sit in the rows surrounding the stage. Each chair hastily torn up and taken away. Any passerby would say the seats mysteriously disappeared.

The light caused Ciara's red eyes to blink rapidly, and her nose wrinkled. What caught her gaze next, however, was the knight, out of breath as she lay against the foot of the stage.

"It's. Just. Sitting there." The child-like Voice in her head whined impatiently. "Now's our chance!"

Ciara remained silent, eyeing the knight stoically, before hopping off the stage. She hesitated, staring at the half-elf, before extending out a hand. The knight looked like they could use a bit of assistance in getting seated comfortably on the stage. Whether or not the knight accepted Ciara's assistance, Ciara's next move was to follow Otis' lead. Following darkness always proved to be entertaining, if not more fortuitous, in her line of experience.

A smile that wasn't hers briefly flashed across her face as she stared at the knight, before Ciara's lips pursed.

Her Hunger wouldn't get the best of her today. Even if it killed her.

It's over. That's what she thought as the mannequin made a final swing towards her, only for it and most the room to be engulfed in shadow. Hildegunde's eyes widen. She blinks. And soon, the mannequin - the mannequins - were no more. She immediately scrambles for her rifle, panic stilling once her hands find their way around the familiar grip.

Gulliver was down. The storm had passed.

And someone was trying to act as thunder.

The woman gives Otis a curious look. The nature is hard to decipher. Is it one of disdain? Admiration? Judgement? Condescension? Whatever the case, the woman gives a low chuckle, shaking her head slightly.

"Letting Gulliver stay. How noble of you," she jokes, although there's a certain edge to her voice that makes it clear that she is not happy about the choice. If she's planning on doing anything about it, however, she shows no signs. Perhaps she is joking to gauge the reactions of the others before taking affirmative action. She picks a splinter out of her upper lip, gained from when she had attempted to chomp down on the kimono clad mannequin, hardly flinching as she does so. She eyes Chunji's medkit, but then looks away; she's not asking Chunji, or risking a brawl with him. While she miraculously lacks any other splinters imbedded in skin, she's in relatively rough shape.

Like Ciara, she makes her way over to Iraleth, offering her a hand. Two helping hands are better than one, and she owes the half-elf yet again. As well as the fellow human girl now, as it were.

"You are the craziest, stupidest, most impressive person I've met in a while," she tells Iraleth, awestruck. Was it supposed to be praise? It sounds and looks like it, judging by the genuine grin on her face. Maybe she herself doesn't recognize that the first two words are typically insults.

"Thanks for the help. Both of you. And sorry for not saying it earlier, half-elf."

Breathe.

He could hear them now, pounding footsteps down the carpeted hallway, leaping over or kicking through the disable Mannekins that laid in their path. Less than twenty minutes, but that would be plenty of time still to find their seats and to sit themselves down, if not for the devastation that…

Ah, there they were.

Prospective students rushed in through the various openings of the auditorium, their forms indicative of the journey they had taken to get there. Some were bloodied, others burnt, more of them bruised, and many of them fatigued. Between the Mannekin hordes and each other, they had ran themselves ragged, only to enter an auditorium that looked like the aftermath of a warzone. Splinters cracked beneath their shoes, the stench of ozone a suffocating scent. The remains of the Foreteller laid there, a titan with its heart torn out, while nothing but scrap wood remained of the Mannekin army either. Light caught the lingering dust and debris that danced in the air. No chairs, no benches, not even stairs survived the conflict that had ravaged the auditorium.

No, amidst the wreckage and ruination, only one thing appeared pristine: the stage of the auditorium. Six students stood there. A half-elf knight, as white as bloodied snow. A well-dressed princeling, bruised and unconscious but possessing a nobility even in that deflated state. A lithe huntress, indistinct in appearance yet possessing eyes with a deathly sharpness. A reticent youth, his own wounds well-dressed and his mien unshakeable. A gloomy child, the crimson of her eyes hidden beneath a mass of black brambles. A two-faced fool, dangling between heroism and comedy, a chainsaw katana resting well upon his hands. And, standing separate from them, was a slender Strigidae with amber eyes. Of all those present, that beastkin alone looked wholly untouched by the surrounding chaos, his clothes well-creased, his hair well-kempt. His hands were cradled together with the mannerisms of a scholar, and his gaze held the weight of one who had pursued knowledge his entire life.

It was a situation enough to give the students pause.

And Otis seized that opportunity.

“The war is won!”

Essence flowed through his vocal cords, reverberating through the auditorium with a gravitas.

“While you all struggled and floundered, grappling with the foe as well as each other, these strangers have banded together and took swift action instead, striking down the heart of this mechanical catastrophe.” Light seemed to bend, spotlights forming over the six students even though the auditorium was brightly-lit to begin with. “They have earned their seats in Wingram Academy, through feats of martial and diplomatic excellence. You have not.”

Protests bubbled, but Otis continued regardless, with the apathy of a professor who had been given full authority to expel any disobedient students.

“But victory is not the ending, and the cost of turning to war for solutions is the inevitable destruction of your surroundings.” Blood could be recovered in time, and tears and sweat could be refilled with but a few cups of water. What of buildings though? What of roads, of markets, of fields, of homes? The Apocalypse had ended, but the true challenge of the Astral Era laid in what happened after. “Fifteen minutes remain, prospectives. From the wreckage here, rebuild. Clear out the ruins of the old. Craft a seat to call your own.”

If heroes could only strike down false gods, what good were they to civilization?

“That is the bare minimum. And if you cannot even craft your own seat?”

His gaze swept over the masses.

“Make a case for your potential, and pray to Astra that you earn my clemency through words alone.”

@Estylwen@ERode@Sifr@Psyker Landshark@AThousandCurses

AUDITORIUM

As the crowd that was promised a heroic future grew, Otis would receive a 'ping' in his mind, and he would know it was a request for a two sentence mental message from Davil. Should he accept, he would hear Davil's nervous voice plugging along, saying, "Hey, so this is prooobably more of a minor thing, chum, but I can't find the 'other' Gulliver anywhere. Not sure when it could have happened, but he's nowhere to be found in this room, at least." Davil's expression would be maintained as its goofy, happy-go-lucky self as he sat up on stage, but a small sweat drop running down his left cheek and the slightest gritting of teeth betrayed a small puff of anxiety.

Meanwhile, the crowd itself exploded with life as Otis finished his proclamation. Some expressed fear, some enraged, and others still oddly seemed to find the whole scene amusing. Magical auras and all manner of powers began manifesting across the auditorium, including faces familiar to some, such as Rio, carrying Chloe in his arms as his shielded giant slowly began to form, eyeing up a half-dozen other students, clearly exhausted. Or the pale girl with a cane, leaning near a caved-in wall by the back of the room with a halfhearted smile of bewilderment plastered across her face.

The conflict quieted, however, as the sound of footsteps clicked and clattered through the halls. Eyes of many were directed towards the entrance, where the rhythmic waltz stepped through the doorway. It was as if the rays of sunlight pouring in from the now opened windows slowly shifted towards this boy who walked through, bringing his well-dressed crimson frame into view. His each movement was as if he were walking on air, with only the loud echoing of each step giving away that he were not truly levitating. His smirk was plastic, his eyes giving way to the rising disdain he contained. Rio's expression grew fiery as he took a step forward, his giant following, but a few of the students that were previously about to attack him now held him back from advancing. Eyes focused on this red noble as he made his unimpeded advance right to the front, crowds clearing the way with a mixture of caution and worry to grant him a clear path.

With an adjusting of his collar and cracking of his neck, the boy looked upon the students on stage from below, yet close enough to jump up if he wished. His gaze met each individual, holding for exactly five seconds before moving on to the next. Any words directed his way were ignored, other students seeming to contemplate whether they should stab him in the back. "Now that his guard's down, we can pay him back," one student in the tense crowd would blurt out to another, not realizing that his voice carried much louder in the comparatively silent auditorium.

"I must say," the scarlet stranger would finally speak, his voice lined with venom as he held his stare on Otis. "This all sounds very reasonable, settling things through worth. The strong should, by all rights, deserve their chance. Upon this stage in front, and in this crowd behind, indeed - many strong souls have gathered in this place today."

With a raised hand and a fluttering cape, the boy spun such that his left shoulder now faced the stage, and his right to the crowd, while looking upon the hundreds either locking his gaze or intentionally avoiding it. "Many. Many who would see change, who may perhaps even wish to become the champions that would ensure a second apocalypse never again saw our lands lost to senseless chaos. Admirable, truly."

His eyes met those on stage, one by one once again, while he continued speaking. "Yet all of them cower, in this moment. In what should be the start of the journey that would one day immortalize them in the history books for others to learn of, or for bards to write songs of, or for yet others to shadow the footsteps of, they all find themselves timid mice in this moment. And those that puff their fur in token resistance of I, find themselves not committing. Do you know why that is?"

Finally, his serpentine visage met Otis again, a small spark igniting in his otherwise soulless self. "It is because none of them could defeat me, nor allow a single scar to blight my features. Not a loose seam, nor a speck of dust. Try as they might, I held fast against so many desperate faces across the campus grounds for no other reason than to see who among them was worthy of becoming a Wing of Nero. You may think the injuries that the chaff around us suffered were inflicted by those puppets, but kindly think again."

Keeping his gaze locked on Otis and his smile growing, the boy took to the left side, levitating upwards to arrive on the stage, as if he belonged there all along. "I will play along with this game for now, chaff, because you have amused me by reducing the grand auditorium of Wingram to a splintered battlefield. In return, I will take my spot here from on high, as the wall that none could overcome. My name is Valen Leuvalt, and it is truly your pleasure to make my acquaintance."

At that, with a finger pointed to the ground, a golden throne materialized. He took his seat, and would seem uninterested in hearing any complaints. Chaos broke once again soon after, as dozens of students began clamoring to the front to look upon those seated atop the stage as if they were a panel of judges, expressing their reasons why they should be chosen. Others, still, began searching for fragments with which to build chairs with. Rio took to a corner by one of the windows, where he simply leaned the unconscious Chloe up against a wall and pulled out a first aid kit, seemingly doing his best to tend to her even as time fought against him.

Time was ticking, but for now it seemed to be a matter of begging, improvising and talking. Davil was doing his best to remain composed, but his facade was slowly cracking, seeing pleading eyes looking to him for approval as he looked across his fellow seated to gauge their reactions.

The minute Chunji was removed from the chair, a scowl immediately replaced his once blank face. Several thoughts circulated through his heads as he grabbed his the sheath of his sword. While he wasn't exhausted, that didn't mean he was incapable of fighting. His eyes trained throughout the darkness and located the shadow witch that manipulated the shadows. His ethos was still capable of tracking her down. All he needed was one small glimpse of a part of her body and he'd shove his sword through her-

The shadow witch's accomplice, from what he assumed, shook Chunji out of his contempt. Head up on to the stage? Considering the circumstances, Chunji was about to add the accomplice on his list of people to kill. The accomplice was uncompromising as the shadow witch was repulsive. Didn't offer a guarantee to a seat, but only made demands to the people around him. If mother and father were here, they'd praise the owl for taking advantage of the sitaution.

A few moments of pause before Chunji dropped his death glare. No matter how look at it, it'd was best to follow along with the owl boy's demands. If Chunji decided to fight, he'd be fighting at a disadvantage. Walking up onto the stage with his bandaged foot, he stood over the crowd as they crashed into the auditorium like a wave.

Of the many, Chunji recognized a few. Rio and the unconscious elf, Chloe, were there. Considering he had to carry deadweight around, Chunji couldn't say he was surprise to see him all battered up. Espescially with his display at the bridge, the bodyguard painted a target on his back. It was none of Chunji's concern though, it was only natural to observe previous opponents to see how they were doing. On the other hand the girl with the limp was still unscathed and smiling even. Chunji was considering using his ethos to see if the limp was just a ploy.

Then there was one that stood out from all the rest. An arrogant, scarlet hair man. Was he supposed to be notable? Gulliver supposedly came from a line of prestige and he ended devolving into a child throwing a tantrum. Chunji's opinion on 'nobility' had drastically dropped since then. That opinon was made worsened when Valen decided to summon a throne. Yes, it was best not to involve himself with nobility. That was a bridge that couldn't be built.

Something tapped into his mind, like what happened in battle, except it lingered. A web of connections that tied their thoughts together. Chunji in his same monotone attitude decided to add in his thoughts. 'The boy by the window.' That was all Chunji added before falling silent again. Whatever connection Rio had with the elf, it was strong enough for the young man to follow through and protect the elf. That sort of action provoked something within Chunji that he didn't bother naming.

With that out of the way, he noticed Davil faltering in his facade. Chunji didn't know when he had arrived, but it only happened when Gulliver was already out. The owl boy demanded perfection, so Chunji decided to carry that out. 'Casually' grabbing Davil by the shoulder, Chunji pressed his thumb onto one of boy's pressure point. "If you can't remain compose, don't bother becoming a student here." The words spoken in an apathetic were clean, cutting, yet quiet like a blade. "What's a hero who can't even face a crowd?" Not that Chunji would know what a hero actual was.

Letting go of Davil's shoulder, Chunji returned to holding onto his blade. If Davil displayed a trace of weakness, Chunji wasn't going to be lenient a second time.

Wingram Academy, Auditorium
@Nanaya @ERode @Psyker Landshark @Sifr @AThousandCurses

---

The light and elegant flourish from the stage was snatched by a dark red fire.

He called himself Valen Leuvalt. She wondered where in her mind that name felt familiar.

Regardless, as he approached the stage, she instinctively drew defensive. Her shadow morphed, dark mist rising up, taking the form of a ghoulish, vaguely shaped demon. It simply stared, watching along with Ciara as a striking golden throne was summoned.

She made a mental note. Another noble, same attitude as Gulliver. Has a manifesting Ethos. Perhaps a net zero creation ethos.

They had one extra soul on this stage that stole their seat instead of earning it. It made Ciara quietly seethe inside. Her red eyes glanced at the knight and the analyst. The knight was still out of breath and wanted to collapse right there, and the boy who had shot daggers at her for taking his seat still brandished his bandage.

Her eyes then glanced to the sharpshooter, who had struggled to fend off the last wave of Mannekin.

She sighed. The shadowy demon stared daggers at Valen before focusing its gaze on the swarming crowd. She couldn't afford a fight. They couldn't afford a fight. Not now. Now, all they needed... all they could afford, was presentation.

Even with her shadow glaring at the crowds, no one seemed to challenge Otis' authority. Except Valen, of course. This was good. Better than what she had hoped. They could do a bit of crowd control until the appointed ti-

Wait.

She counted the number of students. She was the one who threw the chairs away, her mind recounted how many the shadows had tossed in. To her dismay, even by a rough estimate, there were not enough chairs to go around. She was certain of this.

How would they solve this conundrum?

Her thoughts got sidetracked as she noticed movement in her peripherals. The analyst with glasses had walked around her and discreetly 'held' onto Davil, who was standing on her other side.

Almost as quickly, a shadowy hand from her manifested apparition held onto the boy with glasses. Its grip was gentle yet firm, without the intention to hurt, but to drive a point home.

"Let go of my pet." She said in a low voice, her eyes two simmering red orbs.

Her shadows had enough force to knock over a horse-drawn carriage. It was more than enough strength to pull the boy's hand away, which she proceeded to do. Gentle enough to not harm but strong enough not to leave room for debate.

She sighed. Davil had been through enough today. He appeared distressed by the swarms of students. Looking at the faces of the students, kids just like her, she had an idea where his anxiety came from.

By all intents and purposes, every student in front of them deserved to be there. However, without enough seats, not all of them would be able to call themselves a student of Wingram by the end of the day. Ciara's head tilted in thought, a bit pained with the dilemma in front of her. What constituted as a 'good' student? Who would stay? Did she have the right to choose?

Then, a wicked thought crossed her mind. A smile that wasn't her own curled her lips. The shadow behind her seemed to chuckle silently.

"Good idea! It's a good idea!" The Voices cackled. She had to admit, she was in agreeance with them. It was only to her ultimate destruction, but no other plan would serve her so delectably.

She was so Hungry, after all.

It would help to narrow down their options, at least.

Her red eyes gleamed as she spoke. "Those with a virtuous heart, step forward."

Iraleth barely protested or responded as she was helped up by the other two girls, though she did offer a weak nod as thanks. As for what was going on...she didn't approve. Not entirely, at least. But at least the Strigdae concocting this grandiose lie was doing it for seemingly good reasons. There'd been enough pointless violence enacted today among what were supposed to be each other's peers. If this chicanery would cut down on it, she could live with that.

As Otis went on and on, Iraleth focused on maintaining the illusion of strength, standing straight and with her sword planted into the stage's floorboards. Being able to use her sword as a crutch was the only thing keeping her standing at this point, though she put all of her effort into not betraying her exhaustion or lingering pain.

The same feeling of intrusion into her mind from earlier returned, but outside of the heat of battle, Iraleth could more clearly understand what was going on this time. Mind-linking magics. Useful. Very useful. She would have put more thought into the matter, but something else caught her full attention just then.

Valen Leuvalt. An apparent scion of Nero's family, who claimed to also have the dream of resurrecting the Wings of Nero. Would that have been all, Iraleth would have thought much more highly of the boy. But then he revealed that he was nothing more than another arrogant princeling. Worse yet, one with power, just like Bronsteel before him. Iraleth didn't bother hiding the look of contempt on her face as she beheld Valen simply lounging around on a golden throne.

This was the most recent legacy of the Leuvalts? Not the Star Sorcerer, who gave up everything for the sake of the world? Not vaunted Nero, whose cause she wanted nothing more than to bring back? Instead, they had an arrogant, grasping boy looking down at everyone like they were trash. Record damn him, if Iraleth had even an ounce of strength, she'd challenge him right here and now, everything else be damned. Everything about Valen was a threat to Nero's legacy, especially if he managed to actually rally support behind himself, doubtful as it was with his odious attitude.

Iraleth's sheer contempt for him echoed across the mind link before she realized what she was doing and caught herself, suppressing her emotions behind iron will. Instead, she forced herself to look back down at the clamouring crowd of hopefuls that decided to beg and plead. In their place, even though none of her talents or abilities exactly related to crafting a seat of some kind, she would have at least tried. Jamming two planks of wood into a larger one wasn't exactly the hardest thing in the world.

The shadow witch asked for those with virtuous hearts. Iraleth could see where this was going. They'd all claim such, barring a select few that were likely closer to the truth than they believed. She looked down at the crowd with a stoic gaze, putting as much effort as she dared into raising her voice enough to be heard.

"Frankly, I'd rather you make an effort at what was asked. Begging is beneath you. All of you. Do you want to have managed admission to Wingram on your knees, or would you rather earn your place?" Hopefully, that would galvanize at least some of them. If nothing would, then they were beyond help.

There's a darkening of Hildegunde's eyes. Disappointment, perhaps, that the only overt protest to Otis was some pompous asshole whom others seemed to recognize - Iraleth with particular contempt, but whom to her was a mystery. Such is life when you are raised in the middle of nowhere. For a moment, she feels the temptation to challenge the man for carrying himself in such a manner, but she decides to follow the crowd, stay quiet, and observe.

A chill runs through her at Chunji's tone. She has still not yet let go of her reservations around the analyst, and his actions right now only serve as a reminder. She takes silent note of Ciara's protectiveness over Davil, and after some debate, gives Chunji a mental message.

I don't think you're in a position to make enemies, guy. I'd back off if I were you, she communicates.

Especially since we're not even sure what their parameters of heroism even are here. For all you know, your bullying of a comrade is squandering the spot you worked so hard for. Was she the only one who considered whether or not the chair bit was a facade for a test of character? She's been having those doubts for a while, but with all the chaos of the day, she had almost forgotten her own anxieties. Maybe it was already blown. The thought troubles her, but it doesn't show on her face.

With that, she returns her attention towards the students. Her position makes her uneasy. She is visible, out in the open, on display. All paradoxical to her instincts as a hunter. And if a fight erupts here, she doesn't know if she'll be able to aim. And even if she were to use her ethos, she only had one bullet left. Her other allies are injured and unfit for a fight as well.

She inhales and exhales deeply, keeping herself calm. Otis better know what he's doing, 'cause if worst comes to worst, she can't guarantee he won't be hit.

Well, better law to be restored amongst the students by an exemplar rather than with gunfire. Otis met the red-haired youth’s stare, his own expression a practiced calm that was broken only by that flicker of inquisition that he could never truly get rid of. The Leuvalt name carried a gravitas to it, at least more so than Arillo, and the Strigidae himself had no particular qualms about allowing Valen to enjoy his pride. Heroes had their arrogance; it was a necessary quality for one whom accomplished deeds of martial excellence.

Gulliver too had been powerful, powerful enough to take on a team of exemplary prospectives at once, powerful enough that Otis would not have fought him head-on if he were alone. By that quality alone, he had allowed the noble puppeteer a seat, a share of the glory. He would be inconsistent and foolish, to bend his criteria simply because of a child’s pretentiousness.

So all Otis spared to Valen was a nod, before students less capable began to crowd the front, their cries falling upon ears that were all-too willing to accept them, to parse them, to categorize them. He shared the paladin’s words on the matter, thought Ciara’s own criteria as something too heavily laced in ulterior motives. He had expected much more out of those who would even get a chance of attending Wingram Academy. He had expected them to possess pride in their capabilities and, if not pride, then the poise to face their own shortcomings head-on. If they were heroes, they had to have a strong will. If they were to change the world, then they had to have knowledge and ingenuity. If they had neither, and pleaded rather than promoted?

…that had no particular effect on Otis’s criteria either. It only affected his opinions, which mattered so much less than their Ethos, their individual peculiarities that he could make something out of.

Time continued to pass.

He continued to index those with potential.

He had glanced over the boy that the bespectacled one had pointed out, but while charity and loyalty to one’s friend was admirable, there was no point in giving a chair to someone who didn’t desire one to begin with.

“He will receive it if he comes. It won’t be fair otherwise.”

And indeed, as time continued to tick away, Otis remained still, giving every student time to say their piece. He did not bring forth a single seat, did not even demonstrate the method in which he would perform such a feat. Instead, he simply waited, burning away the time.

Preparing, perhaps, for those last five minutes, in which everything depended on his ability to instill elation and despair in equal measure, enough so to quell any desire for violence.

It didn’t hurt though, to give another some perspective.

“Davil. Take a breath. They will not be banned from Wingram Academy for this one failure. They can return next year, better prepared for what lies ahead. And when they do, you will be able to guide them as their upperclassman.”

A void of thought.

“For some, it’s better not to leap before they’ve the wings to fly.”

@Estylwen@ERode@Sifr@Psyker Landshark@AThousandCurses

AUDITORIUM

Gulp.

Davil swallowed hard as he took in the events onstage, going from threatened to saved, unsure of his position apart from his starry-eyed appreciation for Ciara, giving her a small nod and smile. He seemed blissfully unaware of his lot in life, or otherwise choosing to ignore the undertones and implications behind his saving. To him, it was a kind gesture from a pretty girl, and no more or less than that. Life was so much better that way, in the end. So simple and unrefined, the life that the blissful lead.

"I guess I could play the part of the reliable upperclassman. Right, yeah, that's probably the way to go. I'll try to work through this. It won't be much longer, right, chum?" The question echoed towards Otis as Davil gathered himself, his facade as a brave katana-wielding warrior reaffirmed. Even as he took a slow inhale and exhale to finalize himself, some fooled by the act saw it as the meditative practice of a stern prodigy, trained beyond his years.

Eventually, desperation shifted. What was once senseless begging, became a crowd of dozens that gathered near Ciara's area of the stage, still from below, as various 'heroes' stepped forward with their best attempts to display their virtuous souls - their light and darkness radiating to varying degrees, but none reaching the shining brightness of one like Iraleth. Many, instead, were dull greys or dimming candlelight.

Some boasted of their boundless love or limitless compassion for the downtrodden, some even shoving each other around to step the most forward, more forward than any other competitor. Valen chuckled lowly at this, tracing patterns in the air with his index finger, leaning on his other arm with a bored fist pressed against his cheek. "You have truly brought the best of us forward with this request, chaff. I can only wonder how this resolves. Go on," he would mutter towards Ciara, still tracing patterns in the air casually in the direction of the masses, the dark rings around his eyes giving way to his exhaustion. To those well-versed on the study of the arcane practice of magic, they would know that Valen was slowly and casually weaving the motions of a "Fireball" spell - a blast of immense heat that would undoubtedly ash the entire crowd and at least a quarter of the auditorium if cast by a competent wizard. He was in no rush, but the spell would certainly be charged and cast eventually if he committed to finishing the hand motions.

From those that remained of the virtuous, a few began to step back - those that recognized the danger of those motions, clearly. Others, still, professed their heroism. "Why, I had once saved the city of Seer's Loft from a fearsome hydra," one would exclaim, hands raised aloft to mimic the looming, snapping heads of a giant many-faced snake. "Why, that is child's play, my fair commonborn. Why, I once vanquished the Flame Lich Jungmire in his own abode atop Castle Blackstone." A few turned their heads in confusion at this, pondering. "Isn't Blackstone that Rekordian fortress still overrun by the lich and his armies...? Jungmire's unalive and well, ya bum!"

Eventually, the one who made such a claim was booed and shoved out of the crowd entirely. Said individual promptly fled, tomato red in the face and sulking as he stomped away. He would slide down the wall and slump against it near Rio, who was still ignoring all the commotion and clumsily applying bandaids and bandages to Chloe.

Others, still, were bolstered by Iraleth's words. One would step forth in the crowd gathered near Iraleth, a lance summoned forth in his hand. "Perhaps you're right. This world is not so easily swayed by begging, so why would it be any different now in this situation?" Turning towards the small crowd behind him, he'd stab the lance into the ground, hand on the pommel as he looked across them. "We waste our time pleading charity, friends. Surely another method remains that we just need to think on? Time runs out, and we must find our way!"

The lance would disappear, and the boy would walk further towards the center of the room away from the stage, leading a small group of eight others to brainstorm in a corner. They passed by a group near the broken Foreteller, ripping pieces off of it and studying its materials. A few individuals among that group were already assembling makeshift stools from the wreckage, flimsy yet passable for the task at hand. Among them was the pale girl with the limp and the cane, running her fingers along the hard outer shell of the clockwork giant curiously. She tapped at it in certain points with the tip of her cane, finger to chin as she contemplated something.

Near the front of the stage, the clock clicked to 9:50 AM. Time was short, and as Valen recited a few incantations under his breath directed towards the panicked beggars as his finger movements stopped, the more observant near the stage grew nervous and prepared for the worst.

The protective words from the shadow witch and the huntress made Chunji back off from Davil. If that's how they saw things, then very well. Accommodating personal feelings and encouragement was another method that cannot be disputed. It was a conflict of interest more than anything. With Otis's words of encouragement, Chunji decided it wasn't his business anymore. Since the 'leader' of this operation was more than capable of things, Chunji had no words of argument.

However, what the owl boy said before changed the Doctor's course of action.

'Very well.' A message from him came across through the connected mental web. Keeping his stoic guard up, Chunji casually passed off his fellow conspirators and started walking down the stage. Many of those who were vying for a seat came looking at him with expectations. Did they think that he went down to personally select them himself? No, Chunji gave off an icy impression if they got in his way and proceeded to head towards Rio's direction.

Oh, there was also the problem of the red-haired Levault from before. His mouth made out words for an incantation. For a moment, Chunji wondered if he should do anything. It didn't take long for Chunji to decide that someone else was better for the situation he was in. The knight seemed agitated by the presence of Levault, so the armored figure was probably going to do something about it. As he passed by the swarm of students, he gave the limbing girl a glancing look before returning his gaze to his destination.

Chunji looked down at the Rio and his unconscious friend. In an awkward silence, Chunji just stood there and said absolutely nothing for the next few seconds. Then he spoke up. "That's not how you wrap bandages." Kneeling down the two, Chunji performed a simple diagnosis over the elf's body. Multiple injuries all over her body, perhaps a fractured bone, and even a broken bone at worst. With that being said and done, Chunji went to perform basic first aid procedures.

Securing the bandages and applying disinfectant across the elf's injuries, next was to address the broken bones. Chunji wasn't equipped to handle such severe injuries, and his magic was insufficient. Despite this, his next actions were quick and precise without fail. Creating a makeshift splint, Chunji gently laid her down on the ground. It was easier on the body that way. After putting on the makeshift splint, he didn't turn to Rio but still spoke. "That should suffice until she gets further medical attention." The elf would still possibly suffer a concussion when she woke up, but that was all Chunji could do at the moment.

With that out of the way, he looked back to where Valen was. "I'd suggest utilizing your ethos at this moment. The man over there seems to have amused himself by casting a spell." A destructive one at that. Now that Chunji was out of position, the spell may harm him now that he was in range of it.

Wingram Academy, Auditorium
@Nanaya @ERode @Psyker Landshark @Sifr @AThousandCurses

---

"Begging is beneath you. All of you."

Cira's face turned towards the knight, a mesmerized, Hungry glimmer in her eye.

"It's all the more tasty when it speaks like that." said a Voice.

Her eyes burned, still aflame from her feast on near-empty Mannekin. Everything was tastier now, her Hunger pangs were stronger from the lack of satisfaction, causing the knight to burn and glow temptingly in Ciara's eyes.

Her lips pursed. "We aren't going there."

"We'll see." Was all the Voice replied.

Ciara's gaze turned Otis, cataloging the students so, then to the hunter and the analyst, locked in an intense stare with each other. Then, the analyst walked away, shaking off the shadow gripping his wrist. Ciara sighed and gave Davil a once-over. He seemed fine, no worse for wear. Good.

Her attention turned to the hunter, who was now standing on her other side without the analyst blocking the view, and gave a friendly nod. "You're quite admirable. I'm Ciara."

"You have truly brought the best of us forward with this request, chaff."

Valen mocked her as he sat on his throne. She knew exactly why. The swarm of students that crowded around her area of the stage... were not the virtuous souls they claimed to be. She looked at them with disgust, watching the lies spew from their lips as dark, sludge-like auras and ashy grey lights greeted her. Totally inedible. Entirely unappetizing. Completely unacceptable.

Briefly, in the back of her mind, she considered the possibility that Valen's eyes might be as good as hers. However, judging from their actions, shoving one another to be the closest to her made it obvious.

Yes, the truth was obvious.

"All of you are a disgrace. None of you... not a single one of you holds a candle to the virtue of my companion. Your lies... make me sick."

"I can only wonder how this resolves. Go on." Valen's mutterings behind her. She turned, taking in his bored expression. The symbols he was drawing were similar to what Otis had once drawn. She was no expert when it came to the arcane-

"He's gonna kill them." The Voices informed matter-of-factly.

Her eyes narrowed, staring a bit harder at the noble. Just how dark was his aura to do something like that?

"Better for us."

A tip-tap of coldness crawled up her shoulders, her spine.

"What's a little less darkness and ash in the world? Not enough Light is here anyway."

She could feel cold hands pressing around her neck.

"It's better like-"

Maybe it really was better like-

"-this. It's... It's..." Ciara snapped into focus, feeling her apparition's hands around her throat. Quickly, she snarled, locking eyes with it before her shadow vanished from sight. The Voices almost had her, almost convinced her of something so dark, so awful, to even consider it-

Her eyes snapped onto Valen.

She almost stood by and let this boy kill a bunch of students just because of her passing disgust.

She vanished, reappearing in the shadow behind Valen's throne. Her hand was gripped around a gleaming silver dagger, the sharp point pressed lightly against the jugular of Valen's throat.

"Cancel the magic. Now." There was a hard edge in her voice.

She had to... She had to prove to herself she wasn't what they wanted her to be.

At least her words had an effect on some of them. Iraleth afforded those particular prospectives a nod of respect. Sometimes, all it took was to inspire people to act how they otherwise wouldn't have the courage or wherewithal to. Though others were still bragging and boasting. Lying, if she were feeling particularly cynical. Of the remaining beggars, a good portion were backing away slowly, fearful. Why?

Iraleth followed their gazes, and her narrowed gaze turned into an outright glare as she beheld Valen Leuvalt lazily preparing a Fireball spell. Arcane magic wasn't her own forte, but she had been trained to at least recognize the tells for the most common spells among the disciplines.

Was he insane?! At least that frilly half-elf girl left her victims alive, if just barely. A charged fireball? It would be base slaughter, nothing more. Damn her fatigue. Damn the plan. Damn the others. If none of them were going to try to avert this madness, she would. Iraleth grit her teeth and yanked her sword out of the floorboard it was planted in, whirling around to point the tip straight at Valen's chest.

To her pleasant surprise, the shadow witch was apparently thinking much along the same lines as her. Another point towards her not being malicious. Iraleth gave Ciara a minute nod before fixing her gaze back onto the Leuvalt boy, preparing to devote herself towards a round of combat she likely didn't have a chance of succeeding in. But she had to try.

"Agreed. I refuse to let you commit a massacre. If you have even a shred of vaunted Nero's integrity, you will stand down, Leuvalt."

@Estylwen

@Estylwen@ERode@Sifr@Psyker Landshark@AThousandCurses

AUDITORIUM

Rio glared daggers at Chunji, but nevertheless let him work on Chloe's wounds. "I'm not exactly medically trained, here. My efforts're already being stretched pretty thin as it is, and quite frankly I'm just..." Upon trailing off, the boy turned his head to the side with the click of his tongue and his fist against the wall. Averting his gaze from Chunji, he stared into the brick patterns his hand bruised against, frustration as clear as day across his features. "Thanks."

The would-be defender then turned his attention back to the stage as the tension was brought to a boil, looking upon Valen with feral fury. "You just make sure Chloe stays safe from the weirdos around here. Guess I'll use what's left. Here I was thinkin' I was through the worst of it." The sound of something snapping inside of Rio's body rang out - his shielded phantom appearing at his side instantaneously. "This is gonna hurt, but... hell with it. Third Shield: Repel!"

As those words were uttered, Rio kicked one of the shields on his own Ethos-summmoned phantom. For a moment, he seemed trapped in stasis, held in place mid-motion. Then in the next, he was rocketed backwards like an arrow loosed from a master archer, clearing the distance of the auditorium in seconds as he tumbled, rolled and landed on his feet in front of the crowd - in front of Valen, looking up at him from below. The arrowlike boy raised both his hands in front of him, breathing heavily and bleeding profusely while locking eyes with the throned noble. This would happen moments after Ciara and Iraleth had also arrived with their own interceptions. "I'm ready for the rematch right now, shithead. Believe it or not, I'm at the top of my game right now - you've never seen me this powerful. Same goes for these other do-gooders, I'd wager," Rio would speak breathlessly, more cuts seeming to open across his exposed skin as seconds passed, as if simply standing here now was injuring him. Those knowledgeable in the basics of essence would recognize this as a telltale sign of what professionals call 'rebound', in which an essence user's body begins to shut down from the inside and out simultaneously after prolonged overexertion of essence manipulation.

Nevertheless, Valen took all of this in, and slowly looked upon his assassins with neutrality - or the most he could look upon them, with the current and very sharp restrictions upon himself in place. A glass of wine dangled in his other hand, though it was unknown when it had arrived. His incantations had ceased the moment that the trio was upon him, though he looked none the worse for wear emotionally. His eyes first met Iraleth, unrelenting steel in those orbs. "Ah, 'vaunted' Nero, is it? And all of his integrity, cast to the pits of Kazaar-knows-where, brought to ash by found family. Or, I suppose, Astra-knows-where is more fitting in this day and age, yes? After all..."

The glowing patterns in the air in front of him faded, the spell canceled.

"After all, it is us Leuvalts who have dictated history's course not once, but twice. Though Nero and Klara were each foolish enough to abandon their family in pursuit of such things. Both dying young, both giving themselves up to what they believed was a higher calling. Both... having tragically never found the peak of their potentials. Gods, they could have been; not weak whispers on the wind like dear young Astra born out of Klara's desperation, but true and feared powers."

And then, his focus met Ciara.

"Shadow magic, is it? I suppose Vaal Shakta is more lenient with practiced Umbralists, but I was not aware that the good Verne lacked the sense to ship your ilk off to Mirris. Hero King Theodore would light ablaze at the notion of Umbralists in plain sight, all too willing to slash you through with the famed Mortalion. I suppose the world is changing with each passing day, and we now find ourselves united: those that worship the Leuvalts and those that worship dark art madmen like First Shepherd Meer in the same halls, blades trained at the same enemies."

He would sip upon his wine, were he allowed at this point. Savoring the flavor, looking into his own reflection in the burgundy liquid. For the first time, a 'true' smile had graced his features. It wasn't one of joy, but gave off the aura of a man who had found twisted pleasure in the words he had just spoken, reflecting on them and finding comedy in this moment in which many threatened his life.

"Am I so wrong, perhaps, for wishing to see who would break or even perish at something so simple as a puff of smoke not fit to light House Leuvalt's estate torches?" His every word and expression was mechanical and pointed, giving no care for what others thought of his musings.

"Yet rejoice, brave heroes. The combined might of three whelps, dead on their feet with not even a pulse to sustain them momentarily, has stayed my hand this day. I merely wished to see what the response would be. A jape, in the tongue of you commonfolk."

"Hildegunde, and likewise," she greets back simply, giving a brief smile to the shadow witch before going back to quietly observing.

There was much to behold.

Chunji's approach and aid of the half-elf.

The various tall tales of desperate students.

Fingers dancing in the air idly.

Trigger met index as soon as Hildegunde noticed the the hand motions. She wanted to give no warning. The others had done that enough. If he dies shocked to his core by a sudden bullet to the brainstem, all the more fitting for this pompous prick. All she would have to do was pull.

But blessed be her comrades, for she makes one for Ciara. She hardly knows the girl, but there's something uniquely irritating about this man that makes her quick to defend. Even if he had stopped the spell momentarily, Hildegunde doesn't trust him not to try anything else.

"Umbralist or not, fuck around and you will find out." Hildegunde's voice has a rare intensity to it, matching her piercing gaze and scowl. Her gun isn't pointed, but of course, it doesn't have to be if the situation calls for it. She seemed beyond caring herself what Valen thought; this was a warning first and foremost.

The situation was evolving in a favorable direction.

Valen Leuvalt was intent on portraying himself as the villain in all of this, the epitome of aristocratic pride and prejudice. Even if he had exaggerated things, he had still presented himself as the singular enemy to all other students here. By aligning against him, then, Ciara, Iraleth, and now Hildegunde, had all presented themselves as individuals who cared for their fellow students. Even students as rotten and pathetic as the lot that stepped forth with claims of virtue, and those three now became their champions. Otis would not have stepped forth, of course. A Fireball was one of the simplest destructive spells out there, a weapon that was only leveraged for mass destruction against the masses.

Against any competent student in the arcane studies, however, it was one easily severed. To perform such movements so slowly, to leverage it as only a threat, revealed the red-headed noble’s intentions. Otis would not have acted until the ignition. Otis too, cared not for the fates of swine.

But he would take a step forwards, nonetheless. The heel of his boot clacked with a resounding echo, the elevation of the stage he was on giving him the ability to look down upon Valen. Amber met crimson, distinct and divergent legacies intersecting upon the academy that unified all. The Strigidae had no words for him though, and after holding that gaze for a moment, it diverted towards the shield-summoner instead, the one that the bespectacled boy had held in such high regards.

“That is enough.”

The signs of rebound were evident. He clearly did not have an Ethos suited for transporting the incapacitated, not in the same way that Otis did.

“Take your seat and do with it what you will.”

And from the wings of the auditorium arrived a familiar form. A Mannekin, holding with it a wooden seat. Its limbs clicked and whirred, steel strings in its chassis guiding its motor movements with an artificial precision, as it strode towards Rio, lifting the seat out for him to take. The Strigidae’s silence had not just been one to impose pressure upon those desperate few, not just to categorize those who would make it, and those who would not.

He had been simulating the spellwork necessary to seize control of the Mannekins inside his own Workshop, repurposing them as servants who could retrieve those chairs for him. Hidden off in the back of the auditorium was that open Door, the cosmos from which the Mannekins that Ciara had thrown in returned, a new puppeteer grasping their strings.

“Little time remains. Those who remain incapable of acquiring a chair, form three orderly rows, and stay silent. Come up when your name is called. Your position in those rows do not matter, but if there is any effort to forcibly take a seat from those who were gifted one, I will cease this process until the perpetrator is removed from the premises. This goes for all further threats of violence and disruption.”

He had originally planned on simply arriving to the auditorium first and then barring all entrances with the entirety of the seats in the auditorium, the sort of scheme where by forcibly entering, the students would have destroyed their own chances of admission. It was only owing to his companions’ presence that Otis’s plan had diverged so much from its original form.

“And I will remind you. This year, you did not earn your seat. But if you fail here, next year you may be able to.”