[@Estylwen][@ERode][@Sifr][@Psyker Landshark][@AThousandCurses]

[b][h3]AUDITORIUM[/h3][/b]

[i]Gulp.[/i]

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 [i]most[/i] 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.