[@AThousandCurses]

[b][h3]WINGRAM CLINIC[/h3][/b]

The receptionist, with a furrowed bro, took to the clinic's terminal and furiously tapped away at it, shaking his head. "I've been the one on shift all day, and I recall no such interaction with Davil Wund, nor was he noted as having been discharged. Were he truly to have left, I have no memory of it," he would state, looking towards Chunji with harrowed eyes as he left.

As the projection of Davil was followed, the phantom darted down a nearby alleyway, seeming to pick up speed with each step. He appeared to sprint towards a dead end at the back of the alley, before seeming to tackle and pin someone against the wall - someone no longer present, and who would not appear in the projection. Davil would seem to throw a punch in frustration, then look down as if having floored the person struck. 

Davil's projection would then turn around, staring dead ahead at something, before unclenching his fists. All at once, the phantom would begin to dematerialize, breaking apart like cracked glass, before vanishing entirely from Chunji's view. From where Davil's phantom stood, there would be a small crack in the stone and the faintest trace of burn marks. Apart from that, the alleyway appeared empty.

[hr]

[@ERode]

[b][h3]CLOTHIER DE HRUNTING[/h3][/b]

Scuzzy dashed back and forth to assemble the various materials requested. Typically, a high-end fabric store of the Union - or really any store that wished to stay afloat within its borders - would employ familiars or conjured creations to see to the labor and customer service side of things. It was unusual for modern consumer culture, but Scuzzy's style of tending to each order by himself certainly harkened to a more traditional age. It would be more common to find this approach in Mirris or an old-fashioned family shop in Seer's Loft, but the hustle and bustle of Union culture often marked such an approach to business as a death sentence. Yet here, in this humble academy city, a traditionalist like Scuzzy could even thrive amidst quieter days.

Wiping sweat off his brow, the goblin waddled back to the register with all the requested materials bound and packaged, including the strip of Z5. "Should aaaaall be there, gold thread included," he'd mutter, catching his breath, thankful that the huffing and puffing of spiced lamb and potato breath was masked by the menagerie of perfumes within these walls.

"That'll come to... 10 gold, after the half-off discount. Hefty price still, I realize, but the Z5 really contributed there. Hope you're still good for it, champ. And, uh..."

Looking at Chloe's damaged dress once more, he'd tap at it for effect. "Lemme know if you find out what the deal with this thing is. Why its weaver decided to disgrace it so. Absolutely baffling," he'd scoff, folding his arms as if in defiance of the very thought of its making.

[hr]

[@Estylwen]

[b][h3]WINGRAM LIBRARY[/h3][/b]

Ciara would hear an exhale from behind her as she walked away - perhaps relief, or simply frustration, if not both. As she approached the checkout desk, Michael's goofy smirk with a half-cracked volume of 'The Shoguknights' seemed to show his blissful ignorance of the situation, feet once more kicked up on the desk as he stared up at her. With a nod, he scanned his eyes over the book she held, once more returning to a more normal sitting position as he tossed aside his comic. 

"That all for today? Satisfied with the selection, from whatever ya ended up pickin' out?" He grabbed the book and turned it towards the checkout desk's Adapa, a blue light scanning over its surface as he sat there. "Nowadays, lots of people prefer the comforts that essence-based reading can bring. 'Course, not even the capital's selection is complete, and I'm always a sucker for physical books any day."

The cloaked janitor would hand Ciara's book back to her after the scan was complete and registered, alongside a ping from her own Adapa. "You'll be gettin' a notification that this thing's due back on the 24th of the month, and its condition's been recorded in case of tampering or damage. Not that anyone thinks students'll get up to any funny business, but if it's altered in any way from when it was taken out, down to the most insignificant mote of essence manipulated, the system'll know."

Once more sliding the Shoguknights comic into his hands and kicking his feet up on the desk, he gave Ciara a cheery smile and a nod, tipping his hood towards her. "Best of luck with it, though! This school's here to raise some ass-kickers, so best get to kickin' ass. The ones like you takin' the initiative outside of class are gonna be the ones that make it, I say. Magic ain't mandatory, of course, but it can't hurt to know a little about a lot."

[hr]

[@Psyker Landshark]

[b][h3]WINGRAM CHAPEL OF ASTRA[/h3][/b]

A faint wind blew through the chapel, uncharacteristically warm for the time of year, and almost began to hover near Iraleth and the altar. It was unclear whether it was a simple gust of wind, essence manipulation or the presence of something divine itself, but a feeling of oneness would nevertheless take over the building. Astra's calling was that of justice for the weak following the end of the apocalypse, and were this to be interpreted as a sign from Astra itself, was Ciara the 'weak' in question, or the one whom justice must be delivered upon? Iraleth was not one of the Antecedes, those Astra-devout archers so infamously respected and despised for their merciless shots that struck true with the winds of the shadowslayer, those who saw the world in brackets of Astra's pure love and deepest hate for others that once more threatened its safety. Though a paladin obligated to defend the weak and strike down evil, her duty thankfully never veered so deep as to force her along the path of an Antecede.

Perhaps that faint wind that now left through the other end of the chapel served as a brief reminder in these moments of thought; that unlike others along Astra's path such as those zealous archers, she still possessed a choice as to how much blood stained her hands. Apart from the wind's fickle calling, she was truly alone in this decision as she prayed and made her preparations.