Kronshi
Estylwen
OwO
Sky Blue
Remram
Half Pint
hanzo
Marik
Izurich@ERode
The small warehouse's only windows were thin and wide slits lining the upper end of the walls, looking more like the windows to a basement despite being far above ground. More than likely, it was simply to allow some light whilst dissuading would-be robbers from trying to scale up and over. Rain pattered against the mottled window panes that had rusted shut over the slits.
The ragged man scoffed, his cigarette bouncing in his lips. Slipping the pack back into his coat and taking a drag, he exhaled the white smoke out into the lounge, where it hovered for a half minute before disappearing into entropy.
"Not for this one, no," he scoffed again, "This one gets taken care of. I'm never worried about it falling into disrepair. No, I just needed somewhere to think by myself, out of the rain. It's been a weird feeling -this night," he explained. The man stood up and fixed his attire, wrapping himself up tighter in the cloth -he was clearly feeling cold- before sitting down again. "Usually I just curl up in a corner of the Dark City, but with this weirdness I didn't wanna risk the chance that I miss my exit in the morning. Always feels... claustrophobic when that happens."
"Was here earlier by myself, but I locked up when I went out to grab a bite. Guess I just wanted to keep it for myself then but... Couldn't leave someone out there in the rain. Glad I changed my mind, 'cause it looks like you really need a spot. Can't go home?" he asked, pointing towards Amaya's boiling kettle.
"Roland, by the way. Yours?" the man introduced himself. He took another drag, and was careful to keep the ashes he flicked within the confines of a grey-caked crystal ashtray. Despite his haggard appearance, there was an aura of peacefulness to him, if perhaps only by his cordial behavior and total lack of apprehension like most other (presumed) mages exhibited. His eyes did not focus, his posture did not tense, and most importantly there wasn't a hint of magic manifesting on or around him, readied to be loosed the moment Amaya made an aggressive motion.
The lack of tension became taught when a knock on the door rattled its metal frame. Roland turned his eyes towards the door.
"Ah, a packed house tonight I suppose. This one you may wish to be prepared for," he said ominously.
Amaya could feel it too -that behind the door stood something dangerous.
@Estylwen
With a strength borne of practice at this very feat, Isabella deftly hoisted the lifeless inmate's corpse onto her shoulders, and carried it out of the audience chamber. It was well twice her own weight, but she strode out without strain. The display, despite being both normal and expected, had always drawn the disgust of at least one or two members of the Household -especially those at the bottom- whenever it happened, but on this night their distraction left them wholly unperturbed. They remained in a deep contemplation, or otherwise blankly watched Reina suck away life without batting an eye.
The table remained placid even as Reina recruited Cygni and Erina to the task her cousin had suggested. None expressed any misgivings or doubts, even from the two now roped in. Cygni was as stone-faced as ever and Erina even smiled. Perhaps to her this was an opportunity and felt no shame in having being selected as punishment.
"Considering the mystery tonight, I am glad you would bring others with you," Leonus said, nodding sagely. "Tis' better to be cautious." Cygni stood from the table with a slow, respectful speed.
"Let us prepare the Dungeon quickly then. No time should be wasted. With Erina and I accompanying Reina, it would behoove us to add in a few more disciples to the ritual to ensure its maintenance," Cygni said. The room nodded and hummed in agreement. He turned to Reina, fingertips gently splayed on the table, and continued, "Whenever you are ready, Miss Reina, we shall attend your delve."
The meeting adjourned, and the heads dispersed throughout the estate. As most did not reside in the house naturally, there was a significant number of head mages loitering in the various lounges and living spaces, idling away with servants and siblings while the Dungeon was prepared. Such trivial rituals were beneath their character, and while they would be there to maintain its integrity they had little interest in forging the portal.
Deeper within the ancestral Asher estate, buried beneath stories of stone and dirt, younger disciples of the House wove their lesser skills together in generating a portal into the Labyrinth. Twelve robed men and women conspired with words and silence, and with gestures of hands, wands, and charms, as an inky black sphere coalesced slowly over the center of the room. Flickers of blue light cast by arcane torches fluttered shadows about the room, and a strange feeling of the world growing larger around oneself caressed at the skin, as if the air itself were distancing from one's body.
When at last the ritual was completed, the disciples' focus remained keen. The black sphere sharpened into edges, first as a many-faced prism, and then into a thinning square. The sides stretched down to the floor, forming an opaque door into nothing. The heads had by then filtered into the subterranean stony chamber, and took positions besides their accompanying disciples.
Cygni and Erina stood at either side of the murky door, awaiting Reina.
@OwO
The cheapness of the macaroni weighed on Hideji. He was no stranger to poverty meals, but having secured a better-paying lifestyle than 'obnoxious hustler' there came a better appreciation for nutrition and quality food. Macaron ate shit like he did in his youth, and despite having the money to bring something better than "Knack Mac n' Cheese", his restless timetable prevented him from doing so this time around. It would have to do. He just hoped she wouldn't snap and toss the bowl like other nights. Five dollars was five dollars.
With the noodles inefficiently strained of water and slathered in quickly-melting cheese dust, Hideji unslung the ragged apron and served a bowl to Macaron at the one table. He settle the bowl precariously at the edge; the rest of the table was crammed with useless junk and trash that he had no energy to move. Hideji handed the letter directly to Macaron, and made his way back to the kitchen to serve himself the rest. He would not sit with her.
"You know, other safehouses are even shittier than this, but since you're in here," Hideji stressed the subject, "The family scrutinizes it more. You could stand to do something, little lady."
The letter was nondescript but addressed to Tsune Kataoka in a handwriting that barely seemed manual. It was already open, but by Hideji's comments, Macaron could suppose that he had opened it to check for curses, and not actually read its contents. Once unfolded, the plain print paper wrote to Macaron:
If this letter does not reach its intended's eyes, you will not live long. Go ahead and run and hide, it's more amusing that way. To Macaron:
What is it you want? Money? A name? Everyone back? Sorry, I can't do that last one, but I figure it might be an answer. If you just want to be left alone and do whatever, I can understand that. If so it'd be difficult to convince you here. If that one is the case, you can just tear up the letter now. Bye!
Still reading? Then be at the Jebby Tim's on Falloway St. on the night of June 16th -the alley behind it, that is. You'll see the rift into the Dark City. From there head for the tags.
You were there for the massacre of the Kataoka's. I know. But I also know you weren't suppose to leave that scene. Death missed you, he told me.
A small scribble of a winking face finished the sentence before continuing:
If you wanna be useful and may get things order, I can help, but I need your help as the anomaly you are. Be there or be
A word followed, but was utterly scribbled out. No effort was made to replace the final word, as if the writer had given up on trying to be clever, or otherwise forgot. The night, as it so happened, was the 16th of June. Auspicious.
@Kronshi
Adjust. Restart. Reconsider. Restart.
Ozymandias toiled away at the door, each time getting closer and closer to understanding the nature of that final lock; each time comprehending the meaning behind that cosmic ray that interfered. Once again he was upon the final step, and need only apply one final method. The metaphysical lock -invisible and intangible- began to turn slowly, as if contemplating, taunting, whether it wished to humor Ozymandias. It was almost there... almost there...
Restart.
The ray struck again, and the door's locks all snapped back into place. But... it was plainly evident then that for all of the seemingly random and inexplicable nature of that cosmic ray, Ozymandias was always getting closer. Surely this one last time...
"Struggling?" A small and feminine voice called out behind Ozymandias. Between him and his exit stood a short figure in a yellow raincoat, soaked and glimmering with water that yet still pooled around their feet. Coupled with the hood of the coat, their head was obscured by a cloudy-eyed gas mask. With the swiftness of a frontier gunslinger, there was suddenly a firearm in their hand, held at hip and leveled towards Ozymandias.
A real gun was often useless against a mage, especially in a direct confrontation, and so it was incredibly likely that the object that this raincoat held was either enchanted or merely a conceptualization of something far more dangerous that Ozymandias was witnessing.
"Keep going. Faster. There's little time left," the raincoat said. The firmness of their aim did not waver. There was another howl in the distance. The sound of a child laughing echoed in his head, as if rebounding from the walls from its last manifestation.
@Remram
A row of metal fold-out chairs semi-neatly sat out before Mathias in the briefing tent. Four of them were occupied by familiar faces, but a fifth seemed lonely; a certain AWOL fifth teammate remained as missing as ever. The others were a chaotic group of maniacs that Mathias called his squad. It was an unspoken truth that those in the DSC were quirky in one way or another. Perhaps it was just the way of the world that the most colorful people in the military were the ones to become exposed to the Dark Sphere.
Dirk "Ogre" Caldren, a massive, down-to-earth man clad in modified bomb-defusal gear who preferred, paradoxically, to employ stealth magics. The armor was supposedly a ritualistic choice to "shield him wholly from reality".
Emma "Star" Norther, a bubbly young lady that loved to accessorize her gear, and carried with her a manifestation taking the form of a dog. It was, of course, no mere dog, as much as she treated it like one.
Jorgensen Bel, who simply went by his last name, cradled an enchanted M249 -one which he had modified himself from his time in the Marines. He was already well-aware of the Dark Sphere even prior to his enrollment into the DSC, but probably behaved the least posh among the squad, despite his belonging to a House.
Rafael "Glide" Cesar was a young Brazilian man adept with visionless targeting. The DSC remained regularly cautious of his ability to scry, for obvious reasons. His weapon of choice was a sniper rifle with preferentially intangible rounds. He was never without a raised hood and cloak.
The fifth, Jenny, had been AWOL for years, and written off as a loss with all searches ceased, but her relationship with the team and her abilities as a mage were never fully forgotten. The team had no questions, appearing fully onboard and understanding of the mission. It took little to get the squad rolling inside the semi-truck, wherein they situated themselves in the diminutive seats that hung by belts from the interior walls of the towed container. Ogre was, as usual, unsure of its ability to hold him and his armor up.
DSC protocols for manifesting Dark City gates large enough to allow the entry of vehicles as large as a big rig were a closely-guarded secret. Within the tow, Mathias and the others remained unaware of what the portal looked like as the truck was driven to a nearby location, but they could certainly feel it when they drove through the portal. An uncomfortable twisting in their guts, lasting nary a second, followed by the sensation of an aggravatingly large pothole under the truck's wheels. The squeal of brakes bringing the vehicle to a stop signaled it was time to exit. A security perimeter was to be established first before they continued any further within the Dark City's roads.
Emma shivered, stepping out onto the streets, her SMG hanging loosely at her side. Slung around her other shoulder was a portable dog bag, within which lay her compatriot.
"I've never gotten these vibes before here. Th'hells wrong with it? City upset?" she groaned. A monstrous howl at the moon sent the squad into caution.
The small warehouse's only windows were thin and wide slits lining the upper end of the walls, looking more like the windows to a basement despite being far above ground. More than likely, it was simply to allow some light whilst dissuading would-be robbers from trying to scale up and over. Rain pattered against the mottled window panes that had rusted shut over the slits.
The ragged man scoffed, his cigarette bouncing in his lips. Slipping the pack back into his coat and taking a drag, he exhaled the white smoke out into the lounge, where it hovered for a half minute before disappearing into entropy.
"Not for this one, no," he scoffed again, "This one gets taken care of. I'm never worried about it falling into disrepair. No, I just needed somewhere to think by myself, out of the rain. It's been a weird feeling -this night," he explained. The man stood up and fixed his attire, wrapping himself up tighter in the cloth -he was clearly feeling cold- before sitting down again. "Usually I just curl up in a corner of the Dark City, but with this weirdness I didn't wanna risk the chance that I miss my exit in the morning. Always feels... claustrophobic when that happens."
"Was here earlier by myself, but I locked up when I went out to grab a bite. Guess I just wanted to keep it for myself then but... Couldn't leave someone out there in the rain. Glad I changed my mind, 'cause it looks like you really need a spot. Can't go home?" he asked, pointing towards Amaya's boiling kettle.
"Roland, by the way. Yours?" the man introduced himself. He took another drag, and was careful to keep the ashes he flicked within the confines of a grey-caked crystal ashtray. Despite his haggard appearance, there was an aura of peacefulness to him, if perhaps only by his cordial behavior and total lack of apprehension like most other (presumed) mages exhibited. His eyes did not focus, his posture did not tense, and most importantly there wasn't a hint of magic manifesting on or around him, readied to be loosed the moment Amaya made an aggressive motion.
The lack of tension became taught when a knock on the door rattled its metal frame. Roland turned his eyes towards the door.
"Ah, a packed house tonight I suppose. This one you may wish to be prepared for," he said ominously.
Amaya could feel it too -that behind the door stood something dangerous.
@Estylwen
With a strength borne of practice at this very feat, Isabella deftly hoisted the lifeless inmate's corpse onto her shoulders, and carried it out of the audience chamber. It was well twice her own weight, but she strode out without strain. The display, despite being both normal and expected, had always drawn the disgust of at least one or two members of the Household -especially those at the bottom- whenever it happened, but on this night their distraction left them wholly unperturbed. They remained in a deep contemplation, or otherwise blankly watched Reina suck away life without batting an eye.
The table remained placid even as Reina recruited Cygni and Erina to the task her cousin had suggested. None expressed any misgivings or doubts, even from the two now roped in. Cygni was as stone-faced as ever and Erina even smiled. Perhaps to her this was an opportunity and felt no shame in having being selected as punishment.
"Considering the mystery tonight, I am glad you would bring others with you," Leonus said, nodding sagely. "Tis' better to be cautious." Cygni stood from the table with a slow, respectful speed.
"Let us prepare the Dungeon quickly then. No time should be wasted. With Erina and I accompanying Reina, it would behoove us to add in a few more disciples to the ritual to ensure its maintenance," Cygni said. The room nodded and hummed in agreement. He turned to Reina, fingertips gently splayed on the table, and continued, "Whenever you are ready, Miss Reina, we shall attend your delve."
******
The meeting adjourned, and the heads dispersed throughout the estate. As most did not reside in the house naturally, there was a significant number of head mages loitering in the various lounges and living spaces, idling away with servants and siblings while the Dungeon was prepared. Such trivial rituals were beneath their character, and while they would be there to maintain its integrity they had little interest in forging the portal.
Deeper within the ancestral Asher estate, buried beneath stories of stone and dirt, younger disciples of the House wove their lesser skills together in generating a portal into the Labyrinth. Twelve robed men and women conspired with words and silence, and with gestures of hands, wands, and charms, as an inky black sphere coalesced slowly over the center of the room. Flickers of blue light cast by arcane torches fluttered shadows about the room, and a strange feeling of the world growing larger around oneself caressed at the skin, as if the air itself were distancing from one's body.
When at last the ritual was completed, the disciples' focus remained keen. The black sphere sharpened into edges, first as a many-faced prism, and then into a thinning square. The sides stretched down to the floor, forming an opaque door into nothing. The heads had by then filtered into the subterranean stony chamber, and took positions besides their accompanying disciples.
Cygni and Erina stood at either side of the murky door, awaiting Reina.
@OwO
The cheapness of the macaroni weighed on Hideji. He was no stranger to poverty meals, but having secured a better-paying lifestyle than 'obnoxious hustler' there came a better appreciation for nutrition and quality food. Macaron ate shit like he did in his youth, and despite having the money to bring something better than "Knack Mac n' Cheese", his restless timetable prevented him from doing so this time around. It would have to do. He just hoped she wouldn't snap and toss the bowl like other nights. Five dollars was five dollars.
With the noodles inefficiently strained of water and slathered in quickly-melting cheese dust, Hideji unslung the ragged apron and served a bowl to Macaron at the one table. He settle the bowl precariously at the edge; the rest of the table was crammed with useless junk and trash that he had no energy to move. Hideji handed the letter directly to Macaron, and made his way back to the kitchen to serve himself the rest. He would not sit with her.
"You know, other safehouses are even shittier than this, but since you're in here," Hideji stressed the subject, "The family scrutinizes it more. You could stand to do something, little lady."
The letter was nondescript but addressed to Tsune Kataoka in a handwriting that barely seemed manual. It was already open, but by Hideji's comments, Macaron could suppose that he had opened it to check for curses, and not actually read its contents. Once unfolded, the plain print paper wrote to Macaron:
If this letter does not reach its intended's eyes, you will not live long. Go ahead and run and hide, it's more amusing that way. To Macaron:
What is it you want? Money? A name? Everyone back? Sorry, I can't do that last one, but I figure it might be an answer. If you just want to be left alone and do whatever, I can understand that. If so it'd be difficult to convince you here. If that one is the case, you can just tear up the letter now. Bye!
Still reading? Then be at the Jebby Tim's on Falloway St. on the night of June 16th -the alley behind it, that is. You'll see the rift into the Dark City. From there head for the tags.
You were there for the massacre of the Kataoka's. I know. But I also know you weren't suppose to leave that scene. Death missed you, he told me.
A small scribble of a winking face finished the sentence before continuing:
If you wanna be useful and may get things order, I can help, but I need your help as the anomaly you are. Be there or be
A word followed, but was utterly scribbled out. No effort was made to replace the final word, as if the writer had given up on trying to be clever, or otherwise forgot. The night, as it so happened, was the 16th of June. Auspicious.
@Kronshi
Adjust. Restart. Reconsider. Restart.
Ozymandias toiled away at the door, each time getting closer and closer to understanding the nature of that final lock; each time comprehending the meaning behind that cosmic ray that interfered. Once again he was upon the final step, and need only apply one final method. The metaphysical lock -invisible and intangible- began to turn slowly, as if contemplating, taunting, whether it wished to humor Ozymandias. It was almost there... almost there...
Restart.
The ray struck again, and the door's locks all snapped back into place. But... it was plainly evident then that for all of the seemingly random and inexplicable nature of that cosmic ray, Ozymandias was always getting closer. Surely this one last time...
"Struggling?" A small and feminine voice called out behind Ozymandias. Between him and his exit stood a short figure in a yellow raincoat, soaked and glimmering with water that yet still pooled around their feet. Coupled with the hood of the coat, their head was obscured by a cloudy-eyed gas mask. With the swiftness of a frontier gunslinger, there was suddenly a firearm in their hand, held at hip and leveled towards Ozymandias.
A real gun was often useless against a mage, especially in a direct confrontation, and so it was incredibly likely that the object that this raincoat held was either enchanted or merely a conceptualization of something far more dangerous that Ozymandias was witnessing.
"Keep going. Faster. There's little time left," the raincoat said. The firmness of their aim did not waver. There was another howl in the distance. The sound of a child laughing echoed in his head, as if rebounding from the walls from its last manifestation.
@Remram
A row of metal fold-out chairs semi-neatly sat out before Mathias in the briefing tent. Four of them were occupied by familiar faces, but a fifth seemed lonely; a certain AWOL fifth teammate remained as missing as ever. The others were a chaotic group of maniacs that Mathias called his squad. It was an unspoken truth that those in the DSC were quirky in one way or another. Perhaps it was just the way of the world that the most colorful people in the military were the ones to become exposed to the Dark Sphere.
Dirk "Ogre" Caldren, a massive, down-to-earth man clad in modified bomb-defusal gear who preferred, paradoxically, to employ stealth magics. The armor was supposedly a ritualistic choice to "shield him wholly from reality".
Emma "Star" Norther, a bubbly young lady that loved to accessorize her gear, and carried with her a manifestation taking the form of a dog. It was, of course, no mere dog, as much as she treated it like one.
Jorgensen Bel, who simply went by his last name, cradled an enchanted M249 -one which he had modified himself from his time in the Marines. He was already well-aware of the Dark Sphere even prior to his enrollment into the DSC, but probably behaved the least posh among the squad, despite his belonging to a House.
Rafael "Glide" Cesar was a young Brazilian man adept with visionless targeting. The DSC remained regularly cautious of his ability to scry, for obvious reasons. His weapon of choice was a sniper rifle with preferentially intangible rounds. He was never without a raised hood and cloak.
The fifth, Jenny, had been AWOL for years, and written off as a loss with all searches ceased, but her relationship with the team and her abilities as a mage were never fully forgotten. The team had no questions, appearing fully onboard and understanding of the mission. It took little to get the squad rolling inside the semi-truck, wherein they situated themselves in the diminutive seats that hung by belts from the interior walls of the towed container. Ogre was, as usual, unsure of its ability to hold him and his armor up.
DSC protocols for manifesting Dark City gates large enough to allow the entry of vehicles as large as a big rig were a closely-guarded secret. Within the tow, Mathias and the others remained unaware of what the portal looked like as the truck was driven to a nearby location, but they could certainly feel it when they drove through the portal. An uncomfortable twisting in their guts, lasting nary a second, followed by the sensation of an aggravatingly large pothole under the truck's wheels. The squeal of brakes bringing the vehicle to a stop signaled it was time to exit. A security perimeter was to be established first before they continued any further within the Dark City's roads.
A full and yellow moon dominated the skies, as if a great eldritch eye surveying its domain. Dark grey and black concrete skyscrapers lined perfectly straight streets. Their windows were alight, as if occupied by late-night office workers, but it was all a lie. Nothing of humanity lived here besides their expectations and facsimiles of livelihood. Unlike every night before, the Dark City then felt warped and strange, as if faces were looking out upon them from within those glass windows.
Emma shivered, stepping out onto the streets, her SMG hanging loosely at her side. Slung around her other shoulder was a portable dog bag, within which lay her compatriot.
"I've never gotten these vibes before here. Th'hells wrong with it? City upset?" she groaned. A monstrous howl at the moon sent the squad into caution.
