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Bwuh?! Why is her ass still in the hospital???

Outside of the obvious answer of her weird body thingy.
Fool. When American Thanksgiving ends, American Christmas begins.
I've been thinking of making a RP with a similar concept. Nice to see I don't have to now.
The Clandestine will be cooking something in Hathforth relatively soon. If anyone wants their NPCs to be involved, just be ready for it. It'll be happening around the same time as the Althius raid and the Glasic Field poaching.
Man, you got me excited for a moment there, Est. Alas, Iraleth can only dream of choking Ciara again.
Huhuhu, minimal imagination needed.

I was waiting to claim the second page.

It was, of course, about the sword.

Amaya allowed Gerome and Roland to banter as she ate, one steady spoonful after another. It was more for sustenance than pleasure now, just fuel to get her through the next set of troubles that was undoubtedly unfolding before her. A mysterious, wealthy client who sought the assassination of a higher existence, for purposes yet unknown. A Dungeon, containing a creature that her sword could fell, yet that was beyond anything that anyone in the Dark City could yet comprehend.

And, of course, a reward in the promise of limitless funds…at least until Gerome cancelled the card.

The raven-haired woman finished the rest of her meal, washing down the teriyaki taste with the remains of her tea. She rolled her head from side to side, cracking her neck, her spine, her hips. Then, methodically, she put away her possessions once more. The spoon was licked clean and wrapped in a paper towel. The kettle was emptied into an aluminum bottle before being returned into her bag. And the bag she zipped up herself, removing a couple knick-knacks to jam into the pockets of her leather jacket before she turned to Roland.

“I’ll leave this here and pick it up after. Give three days before you think about selling it, ok?” She patted the bag, as if biding farewell to a friend, and then strode towards the projected entrance to the Dungeon. A shaft of light shone from the creases in her gloved hand, becoming material as she clenched her fist over it. The Bane of Demons, the Metric of Reality. A divine weapon to rend absurdities material.

Amaya let out a breath.

"Things are rarely so simple. Any consequences for failure?" A pause. "Assuming I survive that 'weakened being'."

"From me? None. I am hiring you, not punishing you, ma'am. You're only consequence besides a potentially pitiful death is that much less cash in your bank,"
Gerome said with closed eyes. "And I suppose perhaps my disappointment."

“I can live with that.”
Amaya popped an earbud into her left. “I’m good for money though, Gerome. If you’re the knowledgeable type, I’d rather ask a couple questions instead.”

Her boots approached the precipice now. Mages from Houses earned their Crafts through study and meditation, communal knowledge that spanned generations, but for freelancers like herself?

Violence was the only way to gain what was needed to survive the Dark City.

“See you.”

Step through.
Pew pew.

"Did I stutter?"

There was an edge of irritation in Otis's tone as Chunji decided to completely ignore what he had said. What was so difficult about keeping Davil stable? Did essence exhaustion affect the bespectacled idiot's ears as well as his eyes? But what was done was done. Even though the Strigidae had prepared to begin running tests to test his hypothesis, he had to admit that Chunji's Ethos was faster. It was some form of poison after all, one that was traveling from the stomach to the heart at a rate that was nevertheless much slower than the flow of blood. It wasn't spreading or diffusing in the way that Otis himself would have expected; the manner in which it traveled was unnatural.

In which case, even the stagnation of blood-intake and essence-recovery were just side-effects meant to distract from the real issue: the stagnation of the heart lead to reduced heart rate, which would ultimately cause a cardiac arrest. Fatal, certainly. Or, if it could corrode metal, perhaps it would melt through the heart upon arrival, after having suppressed its 'corrosion' essence up to that point?

Hmph.

That was the problem with cultists. They spent too much time on theatrics without considering practicality. Otis himself could probably concoct a faster-acting poison that was just as lethal. As for coming up with an antidote for one though...

"I don't have a procedure. I'm not a doctor." His tone was flat. "Go find Doctor Kann and let him know what we found. I'll look into the foreign substance further."

It was no longer a needle in a haystack. Now that Otis was aware of exactly what and generally where the unnatural substance was, he could do a refined search. Murmured incantations clarified the nature of the world around him as he dove into the sea of essence that comprised a human being. The world was made of essence, and everything contained essence, but if that substance was only partially melded into Davil's blood, then it should still have a distinct outline. Two human beings hugging each other did not become a singular entity when viewed through a mage's eyes. A spear became a stick and a steel piece, if one changed their perspective.

They needed to learn more.

And Otis loved learning.

...

That being said, he did have at least one procedure in mind.

They could exsanguinate Davil until that poison was drawn out. Worldly problems were answered with worldly solutions, after all.
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