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3 yrs ago
Current Shilling a good medieval fantasy: roleplayerguild.com/topics/…
3 yrs ago
Don't mind me. Just shilling a thread: roleplayerguild.com/topics/…
3 yrs ago
So worried right now. My brother just got admitted to the hospital after swallowing six toy horses. Doctors say he's in stable condtion.
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3 yrs ago
Nice to meet you, Bored. I'm interested!
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3 yrs ago
Ugh. Someone literally stole the wheels off of my car. Gonna have to work tirelessly for justice.
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Bio

Oh gee! An age and a gender and interests and things. Yeah, I have those. Ain't no way I'm about to trigger an existential crisis by typing them all out, though. You can find out what a nerd I am on discord, okay?

Stay awesome, people.

Most Recent Posts

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In theory, I'm down to bring the Sparlings back.


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Q U E E N O F D I A M O N D S : A C T T W O



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After some... unexpected adventures during the day, the Queen of Mycormii attends a ball in her honour, her secret safe with Desmond, for now. Three escorts attend with her, each possessing his own agenda. First, there is the Tarlonese operative, Chad'amis'yida'thala, an enemy kept closer and a test of Tarlon's boundaries. Yet, he proves more interested in chasing Hylaenii's ladies in waiting. The second is Yvain de Berbignon, and both power and intrigue swirl about the proud Perrench royal in equal measure. Surely, he will follow up on the cryptic invitation that the young monarch received during her luncheon in the park. Finally comes Niallus Saberhagen, a stalwart Eskandishman known for his blunt speech and protective ways. Yet, when an opportunity presents itself to win the queen's favour at the risk of inciting a diplomatic row, it is up to him to navigate it!




After a night of unforgettable fun, the visiting young monarch finds herself prodded and pampered by her chief advisor, Siimond, and straining at her leash. Endeavouring to be involved in everything herself, she manages to extract his blessing to attend an Eskandish-style festivity planned by Ingrid, along with the rough Ethnishman Tommy and the child prodigy Rikard. While her ladies scatter to the winds once they reach the festival, Tommy joins a religiously-inspired fighting tournament, and Rikard stands to potentially lose his (already dubious) innocence, a question from Ingrid leads her, the queen, and old Siimond on a journey through the past where they uncover a beautiful and possibly tragic love story, written by the hands of artists who lived long ago. Less expected is the deep personal connection that makes itself felt.



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Q U E E N O F D I A M O N D S : A C T O N E



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It is during the 'dog days' of Dorrad when a young queen comes to visit Ersand'Enise. She is Hylaneii'doren'ismax, newly-ascended monarch of Mycormii. The yasoi nation, once a major player in international politics, has all-but disappeared from the world stage for the better part of a century. Now, with the twin continents standing before a precipice, she arrives at the gates of the largest neutral player for a whirlwind four day visit in the hopes of... well, it isn't exactly clear. Intrigue follows her right from the start and it now falls to her royal honour guard - students chosen from the academy and near-peers with her in age - to get to the bottom of the mystery and protect the Queen from danger!




After the near miss of the Queen's arrival, fears abound for her safety and suspicions as to her motives hover in the background. She is both a maverick and - clearly - a target, and not only for assassination and blackmail. She is young, she is beautiful, and she is a reigning monarch, that is to say 'eminently marriageable'. Recovering quickly from her opening ordeal, Hylaenii sets out to dazzle her hosts and, they, her. She carries herself with such poise and charm that she seems almost to float as she walks, her great dress billowing out like a bell. For every comment, she has a witty rejoinder or some worthwhile insight, and yet... one can't help but sense that the woman has secrets. Perhaps one young potential suitor might reveal them...



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Epilogue: Part One

It had grown late. Before the nine students of Ersand'Enise knew it, the sun was sitting low in the sky, ready to impale itself on the towers of the White Walled city that cast such a long - and lengthening - shadow over this place. Perhaps they were more unified than when they'd started in this endeavour, bright and early the morning before. Perhaps they were less so. Truly, it was something only they could know.

Yet, the secrecy of things cut both ways, for the students could not have known the hearts of the Resistance. Perhaps they had drifted from their cause. Some had become little more than gangsters. Some, perhaps, believed fervently - enough to take extreme measures, for who can truly know the hearts of men and what they hold deep within, away from the sight of others, where not even magic can know all?

Days' travel distant lay the Realm of Parmoy, and it was now under the attack of the Grey Fleet: a relentless, ruthless force that churned up all those who resisted its march. Men, magic, and machines wound into that open sore, trying to staunch the bleeding, but also food, medicine, and the necessities of life. This was because of the Resistance. The cell in Ersand'Enise was but one of many, and its efforts kept those people alive.

Days passed, and then weeks, and Jaxan lent them his increasing aid. He found his sense of purpose and they did not, in fact, use his ability to generate aberrations as a form of revenue. Then, one day, he wasn't there. Instead, in his place, was a letter for the eyes of only Aras'thazan'in'tiimithal. It warned him of a vision. It warned him to run.

Finally, the layers of Jaxan's and his parents' relationship remained obscured in all but the broadest sense. The nine from Ersand'Enise could not have known the reasons behind Talthan and Emenii's lukewarm support for the Resistance. They could not have known the depth of the yasoi's disaffection with the nation of their birth and their belief in the victory, justice, and deliverance offered by its invaders. They could not have known, but Jaxan, at least, had suspected.



Epilogue: Part Two

The sun sat low in the sky, vast and reddening, like an overripe fruit. The people of Belleville bustled about the last of their daily errands, final deals being struck, smoke starting to issue from chimneys as dinner was prepared, shops shuttering for the evening, and crickets chirping in the long grass that eked out a living among the byways and alleys.

It was an innocuous part of this scene: a young man and a young woman - they could have been lovers, or perhaps siblings, or merely friends - walked down the Searoad, its swirling crowds paying them no manner of extra heed. They walked, and they talked. The young man turned and smiled towards the girl, her pretty red hair rippling in the evening breeze that graced the outside of the white walled city.

“Why did you spare the boy?” he questioned her, with an unfeigned curiosity. His tone was soft, and the man’s eyes met hers searching for an answer before she’d had the chance to respond.

The woman shrugged. It was an evasive gesture, though her answer was not. “He was… just so innocent, so nice.” She sauntered instead of walking, the sunshine warm and pink on her skin. “He’ll never grasp it and -” She sighed, twisting to regard him. “I didn’t wanna kill that goodness, I guess.” The walls of the city loomed before her: an impregnable white fortress she would never be allowed inside - never, in spite of the kind words of one young man who was. “We’re not the villains of this story.” She willed some certainty into it.

“That’s a fine reason, Cherii,” he uttered, wistfully looking up at the walls that were soon within reach, the end of the road. “The world is sometimes cruel and unfair, but that doesn’t mean we have to be.”

“But ruthless,” she replied. “We have to be ruthless.” Did her eyes flick his way? If they did, it was so brief as to be effectively imperceptible.

His gaze however, was steadfast upon the city - their city, if the ruthlessness they had to employ would deliver justice to them. “A loss of one thing, but in service of a greater gain.” He closed his eyes and exhaled, before looking toward her once more, his eyes shuttered windows to the soul that lay beneath. “Whatever we do, we do in service of a better world.”

She appeared to simply accept the statement and there was nothing more to it. “So, what happens next?” It was a simple question. The apple seller shook his head and sighed sadly “It’s better if you don’t know. Let us both spare some good in the world today.”

So it was that Cherii’cola’caliman passed from that meeting with her sense of goodness intact.



Epilogue: Part Three

“Before she’s here, we need to get our house in order.” Mycan locked the door and stood there at the top of the steps in silhouette. Uneasy glances were exchanged. Aras was poker faced, peeling an apple with his knife. He nodded, however.

“This again?” Naxen retorted. “Are we really about to open this can of worms and start pointing fingers at each other?”

“We six were the only ones who knew,” said Aras, breaking his silence, “so tell me, Naxen, how did they find it?” Mycan tilted his head and narrowed his eyes in a gesture universal to both yasoi and humans.

“It had to have been those greasy fucking Parmoyish!” declared Ashon.

“We never should’ve trusted them,” Miret agreed quickly.

“It’s that little psycho Eneden.” This, then, was Chasto, eager to shift suspicion. “I bet he’s struck a deal with the Hax’olop.”

“Or just taken it for himself,” Naxen snorted. “He would.” he shrugged.

On the eve of what might’ve been the most important thing to have ever happened to them, the Resistance Against the Tarlonese Invasion had just suffered a decimating setback. Eyes slid to the eldest of them, seated at the head of the table, eyes narrowed and arms crossed. He didn’t speak.

“They didn’t know which ship it was on,” countered Mycan. “They only knew it’d be arriving that day and that the crates would be marked.”

The old man scowled, taking out a dagger and spinning it idly but not absently on the tabletop. “One of you has betrayed us.”

What followed was an eruption of denials, protests of innocence crawling over each other like crabs in a bucket, desperate theories, excuses, pleas. Then, it happened: “Well, if it was anyone, it was Chasto! He’s Parmoyish!”

Nervous glances were exchanged. A handful of eyes went to Naxen. A new and dangerous door had been opened. “Convenient!” shouted the accused. “He who has been deflecting the most.”

“Isn’t your uncle baron of Yaruuma?”

“Aren’t you married to a Tarlonese!?”

“You never should’ve brought this up, Naxen. It makes you look suspicious.” The only woman among the group, Miret, spoke with cornered resentment.

Still, the knife spun on the tabletop. The old man watched it. He watched, and he listened.

“Nobody is a traitor,” insisted Mycan. “I truly believe they are not, but one of you spoke carelessly. One of you let something slip.”

The spinning blade on the table came to an abrupt stop, as the wizened man grasped it firmly. “Bullshit.” he spoke gruffly, and the arm holding the knife began to raise and point, before there was a stop. His mouth jerked open and three dark red specks - almost black - appeared on the tabletop. His eyes levered down to regard them with bemusement.

THUD



Epilogue: Part Four

Aras’ head dropped against the table and the knife clattered across the floor before it could be levied against the traitor. Foam and bile spilled from his lips as his ancient body slumped in his seat, lifeless.

Miret - the woman - let out a scream and could instantly feel their eyes upon her. Those darted around the room, now, a hornet’s nest disturbed - accusing, shouting silently, wide with shock and terror. “That doesn’t just happen randomly!” shouted Mycan. “One of you did -”

His eyes rolled back and filled with blood and he collapsed in a heap. “It was Naxen!” Ashon leveled a finger. “It was fucking Naxen! He’s been deflecting the whole time!”

“Yash spax!” shouted Naxen. “It’s someone else, trying to set us against each other!”

“Oh!” exclaimed Miret. now it couldn’t possibly any of us, now that it clearly fucking is! Very -”

“Ensa’Calop” whispered Chasto into the ear of Naxen from behind, before he began to throttle the man's throat with a full draw and a firm squeeze, making full use of his leadvein abilities.

Miret scrambled backwards, eyes wide. “It’s him. It has to be him!”

“What the fuck, Chasto? We don’t know if -” Ashon’s words were cut off by a scream as Chasto vomited up blood and fell backwards. It was all over his clothes, and Naxen’s, and the floor. Miret began running for the door. “It - it wasn’t,” Naxen tried. “I know how it looks but it wasn’t.”

“Help me, you stupid taca!” Ashon shouted at her, and she stopped at the base of the steps, coming about. Naxen threw up his hands defensively, backing away, but now they had him surrounded. “You traitorous piece of tiims’pax!”

The pair closed in on the traitor and there was naught he could do. His clothes were covered with blood, and his throat was so damaged that he could barely speak more desperate pleas to them. Ashon kicked his former - false - comrade to the ground and Miret finished the job, a clean stomp to the head, ending the man’s life.

They regarded each other for a moment, chests heaving, hands trembling. They hadn’t even taken in the room yet, perhaps because they knew and could not bear to look. Miret broke first, her lip trembling, tears spilling down her cheeks. She stumbled toward him for an embrace, but Ashon seized up, taking a step back and shaking his head, dazed.

Immediately apologetic, for she needed him, in truth, he turned back to regard her. For a moment, he locked eyes with her and they were bloodshot, he noticed, bloodshot from the -

He turned and ran, taking the stairs two at a time as she expired behind him with a choked cry. The wood thumped beneath his feet and mortal terror propelled him. The lock! The stupid lock wouldn’t - there it was! He rattled it open and it swung and -

For a moment, Ashon thought he felt a tingle behind his eyes.

An apple - partially peeled - rolled off of the table when something thumped against it. It landed on the floor and rolled some more, soaking up the blood of the Resistance and going still.



Ransom Demand: Fin.




It was late on a Taldes afternoon. Light streamed in through the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows of Arc-en-Ciel Hall and the footfalls of High Zeno Tannifer Marbrand clicked forbiddingly on the parquet as she walked. Two others scampered along in her wake, bringing her the day's final briefing before she headed home.

"We've received another request for information on the Kavanaugh boy."

"Who's sending all of these in? I thought he wasn't supposed to matter!"

"According to his documentation, he has a rather large... family."

"So it's all of his degenerate relations, then?"

"No, ma'am. I doubt they'd be literate enough anyhow."

"Well, then who? For the love of Shune..."

"Yesterday, it was a milliner from the Crafters' Quarter and an arms manufacturer from outside the walls. The day before, it was an accountant at Sealy's, a master of the tailor's guild, and the madam of a local brothel."

"And today?" inquired Tannifer Marbrand, eyebrow arched.

"It was a little girl named Genevieve Marais, from the Workman's Quarter."

"Yes, the one who lost her legs in that awful mess last year." The zeno considered. "And who was the first?"

"That would be one..." Marcel flipped through his little book. "Isabella Lowell, a student at the academy."

"The clothing designer?"

"Yes, ma'am. Originally registered as 'Moriarty', but she appears to have married. Enthish, I believe."

"But really, Dolores?" Tannifer rolled her eyes. "I should bloody well hope that I, of all people, would recognize an Enthish name."

"As you say, milady. Apologies."

"It's not for you to apologize for, Marcel," she huffed, but then she batted any further conversation on the topic away. "And she was the first and it was just the once, hmm?"

"Apologies Miss Marbrand," mewed Dolores. She bowed in deference. "She was the first - a tethered girl - waiting in Balthazar for most of the day. She came again the next."

"And nothing else?"

"Well," Marcel added mysteriously, "Until today."

"Out with it then, Marcel!"

"Sh-she came again today to inquire about Desmond Catulus."

There was a long, vexed sigh. "The mercenary?"

"The same, ma'am."

Her face settled. "Very well. Let me handle her."






T H E D A Y T H E M U S I C D I E D



It was dark and the water sparkled with moonlight. Kaureerah rode out on a small boat - just her and Tku - and it all seemed so unreal, so unnecessary. She had run from her home, but it hadn't been cowardice. She'd tried - gods how she'd tried - but they'd been determined to remain thralls and suffer in silence for someone else's sin. The options had been to remain there and live under her people's disdain and suspicion, or to risk running for the kekars' world and living as an outsider, but at least one who might make a mark, who might be accepted in some way.

Is that why I'm here? So people might accept me? The wind whipped her hair about and she spared a glimpse back at Tku, dismissing the thought for now. If she was not so very strong in the Gift, she was good with this particular aspect of it, and the boat moved quickly within the grasp of kinetic magic. Further she went from shore and she breathed in the tropical nighttime air, finally somewhat cooler, just for the breeze.

The waters below were not empty, however. She could feel, in their depths, how they churned with life. Some was the assortment of fish, corals, and molluscs one might expect, but most was something different: the writhing, gnashing hunger of hundreds of boat-sized threshers. Most were preoccupied with a different sort of hunger, but they were aggressive, they were strong, and at least three were coming for their boat at present. "Tkoo," Kaureerah said, "Eye need yoo too meynteyn aur speed."

She reached out once more with her senses. She knew the beasts of the sea, even if these ones were less familiar. They used sound and magnetism to navigate, and she was a master of the first. Switching positions with Tku, she dipped her hand, trailing, into the water. She cupped it in a specific way, and then fed the current into it. The sound that emanated was scarcely audible to human ears, distinctly audible to hers, and outright alarming to those of the threshers. The response was immediate: wherever they were, they jerked and spasmed and shot away. The three closing in on the boat turned back. Concentrating for the next minute or so, she continued to send out that pulse and it continued to do its work.

And then, as a great, sharp-prowed Tarlonese thiis'elaaz neared, she and Tku were alone again with the wind and the waves and the moonlight, the occasional spray of water dappling the eeaiko's clothing. Certainly, they exchanged a few nervous words. She helped the artist rehearse a couple of his lines. The Tarlonese ship approached and, once more, Kaureerah cupped her hand and let out a pulse of sound to drive the threshers back with discomfort. Sometimes, animals could be allies and even friends. Sometimes, just like people, they would not.

She remained behind as he climbed aboard. These Tarlonese were not friends; they were representatives of a tyrannical empire, no different from the Virangish who extorted these islands because they could. Yet, both were 'allies' and, the more that Kaureerah sat in that boat, bobbing tethered to a warship, the more that she soured on it. Two years ago, as some inconsequential water girl trying to find her way in the inland world, singing little songs and selling her body for money, she had spoken with people who thought that they could change things, who were trying to change things. She had agreed to help them, but what had she done? Truly, what difference had she made?

Always, she thought, we sacrifice the future for the present, forgetting that today's present was yesterday's future. On, she thought, and on the cycle goes and we tell ourselves that we had to, that we're moving in the right direction, that next time will be better. She had committed and would not try to change matters now. Against her growing disgust, she would hold her nose and watch her allies work with tyrants to help these people perpetuate their own oppression. This would be the last time, however. She swore it to herself, sitting on that bobbing boat, impotent and irrelevant. She loved life. She wished for peace, but this was running: this was what it looked like.

There, on the tropical atoll of Moatu Suva, one warm dorrad night, something broke inside of Neki Kaureerah Wenhan and not all the glue nor magic in the world might fix it. Perhaps it was her idealism, or it might've been her silence, for she was a maker of songs that had always said nothing. But... maybe it was her consent - her willingness to dully accept things the way that they were and do nothing. Fighting for a better world sometimes requires one to punch up at the giant instead of down. She sat there in a boat and breathed unsteadily in and out. Her fingers curled into her palms and her hands turned into fists.







They had sensed her and, from this, there could be no return. The door did not open to their knocks but, to their surprise, Ashon, Abdel, and Johann found it unlocked and beckoning them inside. The house was dark and dingy, curtains drawn, visibility minimal. There was some nice furniture, but it was worn and, in some places, damaged. Recent attempts at cleaning could not mask the deep-set stench or neglect and, a keen eye would notice signs of a recent altercation: a chair missing a leg, a shattered glass lantern swept into a corner, a door restored unexpertly to its hinges with fresh nails, bracing beams, and putty. Only light or a very keen sense for chemical magic would reveal the bloodstains.

Then, she was there: the one-legged woman who had to be the Tarlonese agent. She was young - no older than Ashon - and pretty, with freckles and long ever-so-slightly wavy red hair, big grey-blue eyes, and a lithe, athletic figure. There was no missing her dishevelled look, however. Her hair was greasy, hastily swept back, and there were bags under her eyes. A ragged rip showed along one flank of her shirt, and the singular knee of her shiny black tights. She was seated on an easy chair, regarding the interlopers warily. She had been so still as to have gone unnoticed at first. "I guess it was only a matter of time," she said, in a distinct Tarlonese accent. "You know, he didn't give me a choice. Please don't be like him." She was, for anyone who might've recognized her, Thantra'luuren'woi'etaar. She was, for anyone who might've recognized it, brimming with recently-drawn energy.

Niallus, meanwhile, had rebuffed the Resistance's attempt to establish trust and rushed off to pursue a woman who he was certain was Cherii'cola. Upon losing her trail, he had given up and now found himself trying sneak into what had been offered freely and declined. The moment that he made for the basement door, he found at least four sets of eyes on him. “That's the Tansoan Culture Club down there, elar,” said one of the people at the tables, firmly. “You need to be a member to enter.”

Dory and Lunara stood there on a small street just off of the Searoad, at loggerheads. The latter had ruined a plan of the former with her intervention, and Dory was busy silently resenting her for it. Lunara found herself suspicious of the apparent victims of a yasoi attack. They glanced at each other, the first only responding once his partner was fully healed. If Dory had been a pleasant surprise, this one reeked of Ersand'Enise, the way she questioned them. "Just scaring some Resistance spook outta here." He shook his head. "Ever since the knife-ears started pouring in, they've brought their crime and addiction and filth to our neighbourhoods," confirmed the second. "Not even safe for my sister and her kids to go out without an escort anymore." The first man nodded. "We're keeping the place safe, and your friend here helped us." He shot Dory a tight, appreciative smile. This, then, was where they stood.

The other girls, meanwhile - Xiuyang, Oksana, and Seviin - were not standing at all. After darting and dodging through the busy streets in the shadow of the White Walls, they arrived barely more than a minute after the boys, having seen their allies and counterparts enter the row house as they were still hurrying towards it. They had Maribet with them and, if partially recovered from her stupor upon breaking through her conversion disorder, she was still in something of a haze and vulnerable. More importantly, perhaps, they possessed vital information that Abdel, Johann, and Ashon did not. The former - the only one who might recognize Thantra - was just ahead of them with his skuggvars, reaching out with his senses as they arrived. Whether or not they were too late remained to be seen...

The final chapter of Ransom Demand begins now!











The remains of the warehouse still smouldered, its charred timbers poking up from the ground like cruelly amputated reminders of the encounter's violence, ashy smoke boiling off into the night air, and a severed support beam glowing with residual heat. Yet, thanks to the last-second intervention of Seviin, Xiuyang, Johann, and others, the damage to the surrounding neighbourhood was virtually nonexistent. Locals who had run and hid in terror began to come out of the woodwork. As a soft rain began to coat the ground and wreckage, they gathered in curiosity, hovering nearby until the much-feared interlopers from the White-Walled City were gone. They soon progressed to poking around, and then looting and cleaning.

Some longer-term residents spoke of Moli's Emporium, the previous year: a local business and success story that had been ruthlessly attacked and obliterated by invaders from Ersand'Enise. The academy had later claimed the mission to be both humanitarian and focused on preventing the creation of dangerous and illegal weapons, and some of the locals had believed them, but most knew better. It was more of the same; someone in Mudville started to get big, to make their own way, to provide gainful employment, and the mages came out to crush them, for it was in the name: a place called 'Mudville' must never outshine the White-Walled City. However, the situation had changed since the arrival, in droves, of refugees from yasoi lands. While their people had always been a noticeable minority, they now made up solidly half of the town: impoverished, seething, burgeoning, and in increasing tension with their human neighbours.

Yet, if feelings were mixed, there was some gratitude for the forced departure of the Colas. Even if they were homegrown, they had been thugs and gangsters. They had blackmailed, extorted, beaten, humiliated, and even murdered their fellow Mudvillians. If the two sides - criminals and colonists - had not destroyed each other, as some might've hoped, at least one was gone. At least the cruelty, arrogance, and recklessness of the academy's students was well marked. Most of the swelling slum's residents had developed strategies for not being caught in it and maimed or killed. That Ersand'Enise demanded the occasional blood sacrifice in return for the opportunities it provided was almost a fact of life at this point: resented but dully accepted. The Cola Brothers had been uniquely awful, and now they were gone. Now, thought some - particularly the human, eeaiko, and helegan residents, particularly the Tarlonese supporters - if the mages' rampage ended with the Resistance crushed as well, they might be free of two unique evils.

This, then, was what swirled through the sideroads, alleys, and tenements of the town renamed 'Belleville' that night, and into the next day. Only Seviin had hung around, compelled by her nature and duties to help clean up the disaster site. Once the rain stopped, she'd found a dry place and caught a few hours of sleep. She'd woken early and met her peers at the Seagate, only her fine - though slightly sullied - priestess' robes and familiarity with the guards preventing her from being barred or questioned. They filtered through, some holding a brief discussion on what should be done next. The clock was ticking and the Colas had proven to be a false lead: opportunists who'd overplayed their hand and been dealt with.

They had only two worthwhile pieces of information - hardly leads - at this point, and so the group divided itself up so as to best use their strengths. Most of the others were immensely wary of Dorothea after her display of dark magic and sadism the previous day, and ill-disposed to working with her. Despite their regard for each other, Ashon was insistent upon meeting the Resistance and Seviin equally insistent that her Tarlonese accent would set them on edge. Hence, they parted ways. Hence, Seviin found herself searching for the one-legged woman who'd been sighted with Jaxan slightly before his disappearance. She found herself with Xiuyang, Oksana, and Dory. The former pair quickly separated themselves from Dory, who was quick to become tangled up in a tense racial standoff. Oksana pursued her own leads through a ghastly hostel and these eventually led her to reunite with her allies. At a Red Pentact hospital, they learned what remained. The puzzle came together. They made haste for a row house in Miller's Hook, their goal in sight and a secondary one presenting itself.

The remaining five sought out the Resistance. Ashon decided to investigate the relatively new Cryin' Cyan: a bar not far from the Searoad where some whispered that Resistance members could be found. Niallus and Lunara followed a separate trail and soon found themselves tangled up in a contentious brawl by the docks where a Resistance agent looking to collect donations had drawn the ire of workers. Johann made his way through the market stalls along the great boulevard, generously splashing his money around in search of leads. Finally, Abdel hung back, keeping tabs on all of the others as a tethered is uniquely capable of doing. It wasn't long before Ashon had navigated his way to the heart of the freedom fighters' hideout - or were they gangsters? Niallus, through his well-intentioned meddling, soon found himself at the Cryin' Cyan as well, Abdel and Johann following a separate set of leads. While the Eskandishman failed a trustworthiness test and was pulled away by the spectre of revenge against Cherii'cola, Ashon, Johann, and Abdel learned what they needed and linked up for a final push.

Dory and Lunara were the only others who appeared cast adrift, having both been tangled up in the aftermath of a potentially-deadly and racially charged brawl. As that played out, the clock continued to tick. Their peers, who'd both taken disparate routes to what was - surely! - the final scenario of this wild goose chase, were without their vital support. Was this it? Was it all to play for? Was Jaxan even okay - alive!?

Only one thing was certain: they would soon find out!




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