Across the walls, all is quiet. The year is 844, and the world is still. What preludes the greatest of storms is the sanctity of peace. For humanity, trapped in their concrete bird cage, too many have grown too comfortable living in fear. Life has its way with the complacent. Where the holdings of humanity - the twelve districts across the three walls - stand tall, underneath the banners of the Stationary Guard, kept in order by the Military Police and vanguarded by the Survey Corps, so do the adversaries beyond it. The behemoths, fleshy and humanlike, dominate the outer lands, endangering those that waltz beyond and those that live just out of safety's reach. The grim exterior cannot be kept out forever. Someday, on a grim morn, there shall be a great rupture, a disturbance unlike any other in living memory. A cold, desolate hour, where images of great distraught stand firm in the eyes of those that withstand it.
~~~
Welcome all to AoT - The Western Siege - a scenario where humanity is faced with a breach along the Western parts of its territories whilst also in its South, resulting in a much less favourable position for all involved. Re-kickstarted by a talk over a six year old RP that was on here, a good few of us wanted to throw the hat back into the ring and bring back an enjoyable setting of old. First and foremost, this obviously isn't tied to the whole canon, though it should remain more or less the same in most aspects. There's details to discuss once interest has expanded, but we'll have a look as is.
'The Western Siege' focuses on the lives of a select cast of characters, right from their first experience at the breach, a quick shot through their training experiences and up until they find their place in the military's varied branches, and attempt to reclaim the lost districts. These characters aren't quite the best humanity has to offer, but they're set to be in the thick of all of it - a struggle greater than a hundred years' comparison. How these people grow, develop, bond, fight, rival one another and how their stories end is a long journey we can cover. It's quite a good setting for this sort of thing, as people can drop in and out fairly easily, due to things like the high mortality rate of the series. It's one of those things I'm willing to keep open application wise from start to finish almost.
A main focus of this RP in specific is distancing itself from the whole shifter schtick. I'd say that's the most major change. Some will still be there, but not in our character pool. I don't want to devalue other players and shine the focus and efforts on a single or few specific people, dwarfing the ones our words represent. How they tie into the story will be reduced, but also, if seen, amplified in severity. This is a focal point of discussion whilst we set up and go through the story, so we'll see how that goes.
A few good people here are interested, many of which were in the original renditions of this. So we already technically have enough to "start", but I'm open to see who'd like to throw their hat into the ring. I'd say to expect something far more akin to the first main steps of AoT's story, rather than its far later settings and focal points. It could go in that direction, but by god we'd have to get very far for something like that to take precedence, and you know what we know about the longevity of RPG threads. Still, I'm at least determined to get a good, complete story of ours out of this, with a wonderful cast of characters, showing how they grow and fall in this world of great sorrow.
One point of interest is how the post-training stories go. Whilst previous versions did focus a lot more on the training, I think we will keep it a lot shorter; AKA - the key introduction of it, some interactions and maybe one scene of training that doesn't linger too long, to develop the characters a bit more, but as that usually is a pitfall where people get trapped in story progression, I aim to not linger us there for too long. Their ascension into one of the three branches is of great interest. And to begin with, I'm okay with there being a choice of all three: the Survey Corps, Stationary Guard and Military Police. As the story does focus a lot on the "taking back" of territory, there's a lot of inter-branch collaboration to be had, whilst the freedom to choose those three also allows the avenues for secondary stories to be created and done without interrupting the main plot. As the story develops further, perhaps we may all find ourselves under one branch, but if not, I will have a way to incorporate all three under one umbrella without it being too "out of pocket". From this, it shouldn't have to railroad you into being a big boy survey corps lad.
Any and all questions regarding this RP are greatly appreciated beneath. Equally, and interest is best made aware of in the thread here! Don't worry if you find this late, so long as the OOC and IC thread is still active, there should be room to join. To those that are interested, I thank you greatly, and I also thank those that read the whole bloody thing. Cheers lol.
The moment Sofia was scooped from their arms, and that Victor was sent across the beach in one fell swoop, Frankie froze up. He stopped where he had stumbled, and laid with his back to the sand. He watched as the girl was engulfed in the mouth of the beast. It was nothing short of horrifying, a true testament of the insanity in which he'd found himself in. His nerves were all too alive to render it a dream. He blinked. Time and time again. Wake up - wake up. He begged to himself yet no resolution came. There was chaos and there was anguish. He was sat in terrible silence. His eyes had plastered onto nothing in particular. It was all one, great, terrific scene. His breath slowed and his heart felt as though it had stopped. It was almost as if a feeling brewed inside of him, a warmth at the end of all terror.
Yet nothing happened.
He sat there, still. The feeling disappeared. It was a pitiful, slow and concerning reminder. An unknown, fanatic sensation that rose and died just as it had. Temptation, doused out by fear. Piercing regret. The lofted expectations. And when he had failed to act, to do more than squalor, one girl had stepped forward, and with a great shout she exhausted a wide-leaping spray of energy. And then came the spectre of the shore, the wild creature that combatted the very antagonist of their island escapade. There was some attempt to corral the crowd of sightseers, and to unify some team effort to allow the girl of light to truly shine. They did so, and they did so with confidence, with an unimaginable sense of initiative. But Franciszek was at his limit. He had his back to the earth, and his chest was plagued by rapid rising and falls. Whatever could he do? Whatever could he have ever done? He had done nothing, and had wafted away the fleeting burn in his heart, that desire to step forward and do something valuable. And unfortunately, and wordlessly, he isolated himself in his panicked state, and wandered helplessly back into paralysis.
There was much abuzz within the group - several had occupied themselves with tree-clambering and food acquisition that they'd almost seemed apt at it. The nature in which they'd gathered, collectivised and made success in their trial instilled a sort of conspiracy within Franciszek's mind. Perhaps it was a disguised experience within the school, some sort of complex team building exercise. But all of it was too elaborate. Sure, Harbour was a very esteemed academy but to the extent of organising something along the level of Lost - or I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here - was just...well it was all ridiculous. And none it explained the sheer panic and transient experience he'd had, with the water that burned him inwards.
It was pessimistic - rightfully so. Nothing about the situation sat well enough to let him forget. He thought about these sort of things all too much, and whilst it was counterproductive to those that simply wanted to go along with it, he saw caution as the only thing keeping him weary. Though even that was arguable, for the boy was shaken and still very much at unease.
Yet the paranoia seemed to have paid off. Because it started with a light rumble off in the distance. The beating of wings far out beyond the shore. There was a collective silence when everyone noticed it. And his throat clogged up with fear and anxiety. Even before he spotted the beast, there was no doubt that the machinations of their twisted reality were without limitation. He lifted his head and turned over to the sea, and from the great expanse came a terrible creature, leaping forward and driving its wicked limbs into the sand with one fell maneuverer.
The beast was upon their shores, and with a great wave of force it sent out a shockwave, one that forced Franciszek onto his arse in staggered panic. Instinct took the better of him and he raced to the side, stopping only when he saw one lad holding on to Sophia's passed out self - again. He wasn't sure as to why, but one would struggle on their own. He turned his eyes away from the beast that stared them down, aplenty in its horrific gazes, and he helped to lift Sophia off of the ground. Almost immediately, he trudged forward.
"Then shut up and start doing it!" He beckoned to the french lad. He wasn't being brave, no not in his mind. He was scared shitless, and that was what caused him to act.
Victoria's resolve was more or less as strong as the others, with the desire to immediately get to it. And she was right, but it still frustrated him. He wanted to find a way out, but as she had said, none of it made sense. It was for them to make sense of it, and if there was anything he was convinced of, he felt as if he had nothing to contribute. The others had the confidence and headspace to really make a difference. They were tenacious, and brave, and determined to make light of the dark situation they'd found them in. Perhaps he could've been too, but the shock of the experience had weighed so heavily upon his mind that he remained but a hopeless individual, one that no student around him could've relied on.
"How am I supposed to make sense of it, if you just told me none of it makes any?" He muttered, albeit a little bit bitterly. He had incorrectly channelled the frustration, rapidity and speed toward the others, when in reality he had aimed it internally. It hurt to be so pessimistic, and it did little for the others, but shaking that visceral experience was not an easy feat.
He looked down as she suggested they go to help. There was no way around it. If he said no, he'd have been left there, perhaps even to die, if they were so willing. It was dramatic to even consider such a factor. But wherever they were, he was so greatly untrustworthy of them all - the way they all slipped into working mode, as though they'd done this before. That's what worried him the most. Had he stumbled upon a secret society, or a cult of sorts? No one could know. No one knew. Everyone had no idea. And those that did, they must've kept quiet about it. That paranoia leeched off of him.
He sighed, there was no way to really figure anything out without moving. To him, it was a sure way to walk into death, but it was better than sitting by the desolate sea, that called to him with harsh words. So what did he do? Well, he sat up a little, wiped his cheek as the sting still remained, and just nodded. He didn't sulk, nor did he make a fuss, but deep down, he was back where he was again, following others, and he had that lingering worry that once it was over, if it ever was over, then he'd fade back into the winds.
A cold hand had struck his cheek. It was hard, amplified by the lingering phantom chill that stained his skin. He flinched sideways in accordance to the smack. And then he sat there, rather quietly. It was there, with a little vague familiarity to it, and he tried his best to put up and sit there, quietly as he could. The panic still flooded through. It was one question answered. He was real, and he then wished he wasn't.
He put an inch's distance between them as he thought it indicative of a response. Franciszek found the words evermore difficult to spill from his lips and he froze up. The thoughts that ran through his head mostly consisted of the far-reaching span of questions and lacking answers. One answered simply pronounced eighteen more. Where? What? Why? How? If it were all real then how was she so sure of it? Did she know anything? He dared not to ask. There was no use asking anyone, it felt like, for with it came a lack of knowledge or sudden paranoia - much alike his. Some people had already soldiered on, leaving with a bop in their stride. They were loving it, he thought to himself, and honestly part of his resented it. Relishing in what he thought his own experience. He never quite knew if Victoria had experienced what he had, or perhaps he was simply so abhorrently weak that his insecure understanding had made him much of a laughing stock.
He breathed. Calm - he called upon. It didn't work much, but he eased himself enough to hold his tongue and to not be erratic. Off to the side, Maive had started to bawl. Imogen denounced her own aggression so monstrously and, whilst Franciszek felt bad about it all, he most definitely felt that lingering degree of animosity - not for the crying girl in particular, but everyone. Sofia had brought him no sense of comfort or understanding. He was panicked. None of his thoughts were clear, and it was a matter of absorbing wonderland in order to remain any kind of level-headed over it.
It hadn't really clicked with him how quiet he'd suddenly gone. He wanted to talk to prove that he could still provide something, valued or not, to the ever-growing dysphoria of reality. He looked down and shook his head. The volume of the ocean around them spoke to him again, in heeded warning. He shuddered. All again, so callous. He didn't feel himself at all, yet it had come to him so naturally.
Though mostly from the shock of it all, he could barely believe how calm some of them were. This wasn't helped in any instance by the reawakening of Sofia - their guide into the mess. Such a strong urge to rile up and explode at her, to demand the answers they needed and were owed, was set aside as someone else had already occupied themselves with her. He breathed, uneasily, and hoped that their message was to get through to the absurdly positive state. He threw his hands into the air and collapsed back into the sand. It was warm, but no comfort or luxury derived from its touch. He shuddered whilst that cold sensation was still fresh in his mind.
Had he any idea of what he'd seen, even pre-emptively, it was still doubtful that Franciszek would've coped any better. These were the sorts of happenings of fiction, the tales and stories of classics and beyond. The wade into wonderland, and the fabrication of all reality, founded in a supernatural state. Tales of realism faired no better, and he was impartial to the idea of implying any sort of kidnapping of the sorts, simply out of the fear of it. He blinked and ran his arms across one another. God - why was he so cold? So brutal were those shivers that he quite literally forced himself to focus on something other than himself.
Off to his side, maybe a metre or so away, was a face he'd only just recognised. A strong fluctuation of guilt ransacked his temper as he noticed Victoria, with barely a motion left in her. In all his desperation, he'd latched on to her hand and had pulled her in with him, no different to how Sofia had dragged him in. Almost immediately, he felt the world fall around him. As though he'd kept up his remedy of bringing all those down around him, just as it always had been. He sighed, and crawled just a little closer to her. She looked just as bad, if not a little worse, than he was. There wasn't any sign of reception to see from her. And though it was, in no doubt of his, a move that had the potential to simply worsen her situation, he could not sit idly whilst a billion questions still ran amok.
"I...I'm sorry...but-" He didn't even know who Victoria was. She was there, as he had been, as silent as the winds themselves. He breathed in, but only shocked himself as he imagined a phantom taste in his mouth of saltwater and suffocation. Panic still rested inside of him, but he pushed to at least reconcile within another. "But I need to know that I'm-...that this is all real, that I'm not dead, or insane or whatever else. Did...did you see it? Experience it? All of...all of that? Please, I just...I'm sorry."
All the whilst Imogen expressed her upmost disappointment, anger and all towards the others, until one lad came up to him. Franciszek had never met the guy, at least not from what he could remember, but he tried his best to console him. Yet there was something so off about it, so casual and calm that even Franciszek couldn't quite gel with the notion. Not whilst the memories were still fresh in his mind, of the drowning, the descent into the sea, the way that the water boiled inside his lungs and stomach, and how desperately they tried to drown him. The way in which the visuals, so esoteric and inexplicable, showered his eyes. He almost laughed at the idea that perhaps he was right about his cultish scepticism - almost.
He looked up, and met Orlando. He offered him some sort of wisdom, some abstract metaphor to help ease him through the pain. And did it? Well, the boy looked up at him, then back down to his balled up knees. A strong sense of disbelief washed over him. And for what seemed like his first time ever, a great uproar brewed inside of him.
"Chin...up? Chin up?! No...no! You stub your toe. You fail a test. Your dog dies. That's when you lift your chin up!" He tried to stand up, but he felt all too weak in the legs. Something about the way the other girl, Imogen, had let herself loose, it almost gave him an excuse to do it himself. "You call this a fucking "chin up" situation? Look for a way out of here? I...I...Am I the only one in the right mindset here? I didn't wake up in North Camden, I'm in the middle of fuck-knows with people I don't know, spouting grandma wisdom as if I have no fucking clue-"
He cut himself off and crumbled in place, laid with his back in the sand and his eyes faced outward to the great beyond, the sea of nothingness. There was such a powerful repellent, urging his heart to steer near of the waters. Fear ran amok through him. Was it because he'd awoken on an island? Of course, for it simply showed that not once could things have been normal, not just once.
By the motion of the crowd - nature's greatest negotiator - he'd found himself stood aside the edges of the pier. It was all too strange, this sort of thing. Such traditions and strangeness, it felt rather alien to what he'd known from life, for that typical way communal gatherings occurred in his growing years. Truth be told, Franciszek deemed it a little too "buddy-like", akin to a fledgling cult. It was pessimism, yes, but it was just as that. The overt kindness, the way they cheered and chimed, and the seemingly false confidence worn by their guides. He hadn't said much as a word to the others. Some were in for the ride. Yet despite his qualms, when the crowd moved, so did his feet. The ever infectious peer pressure.
He'd tuned out their voices to begin with. The water was all they talked about. He looked at it, and as dark as the night was, they all stood in their bright colours, colourful personalities and all. And he just stood there, all quiet. He hadn't much to say. What else was new? Though in one regard, he wasn't alone there. One or two hadn't spoken much. Though was that a pick-me-up? Perhaps they weren't too fond of what was going on either. Perhaps that was his cue to turn around, and to not jump into the pool, as if what laid in the sand were a life-changing episode, a jaded chapter in what was yet to happen.
But of course, the klutzes have their ways of keeping things in motion. Franciszek didn't really understand who had made the first move, or fallen in, but by doing so, they'd brought with them the domino effect. A hand to a wrist, on and on. Someone grabbed his. It was the guide, he thought, Sofia. They yelled as they descended, and when his skin collided with the water, there was a sudden, terrible darkness all around him - and the current was tumultuous.
Into the bleak he fell. He clutched someone's wrist for dear life, maybe Sofia's, maybe Victoria's, he had no way of telling. His vision had descended into a blurred nightmare. Eternal blight surrounded him. Deeper he sank. His thoughts were only panicked questions. How? Why? What? Further was the fall. No seabed was in sight. His eardrums pled as if the pressure itself was going to burst them for good. So cold and arctic was his tomb that all sensation seemed to die with the light. And then came the pale blue, the nimbus, alone in the centre of the sea.
When his head emerged from the waters beneath, into the starlit sky, he found himself in the turbulence of a storm. Waves crashed around him and his ears were assaulted by the extensive noise. Barrages of salt water hit him from every angle. There was dismay and panic, colluded by dread. A desolate raft eyed what he thought was his way. Two figures stood shrouded in silence. A voice reached him; a gaze most still, defiant in the waves, pierced through him. Curled lips formed the words. Thou. Then came the bubbled rage, the boiled blood that almost popped from their veins, the terrific monstrosity of pain and anguish, as though he'd fallen right into the sun itself. It felt as though his skin was scorched and soldered to the ocean itself. He opened his mouth and water flooded his body. It weighed him down and he sank one final time, down into the dysphoric trance inflicted upon him.
And then it was over. There was moderate warmth. His skin was in tact, and his mouth was full of warm, dry sand. He lifted his head and gasped in breathless confusion. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the blinding grace of daylight. He shivered, even in the tropic warmth. And when that vision cleared, Franciszek had awoken to a pacific view, far spanning. An aura of uncanniness perfumed every aspect of the landmark. Around them was the deep blue once more, yet with it came the shivers of a brooding beyond, a terrible place, where those that ventured did so for the last time.
Someone screamed. Sofia - the woman who'd dragged her in - fell in heaping surprise. Then he noticed the others there. Some seemed soothed by the sights. Some were moderate, others left with some slight questions. And Franciszek sat there. He brought his knees to his chest and laced his hands underneath. Anxiety welled up throughout his system. The pure shock of the experience, the transition between the normal and the insufferable unknown, had placed him right in the middle of the greatest discomfort.
"Wait-...no, what? No. No, no. I..." He was at a loss of immediate words. All reactions of his were funnelled through the veil of permeated surprise. He touched his face and felt the dryness of the sand. That sensation - like drowning - had taken its toll on him. He shook. Others seemed to have already busied themselves with curiosity, something he simply could not understand. "I...but...the water and..."
He eyed at how others seemed to manage themselves. The way they tended to the passed out Sofia, who he even thought had rather selfishly lost consciousness after having plunged them into a trance so nightmarishly vivid that he could not face the sea with comfort. It angered him, then tolled him with sadness. He breathed. Easily, he asked, and he did not comply to his own request. There was nothing but total confusion. Even the level-headedness of everyone around him, it almost terrified him.
"No, I...how is anyone like...am I missing something? Am I the only one losing their mind over..." He looked over at the others and, rather anxiously, pointed toward the short girl with classes, then to the guy who sort of sat there with the passed out Sofia. "Where am I? What did you do?! Did...did you do this? Did you...oh...god..."
He looked to his side as an intense sickness seemed to fill his throat. He held it back, just barely, but the nausea made a mockery of the lad. For what looked at him was a cruel, literary joke. A murder of all nicety, and an estranged, vile prod at what he most definitely feared. For he was but a stranger on an isle, with strangers themselves, and for the briefest of moments, he maintained that panic, for it felt like the most normal thing someone could have done.
The day had gone by as a slog - no change there from the usual. Yet on his mind was the eternal ponder over what it was he was asked to attend. It occupied half of his attention and only led to the day dragging. In time, however, the school hours were over, and he was back in his dorm, debating himself as to whether he should go. Of course, he thought it wasn't exactly something promising, but he hadn't made any enemies to his knowledge to justify something targeted. The school year was far too early for that to happen. Still, it did beckon as to why anyone would've requested him in any secretive "under-the-door" fashion.
In the end, there was only one way to truly know whether the experience was to be grand or pointless. Attendance. Franciszek wasn't that particularly enclosed in the social sphere. There were ways to put yourself forward without risking anything, and for all he knew, that was just that. He grabbed a towel and made headway for the docks by the time the daylight turned sour. It wasn't anything atypical about the land; all the same, bitter, homely feeling, rather. Autumn's early bites were, however, rather demanding when it came to swimming.
He'd changed into some nondescript swimming wear - some trunks and a spare t-shirt he'd had still packed in one of his bags. It wasn't anything fancy, nor really useful for swimming, but by the time he'd arrived, it all felt a little off. There were just people stood around. Waiting. Not talking. It was quiet. It was a little too uncomfortably quiet. And then all that silence was wiped away when Sofia sprung her surprise, and for once, Franciszek felt like he was the only one to actually jump inside of himself. He tried to hide it at least, barely.
Sofia was...something. Enthusiastic, nonetheless, but not exactly on par with the school staff. There was a veneer of awkwardness, the slight second-handed embarrassment that came with trying just a little too hard. He didn't mind it though. It was loose, and gave an impression of genuine attempt when it came to witnessing failure. He didn't want to look too deep into it. Then, of course, she disclosed the purpose of their gathering. A belated tradition, left to hang at the last minute. That seemed to be her style - a little after it was cool for everyone else to do so. Honestly, he liked it. It was a lot less crowded, though the unrecognisable faces didn't exactly help ease him into volunteering himself first. He lingered just barely to the side of whoever, whilst some prepared themselves to jump in.
Then it struck him - he hadn't gone swimming in a long while. There was a slight anxious tick to that thought. Did he still know how to swim? Well - she did say it wasn't deep, but what was her idea of not deep, she had acclimatised to the nautical school? She did come up with an answer but...bah, who paid attention to that? He stood amongst the unhazed, of course this was how it was meant to be; nervousness and confusion and just a general lick of anxiety to cover all his bases. He stood there, a little frozen. He wasn't scared of swimming, but he wasn't enthusiastic about what he was leaping his way into.
"Right..." God, he kicked himself at how untalkative he had been. There was just standing there, and inaction, and spectating the others as they conversed a little with Sofia and back. He didn't interrupt, not straight away. But eventually, he did raise a halfward hand - though whether Sofia or who else had paid much attention was beyond him - and slowly ask. "Like...right now? What happens after that?"
How more evident could it have been than in the first week; to see a young lad barely feel at home. It was pitiful, even by his own standards, to have drifted somewhat between people. One night, he had hung out with four lads, only to lose sight of them the next day. The following morn, he'd taken the side of a girl for the day, and soon found it hard to relate to anything she said at all. Not that it mattered, but that bothered her more than it did himself. It was a silent, cordial drift between people. It was nothing like schools before, where by that communal drive, groups formed by the first hour. Sure, they broke apart a few weeks down the line, or held against the test of time, but they were there. And across many other students, he saw them do such. But Franciszek hadn't experienced that in the academy. It was drifting, like the ships they held so close to their image.
Icebreakers fell apart. People roamed classes. Introductions were often short but he saw them as without sweetness. It was a trove of awkward encounters. The reputations and know-hows of other students. Perhaps the other scholarship students, maybe even of similar background, would have been worth finding but even they were hard to spot. It was no great matter at first - it was a small academy, eventually he'd find someone. But as days ticked by, one after the other, then it became troublesome, then loathsome, then agonisingly slow. Days were often just a series of work assignments and studying, then to appear in a small crowd, and then to be a stranger to them the following sunrise. And he kept telling himself that there was no chance it could continue, not at all. But it did, and often he gave his best shot at ignoring it as if it were the nature of the forest he'd stumbled his way into.
The ocean made him a little nauseous, honestly. It was a large expanse. Sure, maybe Europe was across the other side, but it never felt close enough. Perhaps reading Moby Dick wasn't the smartest of choices before he'd arrived but, well, that was just how things were. That little cycle of pushing sensational experiences into his system, forever to find a niche of relation to latch onto.
Not that he thought of it that way. He'd heard one psychology student say it once - the ones that used very large words that often flew over his head, even as an avid reader. They were fine, but a little heavy to work with. One of them had helped him move some boxes of textbooks back to his dorm. It was a kind gesture, but of course it was the last the two really spoke. By that point, Franciszek hadn't been too picky with his crowd, and that lacking connection had grown burdensome on his thoughts.
In his room, there were still a few unpacked boxes and bags. Less of the essentials, actually. Spare clothes he hadn't worn yet. A few stationary kits. Books he'd not stacked on his shelves. A spare toothpaste tube, half spent. Honestly, looking at it, he asked himself why he hadn't just cleaned it. It would've taken a few minutes. Then again, it wasn't like it was mandatory. There was no real drive to do that. That first week had taken a toll of awkwardness that seemed to have inflicted change in his daily tidiness. Then again, it hadn't affected him to the point of ruin, so it was never treated as anything serious. He kept his uniform clean, and his health in check. It was a similar routine to back home, when there was incentive to have a routine.
He was sat there, that night, when something slipped underneath his door. He heard the paper struggle to get through at first. It gave him time to react - to listen and watch the folded piece get pushed through underneath. But he remained on his seat whilst it was in motion. He didn't react or intercept it. It just acted, and he watched. In time, it eventually broke through, and he cautiously walked to the door, and slowly opened it. There was no one there by the time he had looked. Wasn't unexpected - the knock & bolt ways of students was still alive and well. He'd even done one himself on the first night. So all else there was to do was to look down at the paper, and he retrieved it with a quick swipe, then a study of its amphibious appearance.
"Hmm..." He hummed along to the unfolding creases. His thumb buried between the bolds and out came a message, and a printed guide. He was puzzled. "The Dock...house? Bring towel?"
He didn't sleep that much that night. Even so, he went out early in the morning, and sat on a bench between the main institution and dorms themselves. In his hand was the small paper frog, crudely folded back together. He'd memorised the message - a natural occurrence of rereading it the entire night. Sure the tiredness was in his eyes but he was more confused as to who would've sent him such a message. None of the groups he'd temporarily stayed with seemed avid dockgoers, in fact two had expressed great distaste for it. The frog folding was poor as he'd tried to reconstruct it, but it was close enough. The map, though, that was all he held onto. He looked at it. It didn't seem particularly unsafe but it wasn't exactly the prime area. And near enough to London, it was a daunting ask. But he sat there, on that bench, as time went by when the early morning feet shuffled by. He'd wait for some time.
Banned
