Lazo

The Crucible - Winner Take All

Pithy paused as she entered the building, robes dripping water on the floor as she took in the sight that greeted her. Much like the men’s clothes, the building itself was constructed in a style she was not familiar with, but while the size itself was impressive, the long hallway with its many doors branching paths did not remind her of the grandeur of a noble’s estate or the forbidding solemnity of a religious temple. This was a place for work.

Her eyes roamed for a moment longer before they fell to the path before her. Tracks of dirt and mud in strange and varied shapes and sizes marked the way forward, evidence of those who had been brought before her. Storms must have heralded their arrivals same as hers. What drew her gaze, however, was a trail of red mixed with the rest of the tracks.

The men leading her had seen it too.

The one named Michael wore a concerned expression as he looked down at the blood. “Think the others ran into trouble?”

The older man shrugged. “It would not be surprising. The Crucible’s participants were not chosen for their restraint. Much the opposite, in certain cases.”

“Wouldn’t that make her…” Michael’s words trailed off as he caught the half-lidded look Pithy had leveled his way.

“Go on. Do complete that thought,” she said dryly.

The young man hesitated.

Dr. Howell shook his head, as though he did not much care for the banter. “It wouldn’t be wrong to say we were fortunate.”

Pithy turned to look at the other man and, released from the woman’s expectant glare, Michael coughed into his wrist. “Let’s keep going,” he suggested once he had composed himself. “We’ll know more once we meet the rest.”

Seeing no reason to object, Pithy followed as the men delved deeper into the building. As she went, her eyes trailed the multitude of doors they passed. Occasionally an open door would reveal a desk, chairs, and stacks of documents that reminded her of the office of an advocate she had done business with years before. She remembered how the innkeeper had told her that the men struck him as scholars, and had little trouble picturing people working at those desks, with students roaming the hallways, large books and stacks of paper in their arms.

What did not fit with that image were the rope barriers placed before doors and branching hallways. Pithy felt fairly confident that even without the muddied trail and the men leading her she would have been perfectly able to reach the place she was expected to. She found some slight amusement in the fact, as it seemed to hint at the nature of the mind that had set up this occasion.

The stage is set, the cast is ready, and the main show is about to begin. All that is left is for you to go to your respective places, but do take care not to wander into the backstage.

“Where is this place?” she found herself asking.

“We’re in the Inquisitional College,” Michael supplied from the lead position.

Unhelpfully. She had already guessed as much. “I meant geographically. This is the first time I hear of this College, and I don’t recognize the city outside.”

It’s not like the human cities I have come across. It’s much too large, and has no walls. In truth, she had never seen anything quite like it. She considered saying as much, but quickly decided there would be no point in making her ignorance evident.

It was Dr. Howell that offered her an explanation. “We do not have an answer that would mean much to you, Lady. We are no longer in your world, after all.”

Pithy found herself ready to raise her voice in protest, but she clamped down on the words. Talk of other worlds parallel to her own were not unheard of in her where. The domains of the gods, those tied closely to the existence of the world she lived in were generally acknowledged to be tightly woven but separate realms, and magic users that relied on summoning magic told of countless other worlds from which their demons hailed.

Academically, demon had long become a word used to describe unidentified beasts and beings from other realms.

She realized that what she found difficult to believe was not the idea that they had made a jump to a different world, but that it had been done so seamlessly. She would have expected an extreme confluence of power to be required in order to open a path between two disconnected worlds, but all they had done was walk with a nondescript lantern—

Except that was not entirely the case, was it? There had been a storm raging around them as they traveled, and if she were to guess by the muddied trail leading forward, the circumstances of her drawing had not been unique.

The sensible part of her warned against taking the men at their word, but she could not deny that she wanted to believe the man with the trimmed beard and sunken eyes. She had already followed them to this strange place. If a device that could enable such travel existed in this place, perhaps this College had truly found something that could aid her. She wondered if they would allow her to examine the lantern were she to ask.

Belatedly, she became aware of Howell’s steely eyes fixed on her profile. Pithy met his gaze, prompting him to speak his mind.

“Something tells me you do not find this entirely unlikely,” he ventured.

Pithy shrugged, trying to hide the uneasiness she felt at the man’s ability to guess at her thoughts. “Perhaps I’ve become jaded,” she admitted.

“Here we are,” Michael announced. Before them stood a pair of white, shuttered swing doors that vividly reminded Pithy of the entrance to a bar she had visited in a frontier town. The fact that it did not fit with the surroundings made her think it was a new addition, and a temporary one at that. “Once you are inside, look for an unoccupied podium,” he told her. “We’ll follow behind you.”

Pithy brought her hands to the sides of her head, making sure her cowl was still in place, then brought her right hand to her hip, resting it on her rapier’s handle in a gesture that stilled her nerves. Thus ready, she swung the door open and walked into the large atrium.

Heads turned to study her as she walked towards an unoccupied podium, and she took the time to study the competition in return. She counted thirty-two podiums in all, some filled, some still vacant. Though many of the entrants exhibited the humanoid features she had become familiar with, some with small additions or differences, others could only be described as monsters.

Demons, she found herself brought back to an earlier thought. And if I were to remove my cowl to show my ears and part my hair so they could see all of my face, would some not think the same of me?

What Pithy took to be the rest of the participants steadily began to fill the room, each going through the ritual of marching to their own podium under the weight of the stares of a murder of killers, made heavier by the last joining in their number to glare at the next.

As she watched the procession to its end, it occurred to Pithy that it was impressive that the College’s staff had been able to fill every podium. Not a single participant had refused the invitation. Though as her gaze found the one lone attendee standing behind an amorphous, smiling monster, she found herself agreeing with Dr. Howell’s assessment. They had been fortunate indeed.

Finally, from a walkway above the podiums, an old woman addressed the congregation. Pithy listened with interest that quickly turned into dismay as she realized that the woman planned to gloss over the details of their predicament in order to focus on the organization of the tournament itself.

And why not? Every fool here—myself included—has already agreed to be used. And if this machine cannot grant wishes, or the College intends to use the winner’s one wish for themselves? Well then, that’s a bridge to cross later.

She found herself wishing that whatever this machine was, it continued to grant wishes once the ritual was performed. Of course, she was certain such convenient things would not exist in any reality, for any reality in which such a thing existed would have destroyed itself in the blink of an eye.

Pithy directed her frustration forward, to the heart-shaped object resting on the podium.

Phylactery.

Now this was a word she knew, and not one she liked. She held a hand over it, hesitating. Focusing on the small figurine, she could feel the weight of an enchantment nestled within, but the structure of the spell was unlike any she had observed before. She couldn’t make heads or tails of it.

In a way, this encouraged her. It lent credence to the idea that she had been transported to a different world with miraculous possibilities. However, it also made her realize that donning the accessory would be something she could not take back. Even were she to find something capable of helping her in the wreckage of the abandoned city, she would need to play her part to its conclusion.

Then again, if I had options in the first place I would not be standing here.

It was with this in mind that the woman grasped the chain and slipped it over her head, taking a moment to smooth out the disturbed hair and cowl. The pendant she placed under her clothes, feeling the imitation rest close to her actual heart.

The Crucible - Winner Take All

White.

The whole world is white. Snow is falling heavily, the powerful wind stirring the flitting crystals in a whirlpool that swallows the horizon.

Down is white.

Up is white.

North, east, south and west have lost all meaning. The whole world is snow.

A small girl wades through the blizzard. Her skin has a deathly pallor, and a blue coloration has begun to spread from her fingertips. Her thin sleeping gown is the same color of her surroundings, and makes it difficult to tell where her body ends and the white starts. The only thing separating her from the snow is the wind-whipped black hair on her head.

The sound of bell chimes rings through the storm, but she knows the sound to be in her head. She would not be able to hear them so clearly through the raging wind otherwise. She is less sure about the words riding in the wind.

“It’s not enough. Never enough.” A woman’s voice. Frustrated. She sees injustice before her but finds herself powerless.

“Death is rarely dignified,” came another whisper, lilting as if holding back laughter. Knowing. Mocking.

It was all nonsense, but familiar nonsense nonetheless. Where had she heard these voices before?

She has lost all sensation from her legs, which she supposes must be a mercy. She does not remember setting out on this path, but she knows she was barefoot when she did. The snow reaches her thighs, so she cannot see her feet, but she suspects they have the same color as her fingertips by now. It faintly occurs to her that she is dying, but cannot think of anything to do about it. The bells make it hard to think.

“This has gone too far. Can’t you see that?” What a strange tone. Both accusing and pleasing at the same time.

At least she can still move her legs, which is more than she had any right to expect. Still, she is afraid to look behind her. She knows she would see no tracks where she to do so.

“Warmth, is it? That is your wish.”

Where the other voices had been but whispers, this one is stronger, seeming to reach from beyond the storm. And the girl somehow knows it is addressing her.

She tries to answer that yes, she would trade anything to escape the cold. The words do not even reach her ears, swallowed by the storm the moment they leave her mouth. Swallowed by the chimes.

“Come to my arms, then. I will embrace you, but know that I shall take everything you have to give.”

The girl cannot help but be confused at that. She has nothing to her name. Everything she could have had belongs to another.

Still she raises a trembling hand forward, as if to part the blizzard. The prospect of succor is overpowering.

Just then, there is a great tremor, and the girl looks back in surprise. A wall of white crashes against her, and the words in the wind titter in her ear.

“Such wonderful opportunities can be born from such an arrangement!”

---

Lightning thundered outside, disturbing the sleeping figure’s rest. With some effort, a single blue eye fluttered open, drifting towards the window. Rain pitter-pattered against the glass, filling the room with a droning sound.

Like a thousand tiny bells.

She dispelled the intrusive thought, drawing herself up on the bed. She raised a hand up to part the stream of black hair that had fallen in front of her and rubbed at her temple.

She winced as something hard touched her brow and groggily looked down at her hand. Translucent, crystal digits looked back. Her breath caught on her throat. She blinked reflexively, and when she saw her hand again, pale skin and thin, ladylike fingers greeted her.

She let out a long breath and clutched the hand to her chest, willing the beating of her heart to slow. The dread at the back of her mind would shadow her for the rest of the day. The feeling had become a constant companion as of late.

Just how much longer did she have?

Thus roused to wakefulness, Pithy slid out of her bed before going about her morning rituals. At the time of dressing herself, the woman studied herself in the room’s mirror as though seeing her reflection for the first time.

The woman in the glass stared back at her with icy blue eyes. She was tall and svelte, with sculpted physique and features that gave her a sharp quality. Her swath of black hair fell to her back, and had been arranged in such a way that it obscured the right side of her face. The ears poking out at the sides of her head ended in sharp points.

She trailed a finger down her side, smoothly following the contour of one of her ribs, ending the exploration just below her breast. Not two days ago, there had been a long cut there, courtesy of a mad duelist with eyes much like her own. There was not so much as a blemish there now. The healers of the city of Bren, well-loved by the gods, were skilled in that regard. The duelist had scored another slash climbing up the right side of her jaw. No wounds remained there either, but Pithy had no desire to touch that patch of skin. Hair might have obscured that side her face, but she knew where to look to spy the glittering surface hidden beneath.

She took up her clothes and began to dress, slipping into her white shirt and leggings.

Not two days ago she had participated in a competition presided by the Eight Elemental Lords, great beings that ruled over nature. Rumor (more than rumors if one asked the locals) indicated that the chosen winner would be granted a boon by their chosen Lord. Pithy had participated and killed her opponents—had seen first-hand the divine intervention of the Lords—but she herself had not been chosen.

Next came a black belt, followed by long black boots and leather gloves. Even in the rain, she needed to go out. Make the rounds. She had pinned her hopes on the intervention of a god to heal what ailed her, and now most of her leads had grown cold. She needed to find new ones or somehow pick up the old trails.

A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts, and she glanced at the room’s entrance.

The knock came again. “Miss Pithy? Are you there?” came the innkeeper’s tentative voice.

Pithy approached, grabbing the slender rapier resting against the foot of the bed as she passed. She unbolted the door and cracked it open, then opened it fully once she saw the short, balding man waiting outside.

“What is it?” she asked curtly.

“Apologies for the inconvenience.” The man took stock of the woman’s mood and the weapon held in her hand and smartly decided to keep his message brief. “Two men just arrived and asked for you personally, miss.”

Pithy’s brow rose, surprised, then furrowed in consternation. A good portion of the city had come together to spectate the competition she had been a part in. It only occurred to her now that people who had seen her might now seek her out.

But for what? To offer me mercenary work? Or could it be someone who knew me from before?

“Did they leave their names?” she pressed.

“No, but they don’t seem to be from these parts. They struck me as scholars.”

Pithy wondered at that. It was not the kind of crowd she thought her spectacle would attract. But then, she noticed the innkeeper hesitate. “Is there more?”

“Yes, miss.” The innkeeper frowned, as though he found what he was about to say distasteful, then added. “They asked me to tell you something. That they could offer you a second chance for a wish.”

Pithy immediately understood the reason behind the stout man’s reluctance. There were only two kinds of people who fought in the Elemental Lords’ competition. First, there were those who sought to honor their patron god, and second were those who sought a wish. By then, the innkeeper was no doubt aware that Pithy had been a participant.

It was common knowledge that among the surviving losers, multiple would be approached by poachers looking to capitalize on their desperation for profit. Pithy seethed at the prospect of being singled out by such people.

“Turn them away,” she said icily. “I don’t have time for such nonsense.”

“Let’s not be hasty.”

The innkeeper started and turned to the stairs, moving to the side so that she could see a man calmly walking towards them. “Sir, I told you to wait at the lobby.”

The man’s most distinctive feature was the trimmed beard that framed his face, black save for a few streaks of grey running down its length. His eyes were sunken, and the steely grey orbs stared out like lights from within a cave. He was dressed in a style she didn’t recognize.

His clothes are dry, she thought distantly.

“I thought the Lady should hear our message directly,” the man replied to the innkeeper before looking back at her. She found the man’s stare decidedly uncomfortable. “After all, hers is a race against time.”

Her throat suddenly felt parched.

---

The trio sat on a table at the inn’s lobby. Pithy sat on one end, a blue robe worn over her clothes like a cloak, with her rapier and a pair of daggers strapped to her belt. The two men sat on the other. One of them was the bearded stranger with the sunken eyes, who was regarding her calmly. The other was younger and clean-shaven, and was currently casting nervous looks at the people sitting on the other tables. A lantern sat on the floor besides him, but she did not pay this too much attention.

The rain continued unabated outside, so many of the inn’s patrons had either remained in their rooms or walked down to the entrance for food, drink and chatter. With the competition and the celebratory festivals that were to follow, finding lodging in the city of Bren was nothing short of a herculean task, and this showed. The din of conversation filled the room, and most of the tables had been filled.

When Pithy had made her way to the table led by the first man, the younger one had stood up, flashed her a personable smile, and asked if it might not be better to have this conversation somewhere more private.

“No, this is quite fine,” she had told him before sitting on the table with an air of finality. The men had shared a look, one with concern, the other with resignation, and had sat as well. If this was dangerous business, the din would make it difficult to overhear the conversation, and the presence of other people in the room would serve to discourage violence from either party.

As they sat, the innkeeper approached and asked if they wished to eat breakfast. She asked for wine. Her appetite had been soured when the first man had spoken. The other two asked for water.

The pitying look the innkeeper gave her as he retreated irritated her. He was likely convinced she was being taken advantage of. She had an inkling that that was the case herself, but the words of the bearded one had given her pause.

She had told no one of her circumstances, and if someone had reached into her mind and plucked those thoughts from her, she was certain she would have noticed the intrusion. The idea that she might not have and that her mind was open like a book to the one sitting before her was too terrifying an idea to contemplate.

But then how? Did he simply guess? That was more likely. He had said nothing of the nature of her desires beyond her need to accomplish them quickly. Slipping time made a good bedrock for desperation.

Only a minute later, a waitress walked up to the table and left three wooden cups before her guests. Pithy took a hearty gulp from her wine and frowned, disappointed. It had been watered down. Did the innkeeper think he was doing her a favor? She put her cup down, and looked at the men.

“So?” she asked. “What do you want from me?”

The young man started, realizing he had been spoken to, and looked away from the other tables, giving her his best diplomat’s smile. He held his hands together in front of him. She wondered if it was to keep them from fidgeting.

“Right,” he started. “I am Michael Lambert. We apologize if we have put you on edge, Pithy, but our business required us to meet with you.”

It did not occur to her that him knowing her name was strange. They could have gotten it from the innkeeper, or from the competition’s roster if they had been there a few days ago.

“You already brought me to the table,” Pithy said coolly. “Skip the pleasantries.”

“Very well.” Michael nodded agreeably, then drew closer as though afraid others might be listening in. “Truth is, this is a simple matter. We have come to ask you to participate in a tournament held by the organization we belong to. We call it ‘The Crucible’, and the winner will be granted a single wish.”

A grand name, if anything. She was now almost certain her first instinct had been correct and this was nothing but a scam. “A single wish, you say? And shall it be granted, no matter how outlandish?” Pithy feigned interest.

Michael gave her a conspiratorial smile, as though they were accomplices of a crime. It made her want to slap him. She brought her cup to her lips and took a moderate sip to quell the urge. “Indeed. It might even be used to soothe that thing you brought into yourself.”

Pithy had to try very hard not to choke on her wine. She closed her visible eye and slowly brought her cup down.

“Why?” she asked, steadily.

The man’s smile faltered, as though he had expected his revelation to have sealed the deal. Indeed, the fact that the men knew of her circumstances shook her, but this alone was not enough for her to risk life and limb. She was not yet sure the men had a solution for her problem.

Pithy opened her eye, giving Michael a calculating stare. “You are aware that this city holds a yearly competition with a similar premise?”

The young man nodded impatiently. “Yes, we heard from the other patrons that it took place recently, but—”

“The wishes that a god grants to others are of no use to themselves. But you said your Crucible is held by people. So why does this organization bother with a tournament when they could simply fulfill all their wishes? Or are the leaders of this group so starved for entertainment that they’ve wished for this Crucible to take place?”

For the first time since they sat down, the man with the sunken eyes spoke.

“You misunderstand, Lady.”

Michael seemed surprised by the interjection. “Doctor Hallow?”

“The Inquisitional College is not capable of granting wishes. However, we believe we have unearthed something that can.”

Michael drew closer to Hallow and whispered something that Pithy could not hear over the din. The man shook his head, and Michael sat back on his chair with a troubled expression.

Pithy ignored this byplay. “Explain.”

“We have discovered an artefact. A machine…” His eyes narrowed as something occurred to him, and he asked. “Do you know the word?”

Pithy nodded. In her head, she saw an amalgam of the clockwork toys that were quickly becoming popular in human cities and the strange weapons the lizard people of the south brought out from their domed cities.

“Good,” the man said. “In order to activate this machine, a specific ritual is required. This is what we have come to know as ‘The Crucible’. At first glance, it seems like a method to determine the worthiness of those who would use it.”

Pithy sat back, toying with the idea in her mind. She had never heard of a machine with such an ability, but her expertise lied elsewhere, and she had seen many strange gadgets before, in any case. If this Inquisitional College was attempting to activate a wish-granting machine the proposal made more sense.

However, there was still a problem in the premise. If the winner received the wish, what would be left for the people of the College? It is very likely that the winner will be double-crossed at the end.

Pithy peered at Howell’s unnerving eyes, and realized it did not matter to her. If there was to be a wish at all, she simply needed to play along until she found a way to secure it.

The problem is, does this machine truly grant wishes?

“Do you have proof for your claims?” Pithy asked, knowing the answer before the words left her lips.

“Only our word,” the man responded gravely. Then, he offered, as though he were doing her a kindness, “That said, you may find reasons to believe if you come with us.”

Pithy let out an unladylike grunt, unconvinced. “Would I not be better served by waiting a year here? In Bren I have seen divine intervention at work, while you cannot guarantee that your machine does as you suggest.”

“Have you a year, Lady? Two? Three? However long it might take you to succeed?” At this, the man’s façade of patience cracked. “I will not take kindly to a fool interfering with my work just so she might kill herself at her leisure.”

Pithy glared at the man, but found no retort. The man knew of her plight, so her last query had been nothing short of insulting his intelligence. All that was left was to either refuse, or take the plunge.

She drained the rest of her cup, wishing she had asked for something stronger, then stood up. The men followed suit. Pithy looked at them expectantly, then told them, “Well then? Lead the way.”

Michael Lambert brightened, his smile returning, and motioned for her to follow, lantern in hand.

The pair led her outside. Rain was still falling, the water streaming down her hood, and a bank of fog obscured the streets.

“Come along now, Pithy!” called Michael, the glow of the lantern making him easy to locate. “Perhaps you’ll be more inclined to believe us when you see this.”

Pithy moved behind him, hands close to her weapons. “If you lead me to an ambush, you will not be happy.”

For a moment, the trio walked in silence through the foggy streets, the only guiding light the lantern in Michael’s hand. Then, so quickly that she was almost certain her eyes were playing tricks on her, the fog and rain disappeared, replaced by a stone courtyard.

She knew before studying their surroundings, almost instinctually, that they were no longer in the city of Bren.

Before her stood a massive building, and far-off the alien vista of a sprawling city, larger than she had ever seen.

“This way, Pithy.”

Michael was ahead, motioning for her to follow. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the lantern in his hand, and comprehension dawned. Besides him, Doctor Howell gave her a knowing look from those sunken eyes.

She remembered an earlier thought. Their clothes are dry.

Shaking her head ruefully, Pithy strode towards the large building.

The Crucible - Winner Take All

@obliviousRoadie The Xs are reserved for player characters. Those spots have already been taken, though. They're just missing character sheets.

The Crucible - Winner Take All

The Itinerant Exorcist

Name: Erina
Alias: The Itinerant Exorcist
Race: Kitsune
Sex: Female
Class: Spiritualist
Equipment: Most of Erina’s more practical items are strapped to the belt at her waist.

The most obvious item she carries is a sheathed katana tied at her hip. Upon unsheathing it, however, the metal is chipped and reddened, consumed by rust. Once this was a beautiful, razor sharp blade, but as it is, its days as a proper weapon are clearly long over. But perhaps like the spirit that lives within the blade, it may have a chance to shine again.

At the other side is an unassuming satchel holding a dozen small knives meant for throwing. She can’t use them by herself, but got them at another’s behest.

A second satchel at her back holds a good number of talismans, long slips of paper with traditional writings on them. Their purpose is to ward off ill-omens and evil spirits. While they won’t do much to protect her from more mundane threats, spirits, undead and certain kinds of demons would be severely weakened if touched by them. They can also be placed in dwellings or shelters to sanctify them, only allowing the aforementioned supernatural beings within if they leave a portion of their strength behind.

Last among her belongings is a small knapsack with her money and writing instruments such as ink, chalk and charcoal wrapped up snugly inside.

Abilities:

-Discerning Eye: For the supernatural. Erina has always been able to see ghosts and spiritual entities that others cannot (likely because, in a manner of speaking, she is one herself). This doesn’t limit itself to ghosts, however. Illusions brought about by magic acquire a certain transparency in her eyes, making the falsehoods obvious, and she can tell at a glance whether an object has been cursed, enchanted, or is mundane.

-Will-o-Wisp: She can summon several small wisps of purple fire at a given time, controlling their movement with only a little effort. However, these wisps simply dissolve on contact with hard surfaces, barely letting out any heat in most circumstances. Normally, this is no more than a party trick. At worst, they could start a fire or damage clothes if she’s not careful with them.

However, when they touch ghosts, undead, or certain kinds of demons, the wisps combust beautifully, catching on their flesh (or what they might call flesh) in painful bursts of fire.

-Calling: Most ghosts instinctually seek those who can see them, and for better or worse, few would refuse a summons by one with Erina’s gift. In some places, particularly where atrocities have taken place and many have died, ghosts may gather around her the moment she sets foot in their haunt. More often, however, a small ritual is required wherein Erina finds a quiet place to meditate and call for those left behind. If available, this ritual may be performed using the belongings of the deceased to call them out specifically.

These ghosts are not bound to her will, and even if they were they have no way to affect the world around them (those who can are typically violently insane and are best disposed of immediately). However, those that retain enough reason to speak are often more than willing to share information with one who is alive.

-Channeling: This may be seen as a kind of willful possession where Erina allows a spirit to enter her body to use their skills. This is not true possession, as rather than being in control of the body, the ghost’s mind melds with that of the host, imparting them memories and knowledge. While the will directing the body when channeling is most definitely the host’s, certain aspects of their demeanor and personality may be colored by the experiences of the donor. Most outside memories glimpsed by either the host or the donor while performing this technique tend to disappear quite quickly once separate, and complex skills performed while channeling such as speaking other languages or combat expertise are not retained by the host. While convenient, it is no substitute for learning.

There is one particular spirit Erina often relies on for Channeling, a ghost by the name of Bend (attempts to pry his actual name from him have all failed). He appears to her in the appearance of a balding man in his sixties dressed in grey flowing robes. He is host to a grave demeanor, speaking curtly and matter-of-factly. The man claims to have been the head of a clan of assassins in the service of an old feudal lord, and that both he and his master fell to betrayal from a trusted friend. Bend has taken residence in the old rusted blade that once belonged to him, and has chosen to serve Erina with the wish to safeguard his new master to the bitter end.

A man of keen eyes and keener instincts rumored to have an iron body and the ability to deflect blades with his bare hands, Bend was a master killer. Now the latter two are exaggerations, but she can attest for the assassin’s skills first hand. Bringing the spirit within her gives her access to the man’s training, lending her the knowledge needed to move silently and unseen and to fight with fists, swords and knives with frightening proficiency.

Moreover, channeling Bend somehow restores her blade to its former glory for the duration of their connection. When asked about this the first time it occurred, the spirit shrugged, as though it was a matter of course, and replied that the blade would never break as long as he had a master to serve, and never dull as long as he willed it sharp.

Outside of Channeling, Bend can aid Erina by advising her in dangerous situations, peering through walls, and scouting ahead, though he cannot move beyond two hundred meters from his sword. He is also very knowledgeable on matters relating to the manufacturing and administering of poisons, but this is one kind of expertise Erina can do without.

-Illusion: A kind of magic which came to her instinctually, much like her wisps. However, her brand of illusions does not tend to be horribly complicated. They are largely visual, for one. As an example, this magic allows her to hide her tail and ears if she needs to, along with things she might be carrying in her hands or strapped to her belt. These illusions tend to break down when touched unexpectedly or when she is startled.

She can also create images of objects such as handkerchiefs, rabbits or flocks of doves popping out of hats and, when in a pinch, duplicates of herself. However, she can typically only hold together one duplicate at a time, it must be at least twenty meters from her, and, as before, these images all dissolve when suddenly touched by a solid object.

Fighting Style: Should she not be channeling Bend, Erina cannot be truly described as a combatant. She is fit and slippery, and has enough of a sense of danger to know when she is in trouble, but can do little against most threats beyond running away and attempting to lose her pursuers with the occasional duplicate splitting off from her.

The only enemy she may truly be able to combat on her own merits (and may indeed see as her duty to do so) are ghosts, the undead, and certain kinds of demons. That said, her ‘fighting style’ does not change much. She still attempts to keep her distance at all costs, except that now she can also bombard the enemy with fireballs and attempt to trick them into touching her talismans all while whooping and hollering with the rush of adrenaline and vindication. It’s not often she can boast of being able to pull her weight in a proper fight.

When dealing with any other kind of threat, particularly in kill or be killed situations, she will defer to Bend and allow him to possess her. The change is typically immediate. Movement that was once energetic and wasteful becomes silent and fluid, not quicker so much as streamlined, and her nerves are stilled by the killer’s cold contemplation.

If the battle can be won before the target can so much as see her, the chance should be taken. If the target forces combat, she must not tire her sword arm with feints. Every blow must be a killing blow. If the target attempts to put distance between them, throwing knives can apply pressure while she approaches. Diversions should come from illusions, no other use for those doppelgangers. A fair tool, though, one she did not have in life. If victory is out of reach, she must not hesitate to flee and regroup. The enemy’s guard must lower eventually.

Personality: Erina is, at her core, a genial and warm person. She is quick to warm up to new people, quick to form attachments and loves being depended on by others. However, her energy can occasionally daunt and irritate others, and piled with the fact that she sometimes looks at or speaks with invisible entities heedless of those around her gives rise to certain ideas.

She purports to be knowledgeable about all that lies beneath the sun, her worldly knowledge second to none, but when posed questions, her answers tend to be both immediate and wildly off-base. Ironically, the only questions she will regularly answer correctly are those with explanations deviating far from common sense. It is not clear whether she truly believes the answers she gives or if she is simply playing a joke on the listener. She certainly has a slight, almost compulsive tendency to lie in her day to day speech with little consistency and for seemingly no reason, leaving those wise to her ways to watch out for these occasional pitfalls. These lies become alarmingly commonplace when she speaks about her past, to the point where the only consistent thing she might say in a conversation regarding herself may be the reasons for her travels, that is, “To deliver a letter to my lost teacher.”

In a way, Bend has grown to become her confidant, the only person to whom she will speak to with complete honesty.

Erina does not like conflict. She is aware that she makes for a poor fighter, and does not like to rely on Bend’s expertise unless her life is in danger or she has been led to a situation where she needs to kill. If she catches wind of dangerous but mundane business afoot, she is more likely to warn other parties, such as guards or the like, and steer clear of trouble if she can.

She is most at her element performing exorcisms, leading those willing to rest, and disposing of the dangerous ones in flames if needed. It is the one thing she considers to be her duty.

When channeling Bend, she loses much of her joviality, becoming more serious and calculating. Calm, too, and she voices no displeasure at the prospect of killing. It’s only natural. She has already resolved to kill if she has let the killer in. Her manner of speaking becomes more straightforward as well, but the occasional blatant falsehood still slips out, hinting that it is still the very same person speaking.

Bio: Erina was found by the head monk of a shrine-temple along a mountain pass when she was but a toddler. Astonished by the sight of the ears and tail growing from her, the priest hesitated to approach. He was fearful that it might be a trap laid by a malignant spirit, but when Erina let out a pitiful cry, the man was moved to action, aware that if she was truly but a babe she would starve to death in that mountain path. That day, she found a home.

At first, Erina was taken care of by the old monk in secret, with the help of those monks he trusted most closely, but it is not a simple thing to attend to the needs of both a temple and a crying baby. Soon enough Erina’s presence had to be disclosed to the rest of the monks dwelling in the temple. The head monk explained how he found her, but omitted Erina’s animal features from the story. When showing them the child, he concealed her ears and tail with a cloth headpiece and blankets. He told them that he had kept the secret to avoid disturbing their daily rituals until he came to a decision about what to do with the babe. The decision he had come to was that Erina must have been an omen, and it would be best to rear her in that very temple.

After that, the head monk and a few others continued to take care of her, keeping her ears and tail a secret. She later heard from her teacher that it must have been divine providence that the ruse was never seen through until she was old enough to hide them herself.

When she asked him why it was necessary to hide that part of herself, the monk explained that humans fear what they do not understand, that fear isolated, and that in isolation the heart rusted.

In return, she asked if he had feared her when he first saw her ears and tail. The monk answered seriously that yes, he had been afraid. Quick for her age, Erina asked him why he had brought her with her, if he had been afraid.

The monk smiled and answered that that when one is concerned with fear, only the natural and the bad could occur because of it. As for the good, that could only come about in spite of fear. This was the first time she began to think of the old monk as her teacher, and this was only the first of many lessons he would impart.

The monk first became aware of Erina’s other peculiarities at an early age. The girl would look into space as though following something only her eyes could see, and occasionally she caught her holding conversations with herself. At first, he did not feel like it was particularly strange behavior for a child, but as she grew and this quirk continued, he began to fear for her. When he resolved to ask her about this, the girl seemed puzzled. At the time she still could not comprehend the difference between the spirits of the departed and the living, and it never occurred to her that she could see things others could not. The monk himself was skeptical about these people Erina saw, but was quickly understood the girl’s gift when Erina gave her an exact description of the previous head of the temple, and related to him a story of his own childhood no one else could have known of. From then on, her teacher also attempted to help her develop this strange talent, at least by helping her distinguish between ghosts and people by pointing out those he saw. He also advised her to ignore the spirits when around the other monks.

So the years passed. Soon Erina had matured, able to participate in the daily prayers and rituals at the temple, and occasionally visiting the small village at the foot of the mountain to offer blessings and take donations with some of the other monks. She loved the rituals that involved dances or theatrics, though the monks privy to her secret were desperate to keep her out of them for fear that her true nature might be revealed by a sudden jerk or an unfortunate sway of her dress. The world was small and warm, and time went by slowly, serenely.

One day, her teacher fell ill and passed away. He had not been the first. Other old monks in the temple had moved on in the past few years. Others that shared her age had begun to show small wrinkles around the eyes and smatterings of grey hair. She, however, remained like a faithful portrait, unchanged since the nineteenth year after she was found.

Suddenly she knew in her heart of hearts that she would not age beyond that point.

The monk had arranged for her to succeed him as the temple’s caretaker, but an idea that would have once brought her joy now filled her with dread. She could almost see in her mind’s eye as time unwound around her. The rest of the monks would one day follow her teacher’s footsteps. Their children would take their place, and other monks may come from beyond this temple to take the place of the rest, and then those too would one day move one. And what of her? The one that stood still in that river? What would they think of her? Isolation rusted the heart.

In the following days, her teacher had his last rites performed. The day after they were completed, Erina was nowhere to be seen.

She had stolen away in the dead night with a cloak and some food and arrived at the village at the foot of the mountain just as the sun began to rise. This is where her travels began. Clumsily, at first, for she had spent all her years within the small world of her temple home, and the world outside was vast indeed, its people varied and its ways mysterious. Many times she relied on charity to survive, and when she was lucky she found superstitious travelers and traders that would pay for a priestess to accompany them and ward off ill-omens. She had already began to obfuscate the nature of her past at this point, but the mannerisms and teachings of a shrine maiden were unmistakable.

One of these travelers once gave her a letter of introduction to a business partner that was seeking help from experts in the spiritual, and knowing no one else in the city, she resolved to visit this man. By then, she could readily distinguish between spirits and humans, and had allowed more than a few to move on in her travels, so when the man reticently spoke of his problem with her, she quickly realized what it would require of her. The trader had goods he needed to move stored in a certain warehouse, but the workhands all refused to enter the building. A strange chain of accidents had occurred within, and the warehouse was now seen as cursed. She was offered remuneration if she could convince the workers that the building was safe.

She did as bid, and practiced her craft within the warehouse. The actual exorcising took but a few minutes inside the building (a mad ghost had made it its haunt and had somehow become strong enough to insinuate itself into people’s thoughts), but the workers refused to return until she had spent two days offering prayers and sticking paper charms to the building’s walls. It was not all that surprising to her. She had already learned that most people would not believe that which they could not see, and so she put on required show. Truthfully, most of that time was spent dozing off inside the shelter provided by the warehouse. Once word got to her employer that the workers were going back into the warehouse, she received her payment (less than the agreed upon amount, but bartering was not a strong suit of hers back then) and a word of thanks. Sensing an opportunity, Erina told the man that if he knew of anyone who could use her talents, to not hesitate to send them her way.
In that city far from home, the maddening pace of her journey began to slow. She stayed for almost a year, making coin through charity, by selling off paper talismans as wards and good-luck charms and occasionally taking contracts to deal with haunts or perform séances. Eventually, however, she left for another town in her pilgrimage, an introductory letter once again in her pocket.

This cycle was carried out several times. She reached a new town or city, plied her trade, if it could even be called a trade, and looked for contacts. She would stay for anything between a handful of months to a handful of years depending on the work available, and eventually move on. It was in one of these exorcist odd jobs that she came across the rusty blade Bend uses as a vessel. It had been hidden under a house’s floorboards, and the assassin’s own stormy thoughts had brought a dark aura to the home, bringing nightmares to the owners. Bend was unwilling to move on, unyielding in his desire to properly serve a master again, and Erina could not bring herself to forcibly exorcise him while he had his wits about him, so she simply took the sword with her.

One day she reached a seaport town, and came to watch a circus troupe perform at the docks. She was instantly taken with the magician's’ tricks, and watched the spectacle with a childish glee.

When the show was done and the troupe was packing up, she homed in on the magicians to ask them about their magic, how they casted the sorceries that let dazzle their audience so. She had hope in her heart that she might find one of her kind in their numbers. At first the artist laughed her off with the tired line of ‘a true magician never reveals their secrets,’ but when Erina continued to insist and the man realized she truly believed they were sorcerers, he brought her close and whispered to her. That the magic was called sleight of hand. That the spell was misdirection and the magic was in the mind that chose to believe. ‘Magic that simply is does not exist anymore,’ he told her, unaware of the irony.

The following day, she purchased a different set of traveling clothes and set out on her trip once more. Up until then, she had always worn clothes reminiscent to the ones she had left the shrine with. It didn’t occur to her until later that after hearing the magician’s confession the teachings of her faith had lost some their sway over the way she thought.

The cycle picked up again and continued as it has before, though occasionally it was interrupted when the local priesthoods condemned her practices and ran her out of town. Regardless, she always stayed long enough to forge friendships, stayed long enough to make the parting hurt, but always left in the end nonetheless. Most of all, she never once visited the same town twice. This way she maintained an illusion of immutability. The feeling of being outside of time was not as overpowering when she continually saw new things, continually met new people, and left long before those sights could age and move on without her.

Wish: To find her lost teacher! Good food! World peace! Riches beyond measure!

Her answer changes every time she is asked, but her true wish is a simple one. Erina has lived for long enough to grow lonely. Beings as long lived as her are few and far in-between in her world, and most who still exist have withdrawn from the world. What she wishes for is someone to share her life with. It does not matter if it is as friends or lovers or bitter rivals as long as she can feel their warmth without the fear of them wasting away with time.

Ironically, this tournament might very well pit her against candidates for such a position. Everyone came to this place willing to put their life on the line, even her. Still, she needn’t kill them. Hopefully they would not make her kill them.

Echo: The docks of a large city, the smell of salt and seafood all but saturating the air. Wooden vessels large and small dot the waterline, and the buildings nearby are largely warehouses and trading company buildings.

This is where she first saw the ocean. More importantly, here she was dazzled by a magic trick.

Appearance: 5’4” and with a svelte frame, from a distance Erina may be confused for a young man, particularly while wearing a hood. On closer inspection, however, the mounds on her chest are unassuming but undeniably present under her clothing. Travel has made her body lean, building some muscle on her arms and legs, but her pale features retain a kind of softness enhanced by her optimistic smile and the intelligent gleam of her green eyes. Belying her youthful appearance, her hair is a grayish white, kept to shoulder length to avoid the aforementioned misunderstandings.

The pair of white ears sitting atop head and the furry tail sprouting from her rear betray Erina’s inhuman nature. She often wears a brown cloak in order to hide those features as constantly maintaining illusions is terribly inconvenient, but the back of the cloak may rustle from time to time, particularly when she’s excited. Her preferred set of clothing consists of sturdy, brown traveling boots, tan cloth pants with a hole at the back held up by a belt, and a bluish shirt.

Frenzy: On some occasions, her tail might split off a black double. When this occurs, several other changes come upon Erina. Her pupils turn to slits, her fingers elongate, nails growing sharp like claws and her features grow pointed and angular, lips stretching and mouth jutting forward slightly in a manner vaguely reminiscent of a muzzle.

While in this state she is much stronger and faster than normal, her mind is lost, leaving her to strike out at anything and everything that moves with an angry snarl displaying filed teeth and little instinct for self-preservation. Indeed, were this all, one might make the case that Erina is deadlier when allowing Bend to possess her. While she can’t seem to commune with spirits or use illusions while in this form, her natural fire magic is greatly amplified. She will use this instinctively, throwing out streams of fire at anything on sight and sending swaths of purple flame flying with every swing of her arms. Should she turn into this beast, a firestorm is soon to follow.

Inventory:
-Phylactery

The Crucible - Winner Take All

Have another fox lady for an NPC.

The Itinerant Exorcist

Name: Erina
Alias: The Itinerant Exorcist
Race: Kitsune
Sex: Female
Class: Spiritualist
Equipment: Most of Erina’s more practical items are strapped to the belt at her waist.

The most obvious item she carries is a sheathed katana tied at her left hip. Upon unsheathing it, however, the metal is chipped and reddened, consumed by rust. Once this was a beautiful, razor sharp blade, but as it is, its days as a proper weapon are clearly long over. But perhaps like the spirit that lives within the blade, it may have a chance to shine again.

At the other side is an unassuming satchel holding a dozen small knives meant for throwing. She can’t use them by herself, but got them at another’s behest.

A second satchel at her back holds a good number of talismans, long slips of paper with traditional writings on them. Their purpose is to ward off ill-omens and evil spirits. While they won’t do much to protect her from more mundane threats, spirits, undead and certain kinds of demons would be severely weakened if touched by them. They can also be placed in dwellings or shelters to sanctify them, only allowing the aforementioned supernatural beings within if they leave behind a portion of their strength behind.

Last among her belongings is a small knapsack with her money and writing instruments such as ink, chalk and charcoal wrapped up snugly inside.

Abilities:

-Discerning Eye: For the supernatural. Erina has always been able to see ghosts and spiritual entities that others cannot (likely because, in a manner of speaking, she is one herself). This doesn’t limit itself to ghosts, however. Illusions brought about by magic acquire a certain transparency in her eyes, making the falsehoods obvious, and she can tell at a glance whether an object has been cursed, enchanted, or is mundane.

-Will-o-Wisp: She can summon several small wisps of purple fire at a given time, controlling their movement with only a little effort. However, these wisps simply dissolve on contact with hard surfaces, barely letting out any heat in most circumstances. Normally, this is no more than a party trick. At worst, they could start a fire or damage clothes if she’s not careful with them.

However, when they touch ghosts, undead, or certain kinds of demons, the wisps combust beautifully, catching on their flesh (or what they might call flesh) in painful bursts of fire.

-Calling: Most ghosts instinctually seek those who can see them, and for better or worse, few would refuse a summons by one with Erina’s gift. In some places, particularly where atrocities have taken place and many have died, ghosts may gather around her the moment she sets foot in their haunt. More often, however, a small ritual is required wherein Erina finds a quiet place to meditate and call for those left behind. If available, this ritual may be performed using the belongings of the deceased to call them out specifically.

These ghosts are not bound to her will, and even if they were they have no way to affect the world around them (those who can are typically violently insane and are best disposed of immediately). However, those that retain enough reason to speak are often more than willing to share information with one who is alive.

-Channeling: This may be seen as a kind of willful possession where Erina allows a spirit to enter her body to use their skills. This is not true possession, as rather than being in control of the body, the ghost’s mind melds with that of the host, imparting them memories and knowledge. While the will directing the body when channeling is most definitely the host’s, certain aspects of their demeanor and personality may be colored by the experiences of the donor. Most outside memories glimpsed by either the host or the donor while performing this technique tend to disappear quite quickly once separate, and complex skills performed while channeling such as speaking other languages or combat expertise are not retained by the host. While convenient, it is no substitute for learning.

There is one particular spirit Erina often relies on for Channeling, a ghost by the name of Bend (attempts to pry his actual name from him have all failed). He appears to her in the appearance of a balding man in his sixties dressed in grey flowing robes. He is host to a grave demeanor, speaking curtly and matter-of-factly. The man claims to have been the head of a clan of assassins in the service of an old feudal lord, and that both he and his master fell to betrayal from a trusted friend. Bend has taken residence in the old rusted blade that once belonged to him, and has chosen to serve Erina with the wish to safeguard his new master to the bitter end.

A man of keen eyes and keener instincts rumored to have an iron body and the ability to deflect blades with his bare hands, Bend was a master killer. Now the latter two are exaggerations, but she can attest for the assassin’s skills first hand. Bringing the spirit within her gives her access to the man’s training, lending her the knowledge needed to move silently and unseen and to fight with fists, swords and knives with frightening proficiency.

Moreover, channeling Bend somehow restores her blade to its former glory for the duration of their connection. When asked about this the first time it occurred, the spirit shrugged, as though it was a matter of course, and replied that the blade would never break as long as he had a master to serve, and never dull as long as he willed it sharp.

Outside of Channeling, Bend can aid Erina by advising her in dangerous situations, peering through walls, and scouting ahead, though he cannot move beyond two hundred meters from his sword. He is also very knowledgeable on matters relating to the manufacturing and administering of poisons, but this is one kind of expertise Erina can do without.

-Illusion: A kind of magic which came to her instinctually, much like her wisps. However, her brand of illusions does not tend to be horribly complicated. They are largely visual, for one. As an example, this magic allows her to hide her tail and ears if she needs to, along with things she might be carrying in her hands or strapped to her belt. These illusions tend to break down when touched unexpectedly or when she is startled.

She can also create images of objects such as handkerchiefs, rabbits or flocks of doves popping out of hats and, when in a pinch, duplicates of herself. However, she can typically only hold together one duplicate at a time, it must be at least twenty meters from her, and, as before, these images all dissolve when suddenly touched by a solid object.

Fighting Style: Should she not be channeling Bend, Erina cannot be truly described as a combatant. She is fit and slippery, and has enough of a sense of danger to know when she is in trouble, but can do little against most threats beyond running away and attempting to lose her pursuers with the occasional duplicate splitting off from her.

The only enemy she may truly be able to combat on her own merits (and may indeed see as her duty to do so) are ghosts, the undead, and certain kinds of demons. That said, her ‘fighting style’ does not change much. She still attempts to keep her distance at all costs, except that now she can also bombard the enemy with fireballs and attempt to trick them into touching her talismans all while whooping and hollering with the rush of adrenaline and vindication. It’s not often she can boast of being able to pull her weight in a proper fight.

When dealing with any other kind of threat, particularly in kill or be killed situations, she will defer to Bend and allow him to possess her. The change is typically immediate. Movement that was once energetic and wasteful becomes silent and fluid, not quicker so much as streamlined, and her nerves are stilled by the killer’s cold contemplation.

If the battle can be won without the target can so much as see her, the chance should be taken. If the target forces combat, she must not tire her sword arm with feints. Every blow must be a killing blow. If the target attempts to put distance between them, throwing knives can apply pressure while she approaches. Diversions should come from illusions, no other use for those doppelgangers. A fair tool, though, one she did not have in life. If victory is out of reach, she must not hesitate to flee and regroup. The enemy’s guard must lower eventually.

Personality: Erina is, at her core, a genial and warm person. She is quick to warm up to new people, quick to form attachments and loves being depended on by others. However, her energy can occasionally daunt and irritate others, and piled with the fact that she sometimes looks at or speaks with invisible entities heedless of those around her gives rise to certain ideas.

She purports to be knowledgeable about all that lies beneath the sun, her worldly knowledge second to none, but when posed questions, her answers tend to be both immediate and wildly off-base. Ironically, the only questions she will regularly answer correctly are those with explanations deviating far from common sense. It is not clear whether she truly believes the answers she gives or if she is simply playing a joke on the listener. She certainly has a slight, almost compulsive tendency to lie in her day to day speech with little consistency and for seemingly no reason, leaving those wise to her ways to watch out for these occasional pitfalls. These lies become alarmingly commonplace when she speaks about her past, to the point where the only consistent thing she might say in a conversation regarding herself may be the reasons for her travels, that is, “To deliver a letter to my lost teacher.”

In a way, Bend has grown to become her confidant, the only person to whom she will speak to with complete honesty.

Erina does not like conflict. She is aware that she makes for a poor fighter, and does not like to rely on Bend’s expertise unless her life is in danger or she has been led to a situation where she needs to kill. If she catches wind of dangerous but mundane business afoot, she is more likely to warn other parties, such as guards or the like, and steer clear of trouble if she can.

She is most at her element performing exorcisms, leading those willing to rest, and disposing of the dangerous ones in flames if needed. It is the one thing she considers to be her duty.

When channeling Bend, she loses much of her joviality, becoming more serious and calculating. Calm, too, and she voices no displeasure at the prospect of killing. It’s only natural. She has already resolved to kill if she has let the killer in. Her manner of speaking becomes more straightforward as well, but the occasional blatant falsehood still slips out, hinting that it is still the very same person speaking.

Bio: Erina was found by the head monk of a shrine-temple along a mountain pass when she was but a toddler. Astonished by the sight of the ears and tail growing from her, the priest hesitated to approach. He was fearful that it might be a trap laid by a malignant spirit, but when Erina let out a pitiful cry, the man was moved to action, aware that if she was truly but a babe she would starve to death in that mountain path. That day, she found a home.

At first, Erina was taken care of by the old monk in secret, with the help of those monks he trusted most closely, but it is not a simple thing to attend to the needs of both a temple and a crying baby. Soon enough Erina’s presence had to be disclosed to the rest of the monks dwelling in the temple. The head monk explained how he found her, but omitted Erina’s animal features from the story. When showing them the child, he concealed her ears and tail with a cloth headpiece and blankets. He told them that he had kept the secret to avoid disturbing their daily rituals until he came to a decision about what to do with the babe. The decision he had come to was that Erina must have been an omen, and it would be best to rear her in that very temple.

After that, the head monk and a few others continued to take care of her, keeping her ears and tail a secret. She later heard from her teacher that it must have been divine providence that the ruse was never seen through until she was old enough to hide them herself.

When she asked him why it was necessary to hide that part of herself, the monk explained that humans fear what they do not understand, that fear isolated, and that in isolation the heart rusted.

In return, she asked if he had feared her when he first saw her ears and tail. The monk answered seriously that yes, he had been afraid. Quick for her age, Erina asked him why he had brought her with her, if he had been afraid.

The monk smiled and answered that that when one is concerned with fear, only the natural and the bad could occur because of it. As for the good, that could only come about in spite of fear. This was the first time she began to think of the old monk as her teacher, and this was only the first of many lessons he would impart.

The monk first became aware of Erina’s other peculiarities at an early age. The girl would look into space as though following something only her eyes could see, and occasionally she caught her holding conversations with herself. At first, he did not feel like it was particularly strange behavior for a child, but as she grew and this quirk continued, he began to fear for her. When he resolved to ask her about this, the girl seemed puzzled. At the time she still could not comprehend the difference between the spirits of the departed and the living, and it never occurred to her that she could see things others could not. The monk himself was skeptical about these people Erina saw, but was quickly understood the girl’s gift when Erina gave her an exact description of the previous head of the temple, and related to him a story of his own childhood no one else could have known of. From then on, her teacher also attempted to help her develop this strange talent, at least by helping her distinguish between ghosts and people by pointing out those he saw. He also advised her to ignore the spirits when around the other monks.

So the years passed. Soon Erina had matured, able to participate in the daily prayers and rituals at the temple, and occasionally visiting the small village at the foot of the mountain to offer blessings and take donations with some of the other monks. She loved the rituals that involved dances or theatrics, though the monks privy to her secret were desperate to keep her out of them for fear that her true nature might be revealed by a sudden jerk or an unfortunate sway of her dress. The world was small and warm, and time went by slowly, serenely.

One day, her teacher fell ill and passed away. He had not been the first. Other old monks in the temple had moved on in the past few years. Others that shared her age had begun to show small wrinkles around the eyes and smatterings of grey hair. She, however, remained like a faithful portrait, unchanged since the nineteenth year after she was found.

Suddenly she knew in her heart of hearts that she would not age beyond that point.

The monk had arranged for her to succeed him as the temple’s caretaker, but an idea that would have once brought her joy now filled her with dread. She could almost see in her mind’s eye as time unwound around her. The rest of the monks would one day follow her teacher’s footsteps. Their children would take their place, and other monks may come from beyond this temple to take the place of the rest, and then those too would one day move one. And what of her? The one that stood still in that river? What would they think of her? Isolation rusted the heart.

In the following days, her teacher had his last rites performed. The day after they were completed, Erina was nowhere to be seen.

She had stolen away in the dead night with a cloak and some food and arrived at the village at the foot of the mountain just as the sun began to rise. This is where her travels began. Clumsily, at first, for she had spent all her years within the small world of her temple home, and the world outside was vast indeed, its people varied and its ways mysterious. Many times she relied on charity to survive, and when she was lucky she found superstitious travelers and traders that would pay for a priestess to accompany them and ward off ill-omens. She had already began to obfuscate the nature of her past at this point, but the mannerisms and teachings of a shrine maiden were unmistakable.

One of these travelers once gave her a letter of introduction to a business partner that was seeking help from experts in the spiritual, and knowing no one else in the city, she resolved to visit this man. By then, she could readily distinguish between spirits and humans, and had allowed more than a few to move on in her travels, so when the man reticently spoke of his problem with her, she quickly realized what it would require of her. The trader had goods he needed to move stored in a certain warehouse, but the workhands all refused to enter the building. A strange chain of accidents had occurred within, and the warehouse was now seen as cursed. She was offered remuneration if she could convince the workers that the building was safe.

She did as bid, and practiced her craft within the warehouse. The actual exorcising took but a few minutes inside the building (a mad ghost had made it its haunt and had somehow become strong enough to insinuate itself into people’s thoughts), but the workers refused to return until she had spent two days offering prayers and sticking paper charms to the building’s walls. It was not all that surprising to her. She had already learned that most people would not believe that which they could not see, and so she put on required show. Truthfully, most of that time was spent dozing off inside the shelter provided by the warehouse. Once word got to her employer that the workers were going back into the warehouse, she received her payment (less than the agreed upon amount, but bartering was not a strong suit of hers back then) and a word of thanks. Sensing an opportunity, Erina told the man that if he knew of anyone who could use her talents, to not hesitate to send them her way.
In that city far from home, the maddening pace of her journey began to slow. She stayed for almost a year, making coin through charity, by selling off paper talismans as wards and good-luck charms and occasionally taking contracts to deal with haunts or perform séances. Eventually, however, she left for another town in her pilgrimage, an introductory letter once again in her pocket.

This cycle was carried out several times. She reached a new town or city, plied her trade, if it could even be called a trade, and looked for contacts. She would stay for anything between a handful of months to a handful of years depending on the work available, and eventually move on. It was in one of these exorcist odd jobs that she came across the rusty blade Bend uses as a vessel. It had been hidden under a house’s floorboards, and the assassin’s own stormy thoughts had brought a dark aura to the home, bringing nightmares to the owners. Bend was unwilling to move on, unyielding in his desire to properly serve a master again, and Erina could not bring herself to forcibly exorcise him while he had his wits about him, so she simply took the sword with her.

One day she reached a seaport town, and came to watch a circus troupe perform at the docks. She was instantly taken with the magician's’ tricks, and watched the spectacle with a childish glee.

When the show was done and the troupe was packing up, she homed in on the magicians to ask them about their magic, how they casted the sorceries that let dazzle their audience so. She had hope in her heart that she might find one of her kind in their numbers. At first the artist laughed her off with the tired line of ‘a true magician never reveals their secrets,’ but when Erina continued to insist and the man realized she truly believed they were sorcerers, he brought her close and whispered to her. That the magic was called sleight of hand. That the spell was misdirection and the magic was in the mind that chose to believe. ‘Magic that simply is does not exist anymore,’ he told her, unaware of the irony.

The following day, she purchased a different set of traveling clothes and set out on her trip once more. Up until then, she had always worn clothes reminiscent to the ones she had left the shrine with. It didn’t occur to her until later that after hearing the magician’s confession the teachings of her faith had lost some their sway over the way she thought.

The cycle picked up again and continued as it has before, though occasionally it was interrupted when the local priesthoods condemned her practices and ran her out of town. Regardless, she always stayed long enough to forge friendships, stayed long enough to make the parting hurt, but always left in the end nonetheless. Most of all, she never once visited the same town twice. This way she maintained an illusion of immutability. The feeling of being outside of time was not as overpowering when she continually saw new things, continually met new people, and left long before those sights could age and move on without her.

Wish: To find her lost teacher! Good food! World peace! Riches beyond measure!

Her answer changes every time she is asked, but her true wish is a simple one. Erina has lived for long enough to grow lonely. Beings as long lived as her are few and far in-between in her world, and most who still exist have withdrawn from the world. What she wishes for is someone to share her life with. It does not matter if it is as friends or lovers or bitter rivals as long as she can feel their warmth without the fear of them wasting away with time.

Ironically, this tournament might very well pit her against candidates for such a position. Everyone came to this place willing to put their life on the line, even her. Still, she needn’t kill them. Hopefully they would not make her kill them.

Echo: The docks of a large city, the smell of salt and seafood all but saturating the air. Wooden vessels large and small dot the waterline, and the buildings nearby are largely warehouses and trading company buildings.

This is where she first saw the ocean. More importantly, here she was dazzled by a magic trick.

Appearance: 5’4” and with a svelte frame, from a distance Erina may be confused for a young man, particularly while wearing a hood. On closer inspection, however, the mounds on her chest are unassuming but undeniably present under her clothing. Travel has made her body lean, building some muscle on her arms and legs, but her pale features retain a kind of softness enhanced by her optimistic smile and the intelligent gleam of her green eyes. Belying her youthful appearance, her hair is a grayish white, kept to shoulder length to avoid the aforementioned misunderstandings.

The pair of white ears sitting atop head and the furry tail sprouting from her rear betray Erina’s inhuman nature. She often wears a brown cloak in order to hide those features as constantly maintaining illusions is terribly inconvenient, but the back of the cloak may rustle from time to time, particularly when she’s excited. Her preferred set of clothing consists of sturdy, brown traveling boots, tan cloth pants with a hole at the back held up by a belt, and a bluish shirt.

Frenzy: On some occasions, her tail might split off a black double. When this occurs, several other changes come upon Erina. Her pupils turn to slits, her fingers elongate, nails growing sharp like claws and her features grow pointed and angular, lips stretching and mouth jutting forward slightly in a manner vaguely reminiscent of a muzzle.

While in this state she is much stronger and faster than normal, her mind is lost, leaving her to strike out at anything and everything that moves with an angry snarl displaying filed teeth and little instinct for self-preservation. Indeed, were this all, one might make the case that Erina is deadlier when allowing Bend to possess her. While she can’t seem to commune with spirits or use illusions while in this form, her natural fire magic is greatly amplified. She will use this instinctively, throwing out streams of fire at anything on sight and sending swaths of purple flame flying with every swing of her arms. Should she turn into this beast, a firestorm is soon to follow.

Inventory:
-Phylactery

I'm in this weird place where I want to play both characters, but only one can get the chance to shine.

The Crucible - Winner Take All

@GreenGoat Tell me about it. Looks like my character will have to try and avoid close melees if she wants to survive, but I suppose she should be able to keep up with ice magic and some creativity.

Juniper has a God Hand to put her in the ranks of the inhumanly strong and fast, but she's also one armed, so I don't know how you'll make her deal with some of this stuff.

The Crucible - Winner Take All

@Flamelord I like Rin as much as the next Fate fan, but I should point out something in the OOC post:

You could have a character from the world of any game, movie, book, or whatever, including pre-existing RPs (this is your chance to revive an old character you liked from an RP that died). However, this character does have to be your original creation.

The Crucible - Winner Take All

Pithy

Name: Pithy
Alias: The Lady in White
Race: Elf
Sex: Female
Class: Spellsword
Appearance: Pithy stands at 5’10’’ and still retains the youthful appearance of someone in their early twenties. While still young compared to others of her kind, her actual age triples that. She is possessed of the pointed ears intrinsic to her kind, and, like many elves, her body and features are gracefully sculpted in a manner that lends her svelte, pale form a sharp, almost ethereal quality. However, many would be admirers have been turned away by the regal bearing with which she conducts herself, and the severe stare of her left, icy blue eye. Her right eye and cheek are mostly obscured under a swath of cascading, black hair, but she does not seem inconvenienced by this. So far, few have seen her right eye, but many have noticed crystalline shapes peeking from under the cover of her hair, almost as if concealing a mask of jagged ice.

During her years traveling through human lands and becoming acquainted with several passing adventurers, she has picked up some of their taste in dressing. Her most recent choice in attire consists of complimenting, off-white tunic and cotton leggings. The loose tunic is fastened around her waist with a black belt, allowing the hemline to reach her hips like a particularly short skirt. Covering slender fingers, she wears black, leather gloves reaching to the middle of her forearms over her tunic’s sleeves. She also wears long, black leather boots over her leggings, reaching just below her knee. Projecting metal plates designed to protect the wearer’s knees are affixed to the end of her boots, the only form of armor in her outfit.

Above it all, she tends to wear a set of cowled, vivid blue robes with golden thread marking the finishes at the seams, fastened by a clasp bearing an inlaid insignia shaped as an open rose. The hemline of the robe splits at the height of her hip at the front and descends until it reaches her back, at the height of her ankles, in the manner of a long, triangular coattail. She often wears the item as one would a cloak, letting the long, wide sleeves of the ensemble fall limply to her sides.

Equipment: Pithy is most often a light traveler, and beyond her apparel, the only noteworthy items she keeps on herself are a pair of daggers and a rapier.

- Guardian Robe: The robes she wears have been enchanted to resist the elements and the wear and tear of long journeys. However, the enchantment isn’t designed as armor, so it provides little defense against the force of incoming blows, and strong attacks are likely to cut through the fabric. Its value is largely sentimental.

- Daggers: Short weapons with pointed tips better suited for thrusts. The daggers themselves are of decent quality, but ultimately quite ordinary, and Pithy is just as likely to use them to clean her nails or to prepare a meal in a pinch as to use them in an altercation.

- Rapier: She bought this item off a traveling merchant on the road who knew nothing of the weapon beyond the fact that it looked expensive. The slender and elegant weapon is made of a silver-hued material, something that, should it be lacking in protective enchantments, would never manage to endure the abuse Pithy has put the weapon through. The hilt was crafted in the shape of a flower closing its petals, leaving an opening on one side to hold the handle, and meeting at the pommel to form a vicious spike. While the outstanding beauty and endurance of the weapon are interesting in their own rights, it was not what made the rapier so peculiar. The crafter, upon creating the weapon, had inlaid a series of runes along the inside of the flower shaped hilt, transforming the rapier into a focal point, allowing for a more precise and efficient use of magic channeled through it. For all intents and purposes, someone had crafted a magic wand and given it the shape of a duelist’s sword. As far as she is concerned, it was worth far more than what she spent on it.

Abilities: Pithy is precise and quick on her feet, an experienced and nimble swordfighter basing much of her style on swift, pinpoint strikes meant to shatter or bypass opponents defenses. Occasionally, she makes use of side-arms, such as the daggers she carries with her.

While Pithy’s education in arcane matters was expansive and she retains knowledge of several disciplines, due to binding an elemental spirit of ice, her magic has become aspected. While this means that cryomancy comes naturally to her, other forms of magic suffer. The other elements will not obey her most of the time, illusion spells sap the heat from their surroundings, and the use of healing magic on deep wounds is likely to inflict frostbite on the recipient before significant progress is made. Even using it on herself is risky. Only a few simple cantrips remain relatively useful, such as a ward that alerts her to people entering a designated space while she sleeps.

Magic intended to cause harm, however, comes naturally. Her ice magic excels in combat and does manage to supplement her fighting style, allowing her to cover surfaces with ice, summon barriers, sharp icicles, blasts of frigid wind, or blades and shields, should she need the extra armament. The colder the environment, the easier it is for her to summon her magic, and formations of ice may become weapons for her to levitate or explode into sharp shards. Additionally, her magic allows her to stand steady even in surfaces covered by slick ice. This means that the longer a battle against her lasts, the deadlier she becomes. Conversely, this also means that she is at a disadvantage in specific environments or against foes adept at fiery magics who can counter the cold.

One of the simplest, yet most effective uses of her magic is to focus some of her frigid power into her rapier, an act facilitated by the runes within the guard. The weapon will be enveloped by a whitish glow in this state, and anything it touches will begin to freeze while the charged blade remains in contact. Foes will find their bodies slowing and numbing with the scathingly cold touch of her blade, and any unfortunate victim of a thrusting lunge may find their wounds freezing from within until the weapon is dislodged.

Fighting Style: Pithy is adept at fighting at both medium range and close range. When confronting far-off opponents, she often uses her rapier in its capacity as a magical focus, summoning icicles and blades of ice to harry them, using her sword like a conductor’s baton.

If her foe needs to be at close range to properly fight her – particularly if such a foe can clearly overpower her in close quarters – she will put effort into keeping her distance, be that by blasting the enemy away with wind, pressuring them with flying shards of ice, or backpedaling to safer positions. If an enemy manages to break through, she might then decide to engage them as close-quarters. Conversely, if the enemy gains the advantage in a long-range battle, she may use this magic as cover to flee and search for a better battlefield, or to close the distance.

As a close-range fighter, Pithy is a masterful fencer, adept at breaking through opponents’ guards and punishing their mistakes. Occasionally she will also use a dagger in her off-hand if she thinks a second weapon will give her opportunities to harm her opponent. She has even been known to remove her robe and wrap it over her off-hand to obscure her main weapon, restrain the opponents’ arm, or, if needed, throwing it at them as a distraction. In the latter case, she has used her blasts of wind to force the cape to billow onto an enemy’s face.

Regarding magic in close quarters, Pithy can channel a freezing aura into her rapier, but channeling complex spells through a catalyst while it is being used in a swordfight is much too unwieldy. In such cases, she will usually channel magic through her left hand, though the resulting spells are not nearly so precise in the heat of battle. Because of this, she favors blasts of winds, the occasional icicle suddenly sprouting from the ground, and spells which may cause rapid freezing of an area. As an example, a battle against a similar duelist was settled by Pithy goading her opponent into lounging at her, and then dropping a mote of magic onto the stone floor at the right moment. The floor was suddenly covered in a sheet of ice, and her enemy slipped, leaving them defenseless.

Personality: Serious. Distant. Cold. Harsh. All decent adjectives when it comes to describing Pithy’s mannerisms, and yet a steadfast dignity seems to hold her together at the base. It might have been that which led some of the people she has traveled with to make wagers as to whether they could crack a warm smile out of those lips instead of the usual displeased grimace or sneer.

While often regarded as practical, even opportunistic by some’s standards, Pithy values organization and efficiency, and can appear methodical to the point of perfectionism. Indeed, the intense, analytical manner with which she tends to observe her surroundings tends to make her seem even more unapproachable. It might be for the best, for those that are more perceptive have claimed to occasionally notice a frightening bitterness in her exposed eye.

One thing that tends to infuriate her occasional companions is that, while she normally does not mince words, whenever she stumbles upon a piece of information another happens not to have, she has the irritating inclination observed in many wizards and magically touched beings to treat it as a secret worth keeping regardless of how insignificant it might be.

Bio: Both Pithy’s bearing and choice in weaponry give poignant hints towards her origins, and, despite certain differences between elven and human social structures, one would not be wrong in assuming she had a noble’s upbringing.

Her parents were Guardians, powerful knights and spellcasters, bound to spirits of the forest and dedicated to the defense of their woodland enclave. Much reverence was given to this order, and they were treated as one would treat the most respected aristocracy. However, neither Pithy’s intense gaze nor severe manner suggests the fact that she was born the talentless, sickly foil to her twin sister. Now, elves bearing more than one child – twins, no less – is an odd occurrence, and much was expected of them. Both were trained in the art of fencing by their parents and were tutored in matters of the arcane from an early age along with a few other prospective mages, but where her sister would excel, exhibiting a talent matching, even exceeding that of their parents and earning the praise and admiration of her teachers and peers, Pithy would struggle to so much as match the prowess of the lowliest magical pupil.

Parents should love their children regardless of their shortcomings, and despite Pithy’s failures, hers always tried to reassure her. She needed not worry, this was simply not her calling; they loved her all the same. They did not understand how their every word of compassion wounded her, each an admission that she was inferior to her sibling. Her sister was the strong one, the compassionate one, the warm one, the talented one, and even though they looked virtually identical, Pithy began to feel more and more as if even her appearance was a vicarious imitation of her sister’s. How could she compare if she never stood a chance? How were they different? Why was she the one born weak?

And so frustration and bitterness festered.

She devoted herself to studying and training, from sunrise to dark’s fall, always pushing for perfection. She sparred often, striking matches with her sister, her parents when available, and other knights, slowly refining her techniques until she grew into a swift and precise duelist. She poured over magic tomes, seeking to achieve with focus and execution what she could not with power, but despite her best efforts, it was never enough to best her better half. Those around her made note of her progress, of her persistence, and many were proud of her, her family included. But it was never enough. She despaired, and could see her sister’s encouraging smiles as little else than mocking gestures.

One day, Pithy left. If she was a full-fledged Guardian, bound in pact to the spirits of the forest, she could defeat her sister. But that would not be allowed. She was too young, too impatient, too unlike her, said her parents and mentors. They knew nothing. She travelled to the frozen north, blinded by thoughts of reprisal. She had read of spirits of the tundra. Hungry wraiths, seeking warmth and life in a land that had none, haunting unwary travelers. If she could not match her sister on her own, she would use the spirit’s power. Using sorceries, she entrapped a spirit of the land, forcing it into a pact that bound it to her, lending Pithy its powers. This greatly empowered the potency of her offensive magic and strengthened her weak body.

Upon her return, riding a tide of murmurs and worried, shifting glances, she strode to her sister’s presence and demanded a duel. The encounter was a close one, and it left much of the arena frozen in ice, but in the end, Pithy could not surpass her sister. The duel ended with Pithy kneeling before her better half, clutching her wounds before the judgmental eyes of a whole settlement. They knew what she had done, the origin of the power she wielded. Regardless of appearance, it had been taken forcefully, a chain’s binding, not a pact’s honor. It did not belong to their home, to the Guardians, and neither did she. Not anymore. So her sister told her, before turning her back to her.

Pithy’s backstab was intercepted by her father’s blade, and she was restrained by her mother’s magic. Only her family’s mercy, unwanted as it was, spared her. She was kept in restraints until she recovered, and was promptly exiled from her woodland home.

Since then, her life has been spent on the roads. She never stopped searching for ways to magnify and improve her control over her spellcraft, a task she pursues with an almost resigned abandon. One can most often find her trailing rumors of magical artifacts found in any corner of the world.

Recently however, her focus has shifted away from empowering magics and turned towards stabilizing it. Some say she is delving into magics involving the soul. Those she has interviewed in recent years all claim there was a quiet desperation in the woman’s inquiries, something quite unlike her previous research.

One such inquiry brought her to the town of Bren, where an annual tournament dedicated to the eight Elemental Lords that ruled nature in her world was being held, and not just any tournament. The Lords were rumored to preside over the contest themselves (she forced herself to think this way, as the certainty in Bren’s citizens’ recollection of previous tournaments baffled her. Why would the Elemental Lords hold that human city in such high regard?). The winner was said to be granted a wish by their chosen patron god, should they be chosen as their representatives in the preliminaries and later rise above the rest of the chosen.

Pithy allowed herself a sliver of hope and participated in the tournament under the banner of the Ice Lord, but although she bested the one who would go on to become Wind’s representative, she was not chosen herself. Scorned by her chosen god and fresh out of leads, Pithy remained in the town for a few days to tend to her wounds and think.

Once she was healed, Pithy resolved to leave town and seek a previously abandoned lead. However, before she could step through the city gates, a scholar appeared, offering her a second chance on her heart’s desire.

Wish: A pact born from violence and submission comes at a price. While Pithy’s body was healed from its weakness upon binding a spirit of the land to her soul, crystal did not sprout from her flesh until much later. Research into the matter, along with the onset of sudden, troubling dreams have given her reason to believe that the wraith she brought into herself has begun to eat away at its restraints. Unfortunately, due to the nature of the pact – the spirit now more akin to a part of herself – she cannot reinforce the bindings she used to bend it to her will in the first place without causing irreparable damage to her own soul in the process.

If left unchecked for too long, possession of this sort will invariably result in the soul of the victim being snuffed out like a candle, leaving something monstrous in its place. While she has come across many different methods for exorcising vengeful spirits, to break the bond that ties them together would be no different from forfeiting all the power she sought in her youth. To her, this is a fate worse than death, so she is desperately searching for a way to subdue the spirit without severing her connection to it.

Echo: A brook in a forest, loosely flanked by trees and vegetation. A few small paths snake out from the landmark, likely left behind by the passage of animals. The stream is calm and shallow, and one can easily make it across without touching the water by stepping on the stones resting on its bed.

In a simpler when, Pithy used to watch her sister play in the shore from the arms of her mother. A childhood memory better left forgotten.

Frenzy: A beautiful figurine of a maiden sculpted in ice, except for those fingers which end in too sharp the points to be called anything other than claws, and the whitish glow that seems to emanate from behind what seems to be an impression of a jagged masquerade mask, and the way the figure’s lips part in such a way that it seems to be perpetually locked into a surprised gasp… or the beginnings of a scream.

In this state, ice spreads from Pithy’s right eye to the rest of her body, indeed becomes ice. Even the hair on her head acquires a crystalline hue and seems to jingle as the strands chime against each other.

Now more akin to a golem, and unlimbered by the limitations of a flesh and blood body, she moves with supernatural alacrity and monstrous strength. However, where once that body moved with the polished grace of a dancer and the focus of a veteran fencer, this beautiful sculpture fights with the ferocity of a starved animal, rapier abandoned in favor of claws and sharp spikes of ice. In combat, she will attempt to defend against attacks that threaten the chest and the head (heart and brain). Blows to the limbs do not inconvenience her, and will quickly regrown even if a foe manages to crush the hard crystal. In fact, the body is animated solely by magic at this point, accounting for its newfound strength and agility. This incredibly precise control is not limited to the body either, as she is now able to summon chilling wind and control multiple icicles and flying blades as though it was second nature.

More than second nature, perhaps.

Inventory:
- Phylactery
- .44 Ruger: Six-chambered, double-action.
- Polaroid
- Trickshot Jo's Phylactery
- Derringer Necklace
- Watch
- Religious Cutlass

Mountain Dew's Inventory (Does not account for equipment listed on his CS):
- Board
- Ammo
- 6xNokia round
- Snacks and drinks
- Tools
- First Aid Kit
- Range Rover
- The Shroomblade
- Unleash

The Crucible - Winner Take All

Lug gave me the okay, so I'm dropping my CS in the Character tab. Made some very slight edits, so tell me if you see something you'd like to change.

Heroes of Beacon - the Next Chapter

Priscilla extended her hand to complete the shake with Sand, though there was no real strength behind it, her hand almost limp in the girl’s hand. “I’m Priscilla. Robert’s girlfriend,” she replied, her intense glare not faltering for even a moment.

Sand thought she could just about hear the thoughts behind the stare. And then this bitch over here, Sandy or whatever her name is, admitted to bringing Robbie, the bestest boyfriend a girl could ever have, muffins. Muffins! Homewrecker thinks she can take my man away from me? We'll see about that.

What also showed no signs of wavering was Robert’s obliviousness to the hostility in front of him. “I’m glad you two are getting along so well. Anyway, I was just introducing her to everyone else on the team so we’ll be off to go find Grane and—Trad! Hey there, buddy!” the boy said, almost getting out of his classmate’s hair if not for the untimely arrival of their team’s respective tank. “Yeah, we were just looking for you actually. Have you met Priscilla yet?”

“Not formally,” Trad said, holding his hand out to the pink haired girl. “It’s good to meet you. Are you sure everything’s alright?” he asked glancing between Robert and Sand. Robert’s tone seemed to suggest everything was fine, but the two girls still didn’t look at ease.

While Priscilla accepted Trad’s greeting with much less glaring and a much more firm handshake, Robert answered for everyone. “Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?”

His back was turned toward Sand and Allen now, so he did not notice the mischievous glint in the man’s eye as he commented “There’s Sand’s gay friend again.” Completely shameless, and likely that was fine by him. He was not the one who had to live with the trained monster killers.

Trad blinked. “What.”

Robert blinked in confusion as well as he turned back to Allen, tilting his head. “What’s gay mean?” he asked.

Allen’s eyes blazed with the same realization Sand had had not too long ago. He’d struck gold. “Cheerful, kid. It means cheerful,” he offered amiably enough.

“Oh… so because I’m happy right now… I’m gay?” he asked, putting two and two together and getting the conclusion the man was hoping for.

Trad had no words. Not only had Allen’s comment caught him off guard, but as he turned to correct him, Robert asked what gay meant. How. Just, how did he not know? At this point he had two options: explain the meaning of gay Allen meant and completely embarrass Robert for his statement, or roll with what would be the most hilarious thing ever. “Well… He’s not wrong.”

Seeing what was going on and being much more knowledgeable about the world than her boyfriend, Priscilla would attempt to correct Robert and tell him the more commonly used meaning of the word. “Robbie, no. It means-”

“No, son,” Allen said with uncharacteristic solemnity. “You’re not. It’s a way of life.”

“Sooooo… you're saying that I need to be gay more often than just the here and now. Like I need to be gay twenty-four seven. All the time,” the innocently naive boy stated.

Trad had to turn away at this point. Putting his fist over his mouth he tried to hold back the laughter that was fighting to come out. Sure this would probably come back to bite him for not saying anything to clear his name, but this was a golden opportunity that was worth it. He just didn’t know how soon that would be.

“I’m a new transfer. Trad’s been in Robert’s team for longer.” Trad almost didn’t hear it when Sand spoke up, such was the effort it took him not to laugh at Robert’s expense, but he did, and it occurred to him that her amiable tone sounded awfully fake.

“He’s the one who gets along best with Robert in the team.” He turned to look at her, suddenly wary. She was addressing Priscilla, but glanced at him at that moment such that he could see the nasty gleam in the eye of someone who was about to take a fall but wanted someone else go down with them. “Why, he just about carted him to the infirmary himself! Was the first to visit too. A very loyal man, right there.”

In many respects, the look Trad gave her was identical to the one she herself had given Allen only moments ago. Allen, for his part, was still trying to contain his own shaking.

In the space of a second, Priscilla’s expression had went from confused (what is she talking about?), to disbelieving (no way, he got together with me didn’t he?), and finally settled on a comically concerned frown (but what if while I was gone…).

As for Robert, he made like a lemming and ran for the cliff. “That’s right. I was pretty banged up after all of the explosions, the swarms of Grimm, and being thrown off the cliff. I don't think I would have made it had Trad and Sand not rushed to get me into bed.”

“Robert, when you were in bed, you didn’t happen to have your clothes off did you?” Priscilla asked, thinking that this question would clear things up and help her figure out what they might have done.

Thinking back to how the doctors and nurses had undressed him to apply the various bandages to his wounds, Robert nodded his head with a smile. “Of course. Isn’t that normal?”

Priscilla smiled and nodded. “Of course it’s—Bwuh!?”

Allen, who had largely steadied himself by then, seemed more baffled than amused at that. “He’s got to be doing that on purpose!” he blurted out.

Sand shook her head. From this last blunder she quickly realized that her teasing might result in unintended casualties. Good thing Priscilla had been stunned into silence by Robert’s nonchalance, or she might not had had time to cut in.

“The doctors had to undress him to treat him​,” she said, voice taut and harsher than she had wanted. “The boy’s dense, not cruel. Trust him a little for crying out loud.”

“What else could I have meant by that?” Robert asked, feeling left out.

“You—” Priscilla didn’t offer an answer, giving Sand an unhappy look instead. “I—” she started again, but the words died in her throat. Her brow furrowed, and she glanced away as if trying to gather her thoughts. A moment later, she turned back to the oblivious Robert. “Robbie… can we talk? Alone.”

The boy shrugged, not understanding why she wanted to make the conversation private all of a sudden, but seeing no harm in it either. “Sure. Why not?” he responded, following her away from the athletic center so they wouldn’t need to worry about anyone eavesdropping.

Sand watched them go. She had begun tracing a finger over the palm of her right hand again. Whatever amusement she had derived from the show had soured at the end. “How did that one ever make team leader?” she asked incredulously.

“Maybe they gave him too much credit and thought him a born actor,” Allen said.

“To be fair, he was appointed over a different group.” Trad responded watching the couple walk away. “Their situation might have called for a leader like him. Or maybe that's just my blind loyalty and love for him talking,” he added sarcastically​ turning to Sand with an annoyed glare.

“Must be,” she agreed absentmindedly.

Further complaints were drowned out by Allen’s sudden guffaw.