Multiple Settings 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓥𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓾𝓪𝓻𝓭 (Main Thread)

[Cashi]

MOOD: Amused

LOCATION: Balcony outside the Great Hall

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MENTIONS: xxxxxxxxxxx

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TAGS:
horses Hell0NHighWater

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TL;DR: Crisis averted--Ilya ain't gonna punch anyone (yet)

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Ilya

Ilya had never been one for bluffing. Honesty had been trained into him from birth with the unfortunate side effect of bluntness, and the only moments in his life he'd truly lied bare-faced were when curious friends and neighbours began to ask questions about his affinity for water, should they have heard rumours or witnessed anything unusual. As a child, hiding his ability had been much more challenging as it had then required from him more control than he currently possessed. Witch hunters had abounded in Russia, especially in Moscow, so really it came as a shock to no one but Ilya's mother when one day he'd been seen. Then had been the fleeing and the hiding and….everything else.
But this was all to say that Ilya had never been one to lie. Not that he couldn't--he could, and perhaps a little too well in his dearly departed mother's most modest opinion. But she had always been against falsehoods and Ilya's penchant for honesty became one of those things that one adheres to out of long-practice, not necessarily out of a decision one has made for themselves.
Poker night at the pub down a few alleys from the motorshop, when Ilya had deigned to join, had not been an easy game.

So when the Frenchman had mirrored his anticipation for a fight and squared-up, Ilya had had to take a fragment of time to ponder whether or not he was actually going to hit this lunatic. The pondering happened as his right foot slid back on the stone terrace, as his fists came up to his mouth and he angled his torso a perfect 45° from his target and dropped his knees to plant himself more firmly into his stance. The pondering also happened as the bespectacled man threw himself in front of the Frenchman with a look on his face that Ilya read as I would like to be anywhere but here, please.
The words Glasses-man spoke were mostly static in the background of Ilya's loud thinking, but his selfless action of blocking Ilya's violent intent flipped the final switch on his decision.

To be true, Ilya's anger had popped when he'd first leaned away and said "okay". At that point Ilya was pretty sure already he wasn't actually going to knock this man's lights out and send him tipping over the balcony edge.
A hum of anger and tension still clung to the edges of him like burs on a shaggy dog, but Ilya was pretty set on his course of action: a light bump on the man's chin with his first and second knuckle, with all the force one might use to pat a baby. For one of the few moments in his life, Ilya bluffed.
The other man's intervention gave him a third option, which he now took.
As the Frenchman reached for his cigarettes and apologised for Ilya's shirt--soothing a prickle in his unconscious mind--and the man with glasses began to lower his hands, Ilya let the tension slip from his shoulders and straightened slowly--then began to chuckle, softly and darkly. The chuckle turned into a deep-throated laugh and Ilya reached out with the arm he'd been winding up to throw to clap the Frenchman hard on the back. For good measure, he clapped the man in glasses as well, a grin clicking onto his face like a cartridge into a projector--though there was not much warmth in the smile, and a little too much teeth, it did reach his eyes and it was genuine amusement.
"You are not being so bad. You have the, ehhhhh, balls I am thinking. Maybe also death wish, but that's good." He declined a cigarette with a single slice of his head. "That's good." He repeated.
He turned again to the bespectacled man once more, the third body in their little violent tea party, and grabbed his hand, pumping it up and down in his strong mechanic's grip, the wolf-smile still running amuck on his face. "I am liking you. You are the selfless and this is also good." He let go and faced the both of them together, smoothing a hand absently down one side of his open jacket. "My name is Ilya. That is what you can call me. As for shirt…" He glanced down at himself to where the shirt was already mostly dry, shrugged, and said with finality,
"It is just shirt."

We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars

code by valen t.

​

Spoiler: Easy on the Eyes

Ilya had never been one for bluffing. Honesty had been trained into him from birth with the unfortunate side effect of bluntness, and the only moments in his life he'd truly lied bare-faced were when curious friends and neighbours began to ask questions about his affinity for water, should they have heard rumours or witnessed anything unusual. As a child, hiding his ability had been much more challenging as it had required from him more control than currently possessed. Witch hunters had abounded in Russia, especially in Moscow, so really it came as a shock to no one but Ilya's mother when one day he'd been seen. Then had the fleeing and the hiding and….everything else.
But this was all to say that Ilya had never been one to lie. Not that he couldn't--he could, and perhaps a little too well in his dearly departed mother's most modest opinion. But she had always been against falsehoods and Ilya's penchant for honesty became one of those things that one adheres to out of long-practice, not necessarily out of a decision one has made for themselves.
Poker night at the pub down a few alleys from the motorshop, when Ilya had deigned to join, had not been an easy game.

So when the Frenchman had mirrored his anticipation for a fight and squared-up, Ilya had had to take a fragment of time to ponder whether or not he was actually going to hit this lunatic. The pondering happened as his right foot slid back on the stone terrace, as his fists came up to his mouth and he angled his torso a perfect 45° from his target and dropped his knees to plant himself more firmly into his stance. The pondering also happened as the bespectacled man threw himself in front of the Frenchman with a look on his face that Ilya read as I would like to be anywhere but here, please.
The words Glasses-man spoke were mostly static in the background of Ilya's loud thinking, but his selfless action of blocking Ilya's violent intent flipped the final switch on his decision.

To be true, Ilya's anger had popped when he'd first leaned away and said "okay". At that point Ilya was pretty sure already he wasn't actually going to knock this man's lights out and send him tipping over the balcony edge.
A hum of anger and tension still clung to the edges of him like burs on a shaggy dog, but Ilya was pretty set on his course of action: a light bump on the man's chin with his first and second knuckle, with all the force one might use to pat a baby. For one of the few moments in his life, Ilya bluffed.
The other man's intervention gave him a third option, which he now took.
As the Frenchman reached for his cigarettes and apologised for Ilya's shirt--soothing a prickle in his unconscious mind--and the man with glasses began to lower his hands, Ilya let the tension slip from his shoulders and straightened slowly--then began to chuckle, softly and darkly. The chuckle turned into a deep-throated laugh and Ilya reached out with the arm he'd been winding up to throw to clap the Frenchman hard on the back. For good measure, he clapped the man in glasses as well, a grin clicking onto his face like a cartridge into a projector--though there was not much warmth in the smile, and a little too much teeth, it did reach his eyes and it was genuine amusement.
"You are not being so bad. You have the, ehhhhh, balls I am thinking. Maybe also death wish, but that's good." He declined a cigarette with a single slice of his head. "That's good." He repeated.
He turned again to Glasses-man in their little violent tea party and grabbed his hand, pumping it up and down in his strong mechanic's grip, the wolf-smile still running amuck on his face. "I am liking you. You are the selfless and this is also good." He let go and faced the both of them together, smoothing a hand absently down one side of his open jacket. "My name is Ilya. That is what you can call me. As for shirt…" He glanced down at himself to where the shirt was already mostly dry, shrugged, and said with finality,
"It is just shirt."

​

​

 

[Sylvio]

Delvin Connelly

Being around Devin was sobering honestly. After leaving his family behind he never had anyone to look to for solace. The war had taken away a lot of his friends. Devin ended up being his only friend, a brother almost, the only family he had since he left home and stayed away from Ireland for a whole decade. He still wrote to his sister from time to time. She would be 24 this year. Delvin just sat in silence for a bit thinking about everything. As Devin tried to comfort him, Delvin just kept to himself. He kindly nursed the champagne offered to him, sipping it as was the mannerisms for party such as these. He just continued sitting there until Dev pulled out his tarot cards on Delvin.

He eyed his Irish brother as he showed his hand, Delvin eyeing the soldier on the card. It almost triggered some memories back during the war, that near decade of him melting in the African sun with his fellow Irishmen with the same story as him, fighting to get away from the rugged peasant life, or fighting for recognition from the crown, seeing the world, just all those sons, fathers, and husbands having a grand old time together and sharing travesty. Through the whole thing though, Delvin did what he could to stand strong. To get himself home alive to his family who probably disowned him at this point. In fact no matter what situation he was in, he knew his duty was to protect those close to him. While his older brother kept as the authority figure of the family, Delvin was the glue. He would keep his family from squabbling and stood up to those who tried to cross them. Now he knew, he had to be that for the vanguard, his new dysfunctional family. Or at least Devin.

It almost seemed like poetic justice the two ended up together. Opposite lifestyles, Devin the casted out son of an aristocratic unionist family and Delvin the poor farm boy of a republican family. Opposite elements, air and earth. Both essential elements of the world yet remain in their own static planes acknowledging each others existence, yet failing to understand each other. Yet their Irish blood, supersedes those incompatibilities. It presented a new layer that could lead to shared sympathies for one another, to understand each other's capabilities and personality. It brought a bit of slight euphoria to Delvin.

"You got in a fight,"

Was the last thing Delvin heard from his friend. Then the bliss was gone.

"I came close. He was lucky I was kept on the Baron's leash." Delvin then chugged the champagne like it was beer. Really wasn't made for that but that didn't stop him from downing the whole thing.

"New Columbian fascist boy walking around with mummy and daddy's inheritance like he was King George's bastard son. Ethnic Ultach who called us barbarians who don't work and just get drunk, and then tell me that I made it like some bloody success story shite? He spat on my heritage as if it was something I discarded. He would've been sent to hell that second I promise you."

mood: really needs something strong to down | location: Bishop Manor Sitting Room | tags: wickedlittlecritta

code: s e v e n

 

[L0ck0n]

Vasilis Laskaris

"Have a little fun."

Vasilis noticed that his demeanour had changed from one question to another. To what though, she wasn't exactly sure as she was running through the brief scenario in her head. What could have happened for him to abruptly change the way he spoke to her, to change the atmosphere they both shared while they tried engaging in conversation with one another. There had to have been some reason for it. "Ah," she snapped back to the conversation. "I'm delighted to meet a fellow mage!" She raised her glass once more before finishing the rest of the champagne that was in it.

To say that Sil was interested in the type of mage Signore Roman Graves is would be an understatement. Not only was she interested in finding out what kind of a mage he was, but also what compelled him to agree to enter The Vanguard. Surely, for a well off individual like himself he had everything he needed to stay safe. But, she did want to give him the benefit of the doubt for his reasons in joining. If she wasn't restricted to 'no use of magic' by the Baron, and now by the alcohol, she would have tried touching him to see if she could get the reason through her flaw in magic. However, seeing how Roman continued to engage in conversation meant she could possibly get her answers the old fashion way. They could also come out of this conversation as newfound friends.

"Ay," She put her glass on a passing tray. "You're correct." Sil waved for the server to come to them, and grabbed another glass. The rush of warmth filled her cheeks as she did. The drinks they had at this event were weak compared to what her body could tolerate, but she was chugging them for a reason. "My papà was greek. My mamma, italiana. After my pa' was killed we moved to Italy, and after my ma' passed away I hung around there for a while. To summarize my adventures." To put it simply was the only way she could even put it. Sil knew who her parents were by simply looking at herself. The way Roman had pointed out her accent was the same way she was able to remember where she got it from, her mamita. The name she had was associated with her father, her dear papà whose face Sil could barely remember.

"And you?" She didn't think Roman would want to listen to her in depth stories on all the magnificent adventures she had in italy, so Sil turned the conversation to him. "Where are you from?" Hesitating to ask the next question, she continued. "What kind of mage are you?"

Mood: Curious, Social | Location: Main Hall | Tag: noonshine

coded by weldherwings.

 

[wickedlittlecritta]

Devin Murphy
Location: Bishop Manor Sitting Room| Mood: Amused|Interacting with: Delvin Sylvio

Devin couldn't help but grin at Delvin's furious speech, and the way he downed the last of the champagne like it was cheap beer. "Oh, don't let him rile you up. He's a unionist. They aren't very smart. If they were, they'd have loftier aspirations than being English, wouldn't they?" He slipped the seven of wands back into his deck and shuffled it. "But if you see him again, do let me know. I'll say unkind things to him very politely. I'm good at that." It was the main point of high class social gatherings like this, as far as he could tell, but he'd mostly learned it as a self-defense mechanism. How else were you supposed to get back at a cruel older sister you couldn't actually fight with without getting in more trouble than she would?

She'd been married off, not long after he'd left. It was all over the papers, the Baron of Kerrycurrihy's eldest daughter marrying some Midland's earl's heir. She was a clever girl marrying up. It was the right sort of scandalous. Devin sincerely hoped Elizabeth had grown up to be less of an asshole, or else the poor earl-to-be was having an absolutely miserable life.

He hoped even more sincerely that she had not been invited to the dinner.

Devin shifted in his seat and dropped his feet in Delvin's lap. It felt like a rather possessive gesture. He didn't move them. "When this is over," he said, "We should go to Dublin." He liked the idea of it, partially because it assumed that whatever this was could be over, and that they'd live through it, and that they would still be friends at the end. "It's the best city in the world," he added loyally. "No unionists allowed." This was not true, but he thought it ought to be. And more importantly, he thought it would amuse Delvin.

He had started to use amusing Delvin as a major consideration in most of his actions, and he wasn't sorry.

Who's a heretic now? Am I making sense?​

 

[BELIAL.]

BERNARD KING x. ISOLDE BISHOP

​

A Call to Dinner​

Bernard’s stone faced response was punctuated in a wry wink, lifting his glass of champagne in congratulations and a dry laugh. “You’re right, more flies with honey isn’t it? But I surely thought I retired from my Casanova years,” Relaxing enough in the wake of conversation to offer a smile, the German-born Ward couldn’t help but acknowledge the heavy atmosphere he’d created. Beatrice’s name rested upon his tongue to be used in rebuttal, yet it’s fresh misery had no place among the amusement of his little tease. A dangerous thing to prod open flames for the fear it would leap and scold you, however, Ber was bored.

Turning slightly to the Columbian, he quirked his brow. “Quite the measure of a man to survive the Shakespearian tragedy. But I’ll be honest, I haven’t recognised many of your fellows from across the Pond in a while. A rare sight to see, rarer to get a word out of.”

He shook the soldier’s hand with a firm grip, “Pleasure’s mine, just call me King. Bernard is what my mother would’ve used.” Dropping from the greeting for Isobel to continue introductions, he leant on his cane and tipped his head.

“Fresh off of the field, right? Foreign Legion? I was out there in ‘ 13 with the London boys, King’s Rifle Corps, 6th Battalion. Met some of your lads but didn’t stick around long, from what they told me at the time they were headed up to Artois, the poor bastards.”

Sucking the air through his teeth and glancing off, Berinhard wasn’t given the option to ask where MacCann had been stationed. The Head Butler interrupted with his announcement; white gloved hands folded behind his rigid form and shoulders stiffly held themselves back which proved to throw his voice above the idle chatter:

“Ladies and gentlemen, dinner is to be served. If you would follow me to the dining room and be seated, I would be most glad to provide.”

Upon its delivery, the older man surveyed the room to nod resolutely. Turning on his heel, stiff as a board, the man promptly exited.

- StormWolf

Various servants scuttled to share the butler’s sentiments, scouring the many rooms of the manor where guests would be lingering. Ilya, Valentin and Eben were collected from the outside. Roman and Vasilis encouraged to join the others, with the same servant making haste to collect Devin and Delvin.

- Cashi Hell0NHighWater horses noonshine L0ck0n Sylvio wickedlittlecritta

As the guests within the library all made their way to leave through the heavy doors, Isolde gave Bernard a swift kick to the ankle-- never looking twice at him-- and simply joined Mr. MacCann once again. “Pardon Mr. King, he’s well known for doing… that. Would you care to walk with me to the dining room? I’d love to hear of New Columbia, or any stories from your travels.”

-

Beckoning the group with the help of other staff, they were shepherded from one hall to another where the most defining feature would be two long mahogany tables and their tall, velvet backed chairs. The walls of the room were creme coloured, with elegant tapestries and paintings to ordain the plain colour of the wallpaper. A wide window sat behind the head of the table, where the Baron sat. It would set the stage for a feast that evening, of porcelain dishes stacked high with sumptuous courses and lavish dining. Servants wove in and out of the room effortlessly, like automated machinery. Wine and conversation would flow aplenty from the same bottles, as the Witchfinder General himself became rather heated over a discussion in party politics with Captain Vickers.

Likewise, seated about the main table were perhaps those who had not yet been introduced. The supplementary table held dignitaries and guests of minor names.

The dinner went smoothly, or as smoothly as it could go. Those at the table were invited to engage in discourse, perhaps a heated conversation or two, but encouraged to remain civil at the dinner table. The Baron, upon hearing that Valentin had been given alcohol, promptly fired the servant who had given the man a drink. This new servant was replaced and told to wait exclusively on Mr. Auclair, and to give him a warm glass of water should he demand any alcohol. That, or to face a rather coarse punishment. Hell0NHighWater

Isolde made sure to remain as patient and engaged with the other guests at the head of the table, definitely not holding back on using her rehearsed charms when needed. With Roland she remained interested in his stories, but couldn’t help but feel her ankle being hit rather aggressively by a foot. Bernard’s to be exact. She made do to give him the full force of her leather heeled boots, especially when she overhead his attempts at flirting with the socialite seated next to him.

King, who’s mind had been pleasantly preoccupied by talk about the Front, was subjugated to the older Viscountess’ relentless and queasy assault of compliments with every smattering of batted eyelashes it took for a small sparrow to fly. However for a woman with the power and money of a Widow such as Webster, it was expected to weather through and retain whatever stiff upper lip you could muster. Under the table, on the other hand, was a different war to wage as Isolde’s heels and his crushed toes remained on a dangerous cycle of advance and retreat. By the time dinner had come to an end, Bernard was sure he would hobble out of the hall.

At the end of the table, surrounded by the rest of the mages, a mousey ginger kept her head down with nervous glances to the others. If anyone inquired she’d say her name, “Kitty Maclerie,” but otherwise would keep to herself.

-

By the time desserts had rolled out, coffee poured in warmed porcelain mugs, and jovial conversations beginning to simmer down, the Baron sat from his seat at the head of the table. He raised his glass, and tapped the side with the edge of his spoon. The room quieted, trickling whispers fading to silence.

“Forgive me for not giving a speech earlier, but I do not know about the rest of you, but I was as hungry as a devil,” the Baron said with a small chuckle, pointing a look to his niece to instigate a low rumble of laughter. “I wanted you all to enjoy this reprieve, and to come together for this moment in time. We celebrate tonight for the beginning of the end, for our heroes. The Vanguard. But first, I would like to thank the Celebrated Witchfinder-General Lindsey, and our liaison with the Ministry, Mr. Roland MacCann

“If you have not introduced yourself to these brave men and women, I shall for your benefit. To my right, my niece Miss Isolde Bishop and my ward, Mr. Bernard King. These two have been with me since the beginning, and I have trained them personally. They will demonstrate the core values of our initiative, and be the model soldiers for the rest to follow in the footsteps of,” he paused for the moment, encouraging clapping and for the two to stand. Isolde’s cheeks burned a bit, avoiding her compulsory desire to hold an angry gaze at Roland. Well, there was an expectation now. The fun really was over.

“And for our new recruits,” the Baron raised a hand to summon the rest to stand. “Ms. Vasilis Laskaris, Mr. Ilya Zabolotsky, Mr. Devin Murphy, Mr. Eben Hudnall, Mr. Roman Graves, Mr. Valentin Auclair, Miss Caitriona Maclerie, and Mr. Delvin Connelly. Brave men and women, selected for the finest duty a soldier of the Union could ask for. Please, let us applaud them!”

Modest applause followed, giving the mages time to size each other up. Perhaps to really cement that all of this is a reality, and that the next part of their lives starts now.

Baron Bishop raised a hand, to cull the applause, and then gave a straight forward glance to the mages. “For the evening’s next events, we are going to begin training. Immediately. The training room is hidden in the mansion, only I have the key, but five pieces of a spare exist somewhere in the manor. You are all required to find these pieces, then bring them together to create the key. There will be puzzles, tests of valor and of light magic in order to test your capabilities as a team. Mr. MacCann will accompany you, should anybody decide to… act out. We, the onlookers, will watch. We represent the world, and all of Britain, watching you. Best not to disappoint.”

-

The Baron hands out small pieces of paper to everyone, through the proxy of his assistant Adelaide, with small inscriptions. You are shuffled out with the rest of the group to an empty room across from the stairs. The door is locked behind you, and a hanging light flickers to light.

The room is perceived empty, but upon further inspection these items exist:

A fireplace,

Spoiler

newer than the other ones in the house. You can see that the bricks have been recently laid, and if you push on them, they budge a bit.

A mirror over the fireplace

Spoiler

the glass is dirty, despite the newness of the mirror itself. Press a finger to the glass and it looks as if your finger is cleanly on the other side. No gap exists between the finger and the finger reflection

A vase in the corner of the room on a wooden table,

Spoiler

the vase is a sea blue, about two feet tall, with a plant buried inside. The dirt is dry, and the leaves of the plant are dull in the low light.

And a rug in the center of the room.

Spoiler

the rug is a deep red, complimenting the mahogany of the wood floors. While the floor of the room is rather dusty, matching the corners and walls, the rug appears to be cleaner (with a spot of clean wood just beneath the lip of the rug.

 

[horses]

eben hudnall

mood cautious

location balcony; dinner hall; empty room

tags Cashi & Hell0NHighWater ; open

Eben found himself gritting his teeth in frustration as the Frenchman suggested he may be one of the elites at this party. "No, sir, I'm no more of a fancy bastard than you. I suppose I just play the part better, that's all," he said, thinking back to his childhood. It was a childhood filled with dirty clothes and empty stomachs. Eben may have come a long way since then, but he'd never forget his roots.

Eben was pleasantly surprised at how the conversation progressed after that, as the Frenchman continued to speak. "However, I will say that I am sorry your lovely shirt was stained. If you still intend to break my face, I would prefer it if you were to do so before I light my cigarette. If not, I suppose this is where we offer introductions, then?"

Eben's hearing seemed to fail him as the Russian broke out into laughter, but he was fully aware of the strong hand on his back followed by a firm handshake. "My name is Ilya. That is what you can call me," was really the only thing Eben's brain managed to process as he eagerly accepted a cigarette from the Frenchman.

"Well, I'm glad that's all settled. I was certainly worried that one of us was going to end up in the medical ward. How terrible that would've been, needing treatment before training has even started. Anyway, gentlemen, my name is Eben."

Before Eben even got the chance to light his cigarette or get the Frenchman's name, the same servant from before cautiously stepped out onto the balcony. He kept his distance as he gave a curt bow.

"Gentlemen, dinner is being served. If you would please follow me."

Eben sighed, handing his unlit cigarette back to the Frenchman. He then turned on his heel and followed the servant.

Dinner went well, as far as Eben was concerned. He sat between two Irishmen and ate what was probably the best meal he had since his divorce. Conversation was sparse on his end, but he didn't mind just listening to those around him.

He did feel a pang of guilt when the servant who had given the Frenchman a drink was fired, but he quickly convinced himself it was for the best. So full of food that he felt as though he would burst, Eben politely declined dessert but gladly accepted a cup of coffee. As his sipped the warm drink, he prepared himself for the Baron's speech. He listened intently as the Baron introduced himself, as well as two well-dressed men seated to his left. Then, his handsome niece and gruff German ward. Following that, the rest of the Vanguard.

Eben gave a small wave when the Baron said his name, looking around at his fellow mages. He learned that the Frenchman was named Valentin.

When the Baron said that training would start immediately, Eben nearly choked on his drink. Placing the cup on the table, he sat up as straight as possible and tried to play off his coughing. He listened as the Baron described what they would be doing for the rest of the evening. It sounded a little ridiculous, Eben had to admit. Like something out of his daughters' storybooks.

Still, Eben obediently shuffled out of the room with the rest of the Vanguard. He suddenly felt nauseous and wished he hadn't eaten so much. He wanted so badly to impress the Baron. Hell, even to just impress his fellow mages.

As they were ushered into another room, Eben took in their surroundings. There was a freshly-laid fireplace, a dirty mirror, a vase on a wooden table, and a rug. Everything felt eerily out of place, as though it wasn't supposed to be there. He didn't know a few furniture items could feel so sinister.

Pushing the uneasiness as far back into his mind as possible, Eben stood as tall as he could. This was the beginning of his redemption.

coded by weldherwings.

 

[StormWolf]

Location: Library, Dining Room, Trial Chamber

Interactions: BELIAL. , idalie , and a bit of everyone.

Mentions: N/A

Roland MacCann ​

Roland was no stranger to back-biting niceties. Unlike the Slavic ape that had decided to take things outside, the New Columbian was a meticulous sort. Everything was logged, notarized, and catalogued in his mind while he remained utterly unmoved. Still, he smirked at the Casanova comment, among a few others. From what he understood, it was a mark of good character to take such needling in stride.
Roland had, after all, endured worlds worse in his time.

“Fresh is relative, Mr. King,” said Roland, taking the man’s hand and shaking it firmly, but fairly. There was a natural strength and resolve in those good ol’ boy hands rather than the intensive vice of someone trying to prove something. There was a man who knew what he was about and was comfortable enough with it.

“Landmine had me laid up for a spell. This is my first time up and about on my own accord for some time. Not sure if I prefer the trenches, just yet,” he said with a lopsided smile. At least you know where the enemy is in No Man’s Land, was the matter left unspoken. When Bernard mentioned his own service record, Roland’s eyebrows quirked in the briefest twitch. The butler, God bless him, rang the dinner bell before Roland could make more of an ass of himself.

Tipping back his glass of gin to drain the remainder of its contents, Roland drowned any residual prickliness. When he returned to Bernard and Isolde from depositing his glass on an arabesque side table, he caught the tail end of the woman’s swift boot.

Oh, I like you… Roland thought with a Cheshire grin as he buttoned his jacket with one hand. The grin changed into an earthy smile at Isolde’s invitation. Best double-down or bust, cow poke.

“It would be my distinct pleasure, ma’am,” Roland said smoothly, looking into her dark eyes as he offered his arm. The cobalt-and-graphite suit was worth every penny; immaculately tailored to be trim while flatteringly snug around Roland’s torso, shoulders, and biceps. Arm in arm, he maintained a casual swaggering stride with Isolde towards the dining room,

“And no need to apologize on Mr. King's behest. I'm the eldest and dumbest of my siblings. I've developed a resistaince to such behavior," he chuckled, then with a clearing of his throat, shifted gears, "I reckon everything you’ve heard about New Columbia is by and large true, the good and the bad. Y’all have a beautiful isle here, but there’s few things more breathtaking than the sunrise over the prairie…” Roland began, and spoke along that vein for a time; waxing eloquent on the natural splendor. Never once did he mention the people. By the time they had entered the dining hall, Roland had moved on to the more exotic locales and climes he had experienced in his ventures, speaking of Africa and Arabia with a greater fondness in those steely blue eyes than he had for his own motherland.

The dining room was abuzz with the low murmur of the numerous guests filing in as the two approached the table. Roland pulled back one of the fine ladder-backed chairs for the lady with that same casual smile. “Enjoy your supper, ma’am,” he rumbled lowly with a polite nod before finding his place.

It was little surprise that Roland’s seat was to the left of the Witchfinder-General, a few seats removed. It was a deliberate placement that was, upon reflection, tactically astute. It put Roland on the same side of the table as the General, but far enough away to not be considered chummy with the old warhawk. Furthermore, it placed Roland near the center of the seating arrangements. All he would have to do is pivot on his seat to have all the menagerie of mages in his field of view.


The dinner itself was finely made, but a little devoid of spice for Roland’s taste. Having grown up in New Orleans and then been abroad in Arabia, perhaps his palette was simply skewed. Still, it was a free meal to the point of gluttony, and the wine flowed freely enough, and after years of army rations in the trenches and hospital food after that, even British cooking was a glimpse of the divine.

During the course of the meal, Roland mostly kept to himself unless directly addressed. He kept out of the geriatric politics to the right of him, was not his place. The occasional inquiry of his adventures and travels came about, and Roland would give polite and concise answers, sparing the grisly details.

As desert came around, Roland abstained from the sweets, though inquired if the staff could make his coffee an Irish. Taking the sharp nod from the waiter as an affirmative, Roland gave his thanks and reclined in his chair, lending and ear to his host. The Baron was an interesting fellow, reedy but still commanding a powerful voice and a natural gravitas. No small wonder that he was the architect of this little society.

Better still, was the introductions provided. At long last, Roland had names to go with the faces for everyone present. When Roland was introduced in kind, as well as his capacity as liaison, he simply offered a polite nod to those gathered, his face stolid and implacable, all stony planes and angles. He idly wondered how this revelation would settle with the acquaintances he made before the dinner bell was rung. Roland found himself torn - Isolde was presumably a mage herself, else she would be a liaison alongside him. A moment of distaste curled at his tongue, but to hear a woman such as her to be a model soldier, however, garnered far more interest.

Each name in the brief introductions drew Roland’s eye, scrutinous and penetrative, to take the measure of each individual in kind. It was the look of a hunter or a rancher taking stock of a beast, or a mechanic as they visually dismantled a machine.

When the call came for applause, Roland gave his in a modest triplicate, ear tilted to the Baron with eyes still trained on the Vanguard proper.

”Mr. MacCann will accompany you, should anybody decide to… act out.”

Roland couldn’t help the smile that tugged at one corner of his mouth at the Baron’s choice of words. He had to wonder if the Baron was privy to Roland’s history as a rancher as well. The gambler in him would bet on it. This was a secret society of some of the most powerful folks in the Old World, after all.

Taking stock of the mage’s response to the news, Roland too ran through the list of countermeasures he had on his person.

If I need anything more than what I got, then that landmine should have killed me, Roland mused inwardly.

Throwing back the last of his coffee, grounds and all, Roland rose with the soft scrap of the chair against the floorboards. Regarding the Vanguard prospects, he simply gestures to the crucible chamber into which they were ushered, politely insisting that the lot of them go first.

Once inside and the door closed behind them, Roland took up his position as sentinel beside the hearth, loosening his jacket and hooking his thumbs on his belt, hands framing an undeniably New Columbian belt buckle. He couldn't help but take in the various items, casing the room like he would any possibly hostile environs. It was, however, not his place to assist or provide solutions. The brass was watching, and Roland had an idea just from where... presuming they weren't using some remove-viewing witchery.

 

[Hell0NHighWater]

↽LOCATION⇁‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎↽VIBES⇁
Bishop Manor; Balcony, ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎‎Leave Me Alone
Dining Room, Trial Room




↽INTERACTIONS⇁‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎↽OOC⇁
horses & Cashi ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎My brain go duuurrr
Open to everyone‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎
‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎‎‏

⑈ Valentin Auclair ⑈​

"You are not being so bad. You have the, ehhhhh, balls I am thinking. Maybe also death wish, but that's good."

The corner of Val’s mouth hitched into a half smile, regarding the much taller man with a hint of amusement, "If you say so, mon grand. I won't say no to a compliment."

"That's good." The larger man repeated, refusing the offer rather politely.

The Frenchman twirled the stick of tobacco with his tongue absently, swinging the box toward the third man who eagerly plucked a cigarette from the pack. He flipped the lid closed before sliding it back into his pocket.

"My name is Ilya. That is what you can call me. As for shirt…" The Russian glanced down at himself, "It is just shirt."

"Well, I'm glad that's all settled. I was certainly worried that one of us was going to end up in the medical ward. How terrible that would've been, needing treatment before training has even started. Anyway, gentlemen, my name is Eben."

Val turned his gaze away from Ilya with a snort, patting himself down with barely contained urgency. His mouth parted to speak when the balcony doors swung open. A stout, and rather round man stood in the doorway with a professional smile, “Gentlemen, dinner is to be served. If you would follow me.”

A sigh drew his attention to Eben, brow arching as the other man held the cigarette out for him to take. Val’s mouth twisted, his hand lifting to push the cigarette back toward the Welshman, “Life is the art of dying, Eben, if you aren’t creating a masterpiece then what’s the point?” He clapped the slightly taller man on the back as he passed by, following the servant with a lackadaisical stride.


The dining room was a grand space, to say the least. The huge mahogany table took up most of the vast space the dark, romantic room offered, left without a tablecloth and daring guests to ruin the perfectly varnished shine with their unworthy fingerprints. Two tall, silver candelabras commanded attention from the center of the table, holding smooth white candles whose wax dripped like molasses.

Moving to the chair that was reserved for him, Val slid into his chair with the ease of an eighty year old man. He was secretly a bit grateful to see Ilya sitting in the chair to his right. Sobriety began to weigh on his head like a thick, wet, blanket; and with it came the creeping paralyzation of anxiety. So hopelessly out of his depth, Valentin briefly wondered if it were too late for him to back out.

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he asked a nearby waiter for a glass of champagne before turning his gaze to the man on his left. He had a beautiful face. Well defined, with a sharp jaw and prominent cheekbones. The stranger met his gaze with vivid baby blue hues, a great body of water that softly melted into a milky green. Valentin looked down for a moment, staring at the untouched food on his plate as the waiter returned with a glass of clear liquid.

For the first time since the night began his expression had completely collapsed, no mask of coping left. He glanced up at the waiter, words falling out of his mouth like a child learning a new language, “This is water?”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

Twisting in his seat, Valentin set the full weight of his disappointment on the servant, “I didn’t ask for water.”

“I understand that Monsieur, but that is all I am permitted to give you.”

"Merde," he grumbled as he slumped slightly in his seat, casting a rather scathing look towards their host. Before he could even think about insisting, the Baron began to address the crowd. Valentin barely heard the words, managing to sit still for all of two minutes before he was sliding down in his chair, mentally screaming.

As the Baron continued to introduce his niece and ward, Val’s left leg began to bounce rapidly and without a particular rhythm. He had successfully zoned out when the sudden scraping of chairs caused him to spring out of his seat half a beat after everyone else had already stood up. To his credit, he did attempt to follow along with each name as the Baron introduced each member but most of the names flew in one year and went out the other. Even so, he contorted his lips into an awkward, toothy smile, but his cheeks were not so compromising. He could feel their reluctance to be moulded falsely. When the clapping finally stopped, he averted his gaze from his peers, his smile falling lifeless, allowing his face to return to a cold hard gawk. He reached for his glass of water, bringing it to his lips with silent annoyance. Taking a large sip, he plopped ungracefully back into his seat.

Valentin’s head began to throb. The pain felt like someone had taken a knife to his skull several dozen times over. Squeezing his eyes shut, he willed the pain to go away. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face and he was dimly aware that his hands had begun to tremble. The rest of the world became detached, all he could concentrate on was the pain rooted deep in his head.

Val could barely hear the people chattering around him. All he felt, all he knew, was the pain of that moment and the ugly desperation to make it stop.
“—Mr. MacCann will accompany you, should anybody decide to… act out.”

Valentin cracked an eye open, growling something that sounded like a curse under his breath. Snatching the glass of water off the table, he drank the rest of it in a single gulp. He loathed the feeling of being restricted, but he hated the idea of being forced to quit cold turkey even more.

No one knew what he had to live with.
The things he had seen. The things he had to see.
He was just as alone here as he had been anywhere else. Val wasn’t particularly sure why he thought this time would be different. Maybe he was just insane.

“We, the onlookers, will watch. We represent the world, and all of Britain, watching you. Best not to disappoint.”

“Disappointment is what I do best,” Val muttered to himself, rising from his seat as they were herded out of the dining room and toward another area of the manor. Trailing behind with his hands stuffed into his pockets and an unlit cigarette tucked between his lips, Val paused just in front of the stairs. Slowly, he glanced upward, his mouth pursed but slightly open and loose. Cerulean irises were fixed at the top of the steps as if he were watching something that, to the outside observer, wasn’t even there.

Expression paling, Val forced in a breath of air as he stood rigidly in place. Momentarily consumed by fear and the pounding in his brain, it took him a moment before he forced his legs into working condition.

Shaking his head, he pulled his lighter from his pocket and with trembling fingers attempted to get the flint to spark the end of the wick. It took him six tries before the flame ignited the end of his cigarette. Val inhaled as if it were a matter of life and death.

The lock clicked shut behind him as Val freed the smoke from his lungs, watching as it rolled from his mouth and nose before gradually disappearing into a wispy haze. His gaze swept idly across the previously empty room, resting on the New Columbian Cowboy as he took up a position by the fireplace. Striding toward the mirror, Val did an obvious once over on himself, adjusting his hair as he absently sucked on his cigarette.

_{”Valentin?”}

A pair of dead eyes reflected back at him from the mirror, infinitely black with the thin sheen of a cataract-like coating. Her deathly pale skin looked at if it were pulled tight against her bones, discolored and puffy from a beating that undoubtedly claimed her life.
In his intense silence Val somehow screamed with his whole body. His eyes wide with horror, mouth rigid and open, his chalky face gaunt and immobile, the cigarette slid from his lips and his fists clenched with blanched knuckles and nails digging deeply into the palms of his hand. He tried to contain his gut reaction but the scream tore through him like a great shard of glass.

Recoiling from the mirror, he scrambled back so fast that his foot caught on the lip of the rug. The world rushed by in a blur. One second he was upright and the next, his face greeted the wood floor with an unpleasant thud.

Val groaned, the pain in his head spiking as it spread across the side of his face like wildfire. Pushing himself into a sitting position, he sat there for a minute, dazed and frightened. Shoving his fingers through his blond hair, he somehow managed to make it an even more tousled mess. Casting an accusing glare toward the mirror, the Frenchman retrieved his still smoking cigarette off the carpet and grumpily jammed it between his lips, “Fucking ghosts.”


[/color]

 

[noonshine]

ROMAN GRAVES

Scanning the room, he did begin to feel more estranged from the setting- it gained an unfamiliarity. Knowing no one there did perturb him, it created a sort of social claustrophobia for their conversation. Suddenly, he was positive that out of anyone there Vasilis knew him best- and they’d only just met. It couldn’t be that he looked out of place- his mid spun back to the disbelief that possessed him when he tried to consider any possibility that he would appear out of place. She must have been seeing a different room- drunk- unaware of herself in some way.

He snapped back to listening to her, too drawn by the rather easily brushed by statement of “after my pa’ was killed”. It was titillating- he couldn’t ask her to divulge more just yet- it was not his place- but he would keep in mind that, although a bit of a mess, she was charming and fascinating- a perfect social barrier if need be. That is to say he was considering spending time with her for the sake of having an interesting companion to drag about. She was unusual and maybe with a fitted suit would at least appear somewhat refined.



Where was he from? It hardly seemed to matter- he conjured up a smile, ready to offer her some grains of information, but he was cut short by suddenly being rounded up and dropped the topic immediately. Instead he looked to her as they were coaxed to the dining room, “Oh, well, it looks as though we’ll have to pick this up again soon.”



Roman, for some reason, had been under the impression that he, being who he was and considering his family lineage, would not be seated beside her- but they walked in together and seemed to have found themselves seated together. He avoided the continuation of their conversation with making idle chit chat to the best of his ability- and he’d forgotten what they had previously been talking about by the time they had both been seated. He felt as though he were at the end of the table where they stuck children as though he were among his siblings and cousins watching the adults banter.



He could barely focus on his food- nibbling to the best of his ability- only engaged with the man sitting opposite Vasilis until he managed to understand fully that he was a more recently wealthy individual. It showed.



When someone settled in at his right he turned his head to watch none other than the man he had earlier been waiting to see get punched. It appeared as though that never happened, considering the person he suspected would have been doing the punching was beside him. In their brief moment of eye contact he considered the depth of his striking eyes- and the sunken frame to which they were set. Very clearly someone who drank more than he ate- and with youth on his side he bore only the qualities of intrigue that came with his macabre and handsome features. For a moment, he was reminded of what his mother would say- about those that took to drink, something about how they disintegrated quickly- how they rot while they’re still alive.

It was hard to turn his gaze away, but he managed once they’d met each other’s gaze, finding himself perturbed by the amount of time he had spent looking at the near stranger.



Turning his attention back to his plate, he did his best to listen to the chatter around the table. If he wasn’t going to take part from a distance- he would at least listen and engage with Vasilis in some idle prattling until they were being introduced. Roman’s demeanor shifted, he simpered, standing, offering a polite, nod when his name was called. An opportunity to make any sort of impression was something to be in a good mood about-



Until they were informed that they were going to start training immediately- and be watched doing it. What were they? Actors? Sat at the table as some formality so these guests could better know their entertainment for the night?

Roman maintained his smile, but he was boiling as they were shepherded away to an empty room- and they had a guard? It only took a second for Roman to completely blow the situation out of proportion in his head. Why would they need a guard- was everyone in the room that dangerous that they would need someone there to stop them from hurting one another? Considering the Frenchman had not been punched by the Russian he was left considering who exactly was dangerous.

He was jagged with nerves by the time the door locked, displeased by all involved. They were in a crowded little room with instructions to find parts of a key.

Which sounded like a game, a puzzle, and a fantastic way to impress. Wishing he were not so easily interested in this kind of game so he could better revel in his anger, Roman cast a glare over the room.

Then the inebriated man fell and screamed, or screamed and fell, caught by the rug and what Roman could only assume was an already strained equilibrium. As startling as that was they still had something to do -it was then that it came to his attention that the tiny dusty room wasn’t entirely covered in a layer of gray. The rug was clean- and so was just a small part of the floor peaking out from underneath it, it had been moved more than just from the fall, and the rug must have been placed or at least shifted about more recently.



He approached the carpet, stepping away from where he had plastered himself to the wall, he waited for the man to gather himself and grab the cigarette, murmuring an “excuse me” as he knelt to pull the rug back.

TEMPLATE © BOKEH​

 

[BELIAL.]

» trap door found (locked)

『 TAGGED 』 noonshine

Unveiling the floor beneath the heavy rug reveals a [TRAP DOOR], medium in size and well hidden within the center of the rug. The lock is inlaid in the ground, with a small keyhole. The keyhole is brass. Perhaps for a brass key?

A small paper flutters out toward Roman's feet when the rug is moved. The paper reads:

"TIS LAST ROSE OF SUMMER"

code by @Nano

 

[noonshine]

ROMAN GRAVES

Roman eyed the floor as he pulled back the rug- grateful that it wasn't covered in a layer of dust. Great- that's where they would have to get with the key? Or at least that was his assumption- that the training room was through some hole in the floor- likely a basement. He couldn't say he was displeased with finding that- and the little piece of paper.
Terribly self-satisfied he looked over the note left to them, a clue in the form of a poem he was all too familiar with.
He stood, only then offering Val his left hand, although the scream and talk of ghosts was terribly disconcerting he was under the impression that the only way to get away from him- and everyone else in the room- would be to complete the puzzle. For now, he brushed off the fact that this room was just the start of what would eventually be more time than he would ever consider spending with these strangers who were his 'fellow soldiers' as put at dinner.
His right hand was consumed with gripping the paper to re-read it nearly holding it to his nose. "The Last Rose of Summer?" he said as though he were pondering it- although he did absolutely have the damn thing memorized. "That would be Moore, wouldn't it?" His eyes inspected the room again, before he gestured to the very sad potted plant. "Well, the obvious first?"

TEMPLATE © BOKEH​

 

[L0ck0n]

Vasilis Laskaris

"FANABLA."

“We definitely should, Signore Graves.” Vasilis gave a smile before heading towards the dining room with Roman. She wasn’t particularly ecstatic for the dinner that was dedicated to The Vanguard. Most of the guests, if not all of them, were swimming in money that she couldn't dare to consider ever having. Because they had been engaging in conversation for the first half of the party Sil hoped that she would be seated by Roman. Not that she was feeling uneasy, but that’s exactly what she was feeling. It’s not every day that, in this society, there are even 5 mages in the same building. There’s no if’s, and’s, or but’s in that type of situation. The Witchfinders take no excuses.

The dining room was nothing short of breathtaking. Sil had never been to such a glamorous dining area, though she had been to a few upper class events in the past. Through invites of course. Noticing that Roman would be the person sitting to her right Sil grinned. Looking at who was going to be sitting to her left that grin went away. She wondered how bad of an idea it was to ask Roman to switch with her, but left the seating to be what it was. There was no helping it. The utensils they would be using to eat had a soft, but durable beauty to them. Vasilis had no idea what kind of food they were bringing out, but that did not stop her from scarfing whatever she had in front of her. Utilizing all the space she had available Sil put her elbows on the table to make the gentleman to her left as uncomfortable as possible.

She looked over at the individual seated in front of her. “Hey, cheers.” She raised her glass before drinking. He looked to be the kind of individual she could arm wrestle, and clearly lose to, but arm wrestle nonetheless. The person right by him with the glasses, at first glance, looked stern. Is he constipated? Coffee should help if it's decaf. Hang in there buddy. The kid right by him had a nice look to him, and if he was older Sil would consider the possibilities. The woman the pretty boy sat by took Sil’s breath away for a second. Full of curls, but a bit of shyness that Sil would like to explore in the future. The plan was to only glance at everyone, but it was hard with that kind of woman. Forcing her gaze away Sil leaned slightly over the table to see who sat by Roman. She saw a guy who needed to eat more than drink, but she couldn’t say anything about that. Maybe they could be future drinking buddies, but it was too early to tell since she didn’t even know his name. The person who sat by him? A wrestler. Instead of her arm wrestling the guy in front of her both of them should have a go at it. The guy was built to move mountains.

There was chatter throughout the dining hall, and she wasn’t an exception to that. With Roman to her right she was able to throw in small conversation until the Baron stood to give his announcement. Looking at Baron Bishop something about the person sitting to his left caught Sil's attention. As he talked a flood of memories came to her without her approval, and saying his name made her freeze mid drink. Sil felt warmth leave her cheeks, a sharp stab to her heart, body freeze. It was as if time itself had stopped when she had heard the name she despised with every fiber of her being. The General Abraham Lindsey. Commander of the Witch finders. Anyone who needs to hide knows his wretched name.

Disgusting.

To see the Bishops own niece, and his adopted son so close to the general. Who knows how close they are, but assumption alone fueled the anger Sil felt towards the situation. The irony almost made her laugh. A death wish if she actually did while the Baron spoke. As Sil stood she kept from smiling at anyone. Model soldiers, huh. A few months ago we were all disgraceful just by being born a mage... She wanted to spit at everyone, to leave. There was no leaving at this point. To add more insult to injury they were to be showcased while training. Immediately, the Baron said.

Tch, vaffanculo!

If this was mentioned in the beginning she wouldn’t have drank. The witchfinders had to be at this event, she knew that much, but the general himself? What a surprise. I wonder how he keeps from killing us all right here and now. A deal can only hold the devil back for so long. Mangia merde e morte. All she needed to do was reach out, step out of line to get to him. Would she make it? Possibly. It was a risk she would gladly take if not for the damn alcohol. Her weakness was her greatest enemy at the moment.

As they were ushered away to the puzzle room Sil attempted to cast an illusion, but only ended up creating sparks. Cazzo! Cazzo, cazzo, cazzo!

The night had gotten worse in the span of only seconds, and by the looks of it no one wanted to be together in one room. Sil noticed the fox that had sat by the pretty boy in the dining room earlier. Glad she’s a mage. If we were alone, just her and I, would she be down? Would she prefer people to watch? Maybe add another person, like the guy who sat across from me? Or, maybe she doesn’t roll that way at all. Thinking about the bella was the best she could do to keep a headache from happening. A flood of memories, a raging hatred, and a turn of events mixed with alcohol did not work well together. At all. To top it off they had a bodyguard- no, a security guard in the room with them. From what the Baron said this guy worked with the general. Great... Maybe if I charge at him he’ll end my suffering. Or I end his life. It can go either way. I can fling that vase at him. It was a thought she considered as she eyed his stance. He wasn’t standing there to look pretty. Was it intentional? Could be. Casual, but hostile. Is he a mage? Will he attack a fellow mage? That’d be a dick move.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the guy who sat by Roman at dinner. He had fallen, but why? Fucking ghosts, he said. What a strange thing to say. Could he see them?

Inhaling, and then letting out a long sigh Sil leaned against the brick fireplace that was in the room. It was strange how the fireplace was better kept than the other ones in the mansion. It may be the first of many they’re going to be fixing, but why fix the one in here first?

A few of the bricks had moved from the weight of her body. Thinking nothing of it she turned to check, but then turned back around to lean on the fireplace. Again, there was a feeling that the bricks had shifted, so Sil turned to check them out. The first one she tried moving did not budge, and the 2nd one also did not budge. Maybe I’m finally going crazy? Hesitantly tapping on one more brick Sil got a pinch of excitement when the 3rd one did move. There was a limit to how much it moved, but Sil tested a few of the other bricks to see if there were others. “Interesting…"

Mood: Social, Surprised, Aggravated | Location: Dining Hall, Trial Room | Tag: noonshine Hell0NHighWater StormWolf Cashi wickedlittlecritta horses Sylvio idalie BELIAL.

coded by weldherwings.

 

[Cashi]

MOOD: Apprehensive, uncomfortable

LOCATION: Dining Hall

two

MENTIONS: BELIAL. idalie Sylvio L0ck0n noonshine StormWolf wickedlittlecritta

two

INTERACTIONS:
horses Hell0NHighWater

two

TL;DR: Ilya has dinner anxieties and threatens to break a mirror with a table

two

Ilya

Dinner was a stuffy, formal affair that Ilya was unused to, though he quickly decided it was an experience he could do without ever having again.
Slishkom mnogo vilok, he thought. Too many forks.
The tablecloth was pristine and matched the manners of the other guests, who looked like the kind of people who wouldn’t be caught dead in the slums. Ilya wondered with brief amusement how they might feel to know that he was from the lower quarters and sat among them like he, too, was made from money.
Perhaps his mother would have enjoyed this party; would have enjoyed being one of the elegant ladies coated in lace and trim, with polished satin gloves up past her elbows, holding a glass of something bubbly and laughing at something comical. She had always deserved more than what she had been given, and Ilya’s mind went quiet at the thought of how she would have loved the life that Ilya was now plunging into headlong.
He glanced beneath hooded brows at the rest of the mages seated around him at the end of the table.
Well, she would have loved most of it.

The placement of him and his fellow “miscreants” did not escape Ilya’s notice. He had expected no less than to be relegated to the end of the table where he and his ilk “belonged”. To him, it was a not so subtle reminder that he was not here to be equal to the people seated at this table, but to be used as a tool by this Baron Bishop in the war.
The cycle of thoughts went round Ilya’s head once more. How had he ever agreed to this?

When dinner finally came around to being served, Ilya had a moment of uncertainty as to which utensil to use first--a quick, subtle glance at the party-goers told him the tiny fork on the outside was his first go-to weapon of the evening. The food itself was quaint and likely the most expensive thing Ilya’s stomach had ever had the pleasure of digesting, but any delicate notes of flavour, any panache of the chef’s touch was lost on Ilya who ate whatever was put in front of him mechanically and with disinterest. Instead, he focused his attention on his peers, some of whom he had seen among the scattered guests before his altercation with the tiny Frenchman. A glance to his left gave him a clear view of said Frenchman, who was beginning to look nervous. Perhaps the drink was leaving him. Ilya attempted a reassuring grimace involving teeth, but ceased when he decided it would most likely have an effect opposite of reassuring.

Throughout the meal, Ilya felt watched, and being shoved into a nice suit and made to sit among the wealthy and well-to-do did have him sticking out like a sore thumb; his height alone drew looks. He caught the eye of the mage two seats away to his left and watched their gaze pass to the head of the table, where a rugged looking man sat practically in a seat of honour. There was something reproachful in that man’s roving stare as he looked over all of them. Ilya’s frown deepened, and he was strongly reminded of the little rosomakha he would catch sight of on rare occasions while wandering the woods. Deceptively capable creatures with nasty temperaments, to be avoided if you were smart.

The pretty woman next to the cowboy had Ilya looking quickly away, desperate to avoid eye contact.

Eben was seated between two men who, judging by their accents, were from Ireland or thereabouts, and the meek seeming woman across from Ilya hardly spoke a word at all. The only other persons of interest were the military-looking man seated to the left of the brunette up near the head of the table, and the mischievous, dark-haired gentleman next to Valentin.

The Baron stood to deliver a toast (and with a toast, Ilya felt his introduction to high society was complete--though it seemed more like the last nail in his coffin), and the room faded to attentive silence, broken only by the occasional tinkle of china or the odd whisper to one’s neighbour.
The evening took a turn for the worst when the man directly next to the Baron was identified as the Witchfinder-General. Ilya’s blood chilled to ice in his veins. Reality shifted and stretched out in a manner that Ilya had become accustomed to, where all sound was drowned by a sharp keening, as though someone ran a finger over the edge of a glass again and again. His vision tunneled and at the end of it was Witchfinder-General Lindsey. His widened eyes flicked to Eben, then to Valentin, then back to the Witchfinder-General. The man who headed the corporation that hunted their kind for a living, casually seated at the same table as them, as though he had never been single-handedly responsible for the outright murder of copious mages.
Ilya gripped the edge of the table, hard, in an attempt to ground himself. All present were just…at ease with this?
The woman in the suit seemed to tense, which strangely helped Ilya focus on his surroundings again.
Alright, not all were at ease with the Witchfinder’s presence. This made Ilya feel...less crazy.
He barely heard his name as the Baron called it, lifting his head to his fellow mages and then re-focusing on his silverware and his breathing.

The ensemble rose and exited the dining hall through a set of doors, and Ilya followed, registering with slight delay the Baron’s parting words. What, he thought, having powerful mages is not enough for this man? He wants us to dance at the end of a leash?
The revelation that was Witchfinder-General Lindsey was not to last, however, as his reverie was popped completely by Valentin when he shrieked, the noise shrill and loud enough to make Ilya think someone was dying. Then the Frenchman tumbled face-first into the floor at Ilya’s feet. There was a pause as Ilya watched him blankly for a spell, then when Val murmured into the floor paneling about ghosts, Ilya tossed his head back and laughed, loudly and abruptly. He reached down and slid a hand under Val’s arm, hauling him back to his feet and brushing a bit of dust off of his shoulder with a heavy hand.
”Ghost. HA! You are making me laugh, little p’yanitsa. Is no such thing as ghost.”
The Frenchman had a knack for surprising a good snigger out of him, which he was grateful for at present. He clapped Val on the back, like he had earlier, and moved past him to the mirror over the fireplace.
His first thought went to the idea that someone might like to watch their progress with discretion. Conveniently, there had been very little specification over how not to proceed with these tests, which told Ilya that any method of puzzle-solving was fair game.

Like what he had planned for the mirror.

He had encountered a mirror like this a few times before, one of those times being in a Gin Palace Sacha had once snuck them into, in the upper quarters.
Ilya was now banned from that Gin Palace for destruction of property.

A quick spatial-test conducted with his finger, and Ilya stepped away from the mirror and cast about for a piece of furniture, but the only thing that caught his eye was the vase….and the wooden table it rested on.

Ilya strode across the room and handed the vase to Eben without looking, and without watching to see if Eben had taken it before letting go.
”Here, hold this.” He said unhelpfully.
Then he hefted the table up to his chest and made a motion with one hand for his peers to move out of his path of the mirror.

We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars

code by valen t.

​

Spoiler: Easy on the Eyes

Dinner was a stuffy, formal affair that Ilya was unused to, though he quickly decided it was an experience he could do without ever having again.
Slishkom mnogo vilok, he thought. Too many forks.
The tablecloth was pristine and matched the manners of the other guests, who looked like the kind of people who wouldn’t be caught dead in the slums. Ilya wondered with brief amusement how they might feel to know that he was from the lower quarters and sat among them like he, too, was made from money.
Perhaps his mother would have enjoyed this party; would have enjoyed being one of the elegant ladies coated in lace and trim, with polished satin gloves up past her elbows, holding a glass of something bubbly and laughing at something comical. She had always deserved more than what she had been given, and Ilya’s mind went quiet at the thought of how she would have loved the life that Ilya was now plunging into headlong.
He glanced beneath hooded brows at the rest of the mages seated around him at the end of the table.
Well, she would have loved most of it.

The placement of him and his fellow “miscreants” did not escape Ilya’s notice. He had expected no less than to be relegated to the end of the table where he and his ilk “belonged”. To him, it was a not so subtle reminder that he was not here to be equal to the people seated at this table, but to be used as a tool by this Baron Bishop in the war.
The cycle of thoughts went round Ilya’s head once more. How had he ever agreed to this?

When dinner finally came around to being served, Ilya had a moment of uncertainty as to which utensil to use first--a quick, subtle glance at the party-goers told him the tiny fork on the outside was his first go-to weapon of the evening. The food itself was quaint and likely the most expensive thing Ilya’s stomach had ever had the pleasure of digesting, but any delicate notes of flavour, any panache of the chef’s touch was lost on Ilya who ate whatever was put in front of him mechanically and with disinterest. Instead, he focused his attention on his peers, some of whom he had seen among the scattered guests before his altercation with the tiny Frenchman. A glance to his left gave him a clear view of said Frenchman, who was beginning to look nervous. Perhaps the drink was leaving him. Ilya attempted a reassuring grimace involving teeth, but ceased when he decided it would most likely have an effect opposite of reassuring.

Throughout the meal, Ilya felt watched, and being shoved into a nice suit and made to sit among the wealthy and well-to-do did have him sticking out like a sore thumb; his height alone drew looks. He caught the eye of the mage two seats away to his left and watched their gaze pass to the head of the table, where a rugged looking man sat practically in a seat of honour. There was something reproachful in that man’s roving stare as he looked over all of them. Ilya’s frown deepened, and he was strongly reminded of the little rosomakha he would catch sight of on rare occasions while wandering the woods. Deceptively capable creatures with nasty temperaments, to be avoided if you were smart.

The pretty woman next to the cowboy had Ilya looking quickly away, desperate to avoid eye contact.

Eben was seated between two men who, judging by their accents, were from Ireland or thereabouts, and the meek seeming woman across from Ilya hardly spoke a word at all. The only other persons of interest were the military-looking man seated to the left of the brunette up near the head of the table, and the mischievous, dark-haired gentleman next to Valentin.

The Baron stood to deliver a toast (and with a toast, Ilya felt his introduction to high society was complete--though it seemed more like the last nail in his coffin), and the room faded to attentive silence, broken only by the occasional tinkle of china or the odd whisper to one’s neighbour.
The evening took a turn for the worst when the man directly next to the Baron was identified as the Witchfinder-General. Ilya’s blood chilled to ice in his veins. Reality shifted and stretched out in a manner that Ilya had become accustomed to, where all sound was drowned by a sharp keening, as though someone ran a finger over the edge of a glass again and again. His vision tunneled and at the end of it was Witchfinder-General Lindsey. His widened eyes flicked to Eben, then to Valentin, then back to the Witchfinder-General. The man who headed the corporation that hunted their kind for a living, casually seated at the same table as them, as though he had never been single-handedly responsible for the outright murder of copious mages.
Ilya gripped the edge of the table, hard, in an attempt to ground himself. All present were just…at ease with this?
The woman in the suit seemed to tense, which strangely helped Ilya focus on his surroundings again.
Alright, not all were at ease with the Witchfinder’s presence. This made Ilya feel...less crazy.
He barely heard his name as the Baron called it, lifting his head to his fellow mages and then re-focusing on his silverware and his breathing.

The ensemble rose and exited the dining hall through a set of doors, and Ilya followed, registering with slight delay the Baron’s parting words. What, he thought, having powerful mages is not enough for this man? He wants us to dance at the end of a leash?
The revelation that was Witchfinder-General Lindsey was not to last, however, as his reverie was popped completely by Valentin when he shrieked, the noise shrill and loud enough to make Ilya think someone was dying. Then the Frenchman tumbled face-first into the floor at Ilya’s feet. There was a pause as Ilya watched him blankly for a spell, then when Val murmured into the floor paneling about ghosts, Ilya tossed his head back and laughed, loudly and abruptly. He reached down and slid a hand under Val’s arm, hauling him back to his feet and brushing a bit of dust off of his shoulder with a heavy hand.
”Ghost. HA! You are making me laugh, little p’yanitsa. Is no such thing as ghost.”
The Frenchman had a knack for surprising a good snigger out of him, which he was grateful for at present. He clapped Val on the back, like he had earlier, and moved past him to the mirror over the fireplace.
His first thought went to the idea that someone might like to watch their progress with discretion. Conveniently, there had been very little specification over how not to proceed with these tests, which told Ilya that any method of puzzle-solving was fair game.

Like what he had planned for the mirror.

He had encountered a mirror like this a few times before, one of those times being in a Gin Palace Sacha had once snuck them into, in the upper quarters.
Ilya was now banned from that Gin Palace for destruction of property.

A quick spatial-test conducted with his finger, and Ilya stepped away from the mirror and cast about for a piece of furniture, but the only thing that caught his eye was the vase….and the wooden table it rested on.

Ilya strode across the room and handed the vase to Eben without looking, and without watching to see if Eben had taken it before letting go.
”Here, hold this.” He said unhelpfully.
Then he hefted the table up to his chest and made a motion with one hand for his peers to move out of his path of the mirror.

​

 

[wickedlittlecritta]

Devin Murphy
Location: Bishop Manor Dining Room/| Mood: Not amused|Interacting with: Delvin Sylvio , et all

The conversation was interrupted by a summons to dinner, and then he and Delvin were separated by the ever fickle whims of a seating chart. It could have been worse. He could have been poor Delvin rubbing elbows with Lord Yates. Instead, he was comfortably settled with the other mages, dubious guests of honor

One of the perks of his upbringing was that Devin was intimate with a formal table setting, which many of his new compatriots were doing their best to fake. (No one had to know that this was from setting more formal dinners than he'd attended.) The big Russian sitting kitty-corner to him in particular surveyed the array of silverware as if contemplating which fork to kill himself with. Devin wished he could have leaned over to whisper You work in from the fork on the outside. The nobility wasn’t actually very clever. They just liked a lot of arcane rules and shiny baubles to frighten everyone else who didn’t have the privilege of being raised with them. And oyster forks. Why the fuck did they like oyster forks so much. Oysters weren’t even that good. It was like swallowing slime.

His good mood at the dinner and conversation ended when the baron rose to make a speech, and his blood went cold when the baron named the witchfinder general. He’d come here to get away from the witchfinders, and instead the commander himself sat at the head of the table, a guest of honor.

He imagined summoning a gust, smashing all the glass and china, driving a thousand tiny points through the witchfinder general like bullets through a sackcloth.

It would be so satisfying.

It would only make things worse. There would just be a new fucking witchfinder general, and one more mage strung up.

Devin looked away from the baron and the general and reached for his champagne as the baron continued speaking. Typical. One more self-important Englishman using those beneath him like toys. If it weren't for the baron's name and money, every one of them would be dead.

When did he get to be something other than a pawn in a rich man’s game?

He was not at all pleased to be herded off into the little side room, like they were children. With a babysitter.

Devin didn’t care for puzzles, which seemed to surprise people. Certainly he liked looking clever, but the thing was that puzzles didn’t really test one’s own cleverness. They tested one’s ability to think like someone else, to measure oneself against someone else’s mind, and Devin didn’t like that at all. He especially didn't care to find out how clever the baron thought him.

He leaned against the door to the little room, one arm across his chest to hold his other arm, which held his champagne flute. He couldn't help but grin as he watched Ilya heft the table. "Go on, you can't miss!" he shouted encouragingly. Outstanding. Ilya was his new favorite. He wanted to find out exactly how much property damage they could cause before their babysitter had a stroke.

God, he hoped they made a whole gaggle of the peerage scatter like a flock of frightened chickens behind that damned mirror.

The best of us can find happiness in misery.​

 

[Sylvio]

Delvin Connelly

When Devin offered to tell off the New Columbian Unionist he couldn't help but smile. It just came out, and he didn't expect it. But it was one of the few instances where Delvin smiled in a long time. They really were an odd couple. Delvin could break a man's bones while Devin could make a breakdown in tears, with some fighting and elemental bending on the side. Delvin got some nostalgia back in deployment in South African when he spent times in Shebeens, except it was more airtight and Delvin didn't have to discipline anyone for attempting sexual assault. God he jinxed himself just then. He then thought about his sister and was worried for her, but honestly she was more level headed than anyone else. Shane was too up his own arse to be modest and Dad would always shout himself into a hernia about the English. Rose knew how to handle herself, she was a smart lass. She'd be 24 this year. Last she wrote Dad was still kicking the stubborn old man he was. Apparently her and Shane got a job at a Republican newspaper in Galway. They'd love Devin and he needed to be with some good ol' hard working Irish folk.

Delvin didn't phase for a minute when Devin propped his legs on Delvin's lap. He welcomed it and it was something he was pretty accustomed to. Delvin eyed his compatriot when he brought up going to Dublin. He never been there himself but the sound of no Unionists made him jittery. "Why stop at Dublin? There's a whole island of women and maybe some other lads who would be wanting the company of a good lookin lad like yourself... Unless they're from Ulster." He chuckled a bit at his own remark. Such promiscuity is prohibited at such an event which just made it more enjoyable to indulge in. "We should go to Galway. My family just moved there. It'd be good for you to meet some old fashioned traditional Republicans." He sounded really excited and rightfully so. Delvin didn't have any friends. He wanted to have the things that most free spirits had in their youth. Delvin was still young enough to make that happen though.

Their brief intimacy was ruined at the sound of the dinner bell. Honestly Delvin wasn't mad at the fact that they had to eat or that they ruined his social call, but the food was never filling. And they always had these weird course meals that would barely make a rabbit feel full and Delvin was no rabbit.

Begrudgingly, Delvin made his way to his seat. Oh god why was Delvin next to Eben. The two barely spoke. Devin was in the other seat but he still felt alone and isolated. Now he couldn't look disinterested and pissy about this even without being self-conscious. He looked to Eben and give him a slight smile. He then just sat still wearing a neutral expression but panicking internally. When food came around, Delvin looked around the table to see if there was more coming out. This was it? It tasted good but like... This is barely anything. Suddenly the food became a greater concern than his presentation or the people around him. He was going to ask Eben if he was going to eat his food, he didn't even pay attention to the fact that there was a noble sitting next to him. But in all fairness he probably wasn't paying Delvin any mind.

His dissatisfaction was interrupted by the clinking of a champagne glass by the Baron who was probably gonna thank a long list of people for whatever reason. For some reason the Witchfinder General was included. The kind who would have his way with the Vanguard if he a chance. Delvin hid his head down so people wouldn't see his face cringe. Then when the names of the Vanguard were called, the applause felt so empty but Delvin looked around and smiled to the wealthy strangers for appearances sake. And apparently they now had a puzzle to do... Fun....

He hated everything now, but apparently they were doing this now. As the other mages fiddled around the room. Delvin just eyed Ilya as the mad lad heaved the table up. "If you're actually planning to throw that and you end up not finding what we need, all of the damage is coming out of your wallet." He said heckling the Russian. He wanted to take bets on what the Baron's reaction would be to Ilya potentially breaking all the furniture in the room but that would be a bit much.

mood: hangry, wants to see Ilya destroy the whole room | location: Bishop Manor Puzzle Room | tags: wickedlittlecritta Cashi horses et all

code: s e v e n

 

[BELIAL.]

» broken mirror

『 TAGGED 』 Cashi

Once Ilya hefted the small table at the mirror over the hearth, as one would expect, a shower of glass exploded from the point of impact.

Where the glass once was is... more glass? [Another layer, but this one has numbers written backwards.] If one is to peer in the space where the glass once was, they'd see a narrow crevice that leads straight into the fireplace. [Almost like it was meant to trap the smoke from a fire.]

The backwards numbers are placed variously on the second glass.

[" 4 , 2 , 6 "]

code by @Nano

 

[BELIAL.]

Caitriona Maclerie

Kitty hadn't been entirely sure how she'd present herself for the dinner. Willingly taking up arms, augmented by her supposedly cursed abilities, and whisked away from her home had left her in a bit of a state. Of course she'd gone without any fight, and it hadn't taken much for her to agree to the Baron's terms, but the homesickness came in strong waves. First it was on the boat to England. She'd been half tempted to sway the water to turn the boat around, nearly draining herself of her powers if it meant she could go back home. The second came on the drive to the Baron's mansion, less than a week ago. She'd been one of the last to arrive, and had spent the majority of those days either in her quarters or roaming the grounds. She hadn't been quite ready to meet the other mages-- although she was slightly relieved at the idea that she wasn't the only person with these gifts.

All things came to a head the night of the dinner. Caught off guard, she'd been expected to dress the part of the infamous aristocracy and wealthy bureaucracy. She hadn't any fabric like that, not even in the bowels of her clothing trunk. It was all simple linens and the occasional fine cotton gown. Nothing like the glittering dresses and bleached kid gloves that the other ladies wore. That Miss Bishop wore, although the woman had been kind enough-- if kind was the word-- to loan Kitty one of her nicer gowns. It was the softest thing that Kitty had ever felt with her fingers, and the colour reminded her of the deep blue lochs. One of the servants Kitty had gotten close to, and had been kind enough to help her try and control her mass of curls for the evening. Stuffing them into a bun had been half the effort, the other had been making them stay. She wore sapphire droplet earrings, paired with an elegant broach on her breast. She'd looked at herself in the mirror, hardly a word coming out of her mouth, but feeling beautiful for the first time in her life.

"Mam wid 'ave her tits crossed," Kitty whispered to herself, fingering the soft silk once again. The woman smiled, biting her pink lips with a bit of a shake. "Minted!"

She'd managed to keep to herself the majority of the evening, flitting between the throngs of people. She kept mostly to the windows, longingly looking out of them. She strayed far from the liquor, although it took all of her being to do so, and worked to take note of the rooms in the manor. People were distracted, so now was definitely the time to do a bit of scouring. None of the servants manage to sniff her out, and she was quick to distract a few of them with a flick of her finger to some of the glasses of champagne, but she was dignified in her curiosity. She wasn't going to hurt anybody, nor was she planning to split. She was just... trying to feel safe.

Once dinner was called, Kitty made quick to the dining room. She kept her head down, her hair having managed to slip out of most of the bun. Most of the dinner she worried about her place, the dinnerware to use, and her hair not getting in everyone's food. She gazed about, taking in the fellows around her. No doubt the other mages. She made her glances quick and intentional, but otherwise just modeled the ones that seemed to know what they were doing. Baron Bishop gave his speech, and when she stood, she felt the last of her hair pop out of the pins. The small metal rods slipped down the back of her dress, making Kitty grimace as she smiled to the others. Her blood had chilled when the Witchfinder was announced-- she chastised herself for not knowing his face and seeing him earlier-- but she tried to maintain her composure throughout it. The last thing she wanted to do was fumble, and make all the drinks at the table explode in the air.

-

They were in a room now, locked away, and forced to do a puzzle. Where in the monumental speech did the Baron mention they'd have to be little painted dolls? Wasn't this about the war. Suffice to say, it put her in a bit of a temper, but she just wanted to get out and get this done. She wanted to train, and to get her hands dirty.

The Witchfinder's puppet, Roland was it? He stood at the hearth, and she wanted to sneer right at him. She didn't like being watched, not like she was a child anymore. There was some reason to the mistrust in her kind, but if they didn't trust them, why didn't they just kill them outright?

The skinny one that looked as much an alcoholic as Kitty's Uncle Tad jumped at the mirror, something about ghosts. One of the more put together gentleman, Roman, investigated beneath the rug to find a trap door. Kitty, immediately curious, slipped forward to stand next to the man. She tilted her head to read the small in-scripture, and when he mentioned to the plant in the vase, she nodded. "Aye. Em, Ah ken the poem but not well. How's it go?" Kitty knelt down, pushing her mop of red curls out of her face. She ripped the gloves off, annoyed at the feel of fabric on her usually bare hands, and ran her fingers along the door and the lock. "Brass. Jus' a wee key, too," she said and held up her thumb for size.

Ilya, the oversized russian man, seemed to have a mind for the mirror. He tossed the vase to another man, Eben, and went to heave the small table at the mirror.

"Yer aff yer fuckin' 'aid, Big Yin!" Kitty yelped, grabbing Roman by the sleeve and dragging him out of the way.

When the glass shattered, she made a face to the big man. "Got rocks fer a brain, Chief? All leg, plenty dafty, git some sense. Break every mirror 'n send the guns after us!" She shook her head, turning back to Roman.

"Anway, You ken the poem, min?"

noonshine Cashi

coded by: s e v e n ​

​

 

[BELIAL.]

X
X
X
X
X
X
X

Isolde Bishop

X
X

Once they entered the small room and were locked in, Isolde did her best to look vaguely interested in the room before lazily wandering her way to Roland. She wanted to make some sort of stake in the ground-- just shy of an apology-- but hoping that her brashness hadn't disturbed any chance of a professional relationship. They were to be working together, rather closely, and she wanted to stomp out any flame in herself for the extremely interesting New Columbian. The last thing she wanted was Bernard making a fit of it anyway, so she was intent on smothering the fire before it even lit.

Making her way, she watched the skinny alcoholic her Uncle had mentioned before tumble backward at the mirror. She narrowed her eyes, condemning the fool already. Had he been too terrified of his own reflection? She didn't know anything about the room, but she doubted that her Uncle would put anything scary in any test. The others began to investigate a few things, and Isolde took the distraction to settle the unease in her stomach as she approached Roland. She hated... not having fun. As bold as she was, subtly was sweet like a twisted mint. Her words often came out in clumped piles of well-read English and pure emotional turmoil.

She stood next to him by the hearth, hands placed in front of her and folded immaculately. "Mr. MacCann, it will be a pleasure having you on the team. I want to make it... er... known that my behaviour prior to us knowing... each other... was merely talk. We both have jobs to do, and I eagerly await the obstacles to come," she said under her breath to him, and gave the cheapest smile she could; still attempting some genuine intention in the crease of her eyes. She turned her head toward him, dipping into a gratuitous nod. Her stomach made another yawn, shutting off her brain for the two seconds it needed. "But should you have anymore stories, my door is always open." She wanted to smack herself straight into the fireplace, perhaps to shut her own mouth up. The words had tumbled out like a mudslide, typical for Isolde.

She made quick to nod again, not wanting to hear whatever he was going to say, and quickly strode to the other side of the fireplace where Vasilis, one of the other women on the team, was investigating some of the bricks. She loudly declared, signaling that she was definitely not talking to Roland anymore, "Oh, they're moving aren't they? They appear to be... loose?" She dug her gloves into the mortar, a bit annoyed that some of it scrapped off onto the fabric. They slipped only slightly, but weren't looking like they were going to budge without any tools.

Isolde heard the Russian, monster of a man come to the mirror, and she raised an eyebrow as he pressed his finger against the glass. "Yes, that's a mirror," she said with a small snort. What she didn't expect was to see Ilya reach for the table-- going for breaking the glass with it.

"Heavens, this room is going to be in pieces by the time we get out," Isolde muttered, gathering her skirt and rushing out of the way. There was no stopping him, as it were. He soon hefted the thing, and she watched in bemusement as the glass shattered all over. She gave a small sigh, but was surprised to see that a surface remained. Not the wall behind but... some sort of glass as well. She couldn't see into the other room, but she immediately noticed the numbers. Stepping around the small bits of glass, she brushed some of the debris off the fireplace. Turning to the others, she crossed her arms.

"Right, so... Miss Laskaris has found that the bricks in the fireplace move... there's the poem referenced on the trap door... and there are numbers on the wall here," Isolde felt the gears clicking in her head. She took a step back from the fireplace, her eyes narrowing in thought. She noticed that the bricks were evenly laid.

"Hold on. How many bricks are there?"

mood: perplexed, inquistive | location: Bishop Manor Room 1 | tags: StormWolf L0ck0n Cashi noonshine

code: s e v e n

 

[StormWolf]

Location: The Room

Interactions: BELIAL. , et all.

Mentions: N/A

Roland MacCann ​

If nothing else, the moment of observation as an experience. Each of these Vanguard, as the Baron called them, was more than just an individual. There were caricatures, larger-than-life personalities that would fit any cabaret stage. Perhaps being connected to whatever metaphysical power source that gave them their arcane abilities gave them more energy or caused a chemical imbalance somewhere in the brain. Hell, Roland didn’t know. He was a learned fellow, but his extent of anatomy was decidedly niche. To him, the great majority of these Vanguard were touched.

Still, while the reedy whippet of a boy jumped at ghosts, Isolde seemed to float as she came up beside him. Her demeanor was different; a falcon with its feathers ruffled by an unseemly breeze or a tigress who just managed to bite her own tail. While she spoke at a rate that would make a Maxim machine gun blush, Roland’s expression remained as stolid as a cliff face as he rummaged for his cigarette case.

“Merely talk? Now, that’s a damn shame,” he rumbled in that same dusky drawl as he tapped out a smoke, a wolfish grin flickering around the butt for the briefest moment. “I’ll keep that in mind, thank you kindly. I’ll be sure to knock, open door or not,” he said, and with a flick of flint, lit up his cigarette as the mirror exploded into shards with a mighty crash.

He didn’t twitch a hair.

Instead, Roland simply took a long draw on his cigarette as he pushed himself off the mantle. It would be improper, what with Isolde getting so intimate with the masonry. Brushing a dusting of silvered glass off one shoulder as if it was the first snow of winter, Roland crossed back to the door they’d passed through and shrugged out of his jacket to hang it on a wall peg.

What the Baron had said was finally galvanized in perfect clarity. Roland’s dress shirt strained tight against arms of corded steel, his lending credence to the mallet-like hands of is. A shoulder holster sagged under his left arm with a behemoth of a hand-canon, while a matched pair of Colt 1911s sat holstered at the small of Roland’s back, their stag antler grips engraved with Rev. 19:11. A flash of nickel and pearl in one vest pocket was certainly not a pocket watch. He may not be as large as Ilya or robust as Delvin, but there was a disquieting calm and confidence about Roland.

This was a man who had fought in the Somme and faced down a charging line of Arabian ifrit on horseback. Every mage was a loaded gun, but Roland was a grenade.

“If we might contain the circus for a moment,” Roland said with a militant cord in his voice, but it prickled with something more. The snarl of a wolf in the dark as it circled the waning light of the campfire. It was matched only by his smile, so cold and cavalier.

“The sooner this is resolved, the sooner we’re not stuck in such confines together. I ken that’s common ground for the lot of us, hm?” He said rhetorically, taking a long drag.

“There’s supposed to be two of each of your particular elements present. Divvy up,” he said, gesturing to the hearth and the mirror on one side of the room and the vase with the mysterious trap door on the other. Crossing his arms over his chest, his right hand resting on the polished sandalwood grip of his revolver, Roland’s eyes flickered over the numbers on the inside mirror.

“Would a Torch kindly light the fireplace?” He asked with steel in his voice as he rolled up a pantleg. A rasp of steel gliding free of leather and the glint of lamps on brass, Roland procured a nasty trench knife from his boot. In typical New Columbian arms fashion, it was a single tool meant to cover many aspects. Fighting knife, brass knuckles, and bayonet.

It looked absolutely sinister clutched so familiarly in that scarred fist.

“Unless there were more numbers on the backside of the other pane,” Roland gestured to the mosaic of broken glass on the floor with the knife, then tapped the flat against his chin as if it was nothing more than a grease pencil.

Making a point to avoid large shards of glass, just incase he was right, Roland stepped up to the forward-facing side of the of the hearth and counted to the second brick in, and tried the mortar with his knife, attempting to work the brick loose. What sprung to mind was how he would share messages as a boy. A slip of paper with a page number, a line number, and the number of a word on that line.

If he was wrong? Well, then the Russian Peril broke half the cypher, and Roland would deal with that if it came around.

 

[wickedlittlecritta]

Devin Murphy
Location: Bishop Manor Puzzle Room| Mood: Not amused|Interacting with: Ilya Cashi

The sound of the mirror shattering was ever so satisfying. Devin grinned hugely and reached with his free hand, summoning a thousand little eddies to cradle the broken shards mid air so that they wouldn't slice bits off of everyone. He missed a few, he was sure, but he swirled the bulk of them out from being underfoot. He didn't need to use gestures most times--he was very good at little rattling breezes without moving so much as a finger--but for so much glass it felt like he had more control with his body involved. Maybe he did, maybe it was only wishful thinking.

"Superb," he told Ilya brightly. "Absolutely tremendous."

And then the babysitter tried to start herding cats.

Devin didn't particularly want to be herded. He could have complained. He could have grudgingly gone along and mucked things up. But the path of least resistance was to simply do nothing. So he eyed Roland waving his knife around and then stayed exactly where he was, taking a small sip of his champagne.

He'd help when someone paid him.

The best of us can find happiness in misery.​

 

[Hell0NHighWater]

↽LOCATION⇁‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎↽VIBES⇁
Bishop Manor; Trial Room‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎‎Choke


↽INTERACTIONS⇁‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎↽OOC⇁
Cashi BELIAL. ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎Oop I tried
wickedlittlecritta horses ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎
noonshine StormWolf ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎‎‏

⑈ Valentin Auclair ⑈​

Remaining on the floor, he twisted to watch one of the men from dinner stride past with a politely muttered phrase. Val lifted his cigarette to his mouth and pulled; inhaling, holding, and exhaling the smoke from his lungs. His gaze curiously tracked his movements, drawing his knees up toward his chest.

Unable to completely do away with his curiosity, he leaned in to get a better look at what the man—Rowen? Ronen? Or was it Roman?—had uncovered. Valentin’s brows rose momentarily before drawing together, his gaze pinned to the trap door beneath the carpet. In a small corner of his moderately functional brain, he recalled the Baron saying something about puzzles. And this, he concluded, was a puzzle indeed.

Did the Baron really have a sex dungeon?

Interest peaked, but not enough for him to put in the effort, Val turned his gaze back to the man beside him. Of whom, looked entirely too pleased with himself. There was a piece of paper in his hands with five words scrawled across the surface. He had barely read it by the time Roman was on his feet, extending a hand toward him.

Blinking, Val dragged his gaze towards his face. He hesitated for a second before he began to lift a hand in response only to be hoisted to his feet so quickly it was as if he were weightless. The sudden action pried a foreign curse from his lips, head spinning as he tried to maintain his balance.

”Ghost. HA! You are making me laugh, little p’yanitsa. Is no such thing as ghost.”

Val snickered, gaze snapping to Ilya as he struggled to contain the rage boiling in the pit of his stomach. He ran his hand through his hair three times in quick succession and fixed his fellow mage in a stare that could have frozen the Atlantic. He opened his mouth to speak before promptly shutting it.

Nothing he could have said, in either language, would have made a difference. He would just be dismissed as a drunk with a drug addled mind suffering from a touch of insanity. And while most of that might have been true, Valentin knew what he was seeing was very real.

Already moving on, Ilya clapped him on the back with such force that his already unstable sense of balance was once again thrown out of whack. Val staggered to the side, barely managing to keep himself upright. His gaze sourly kept track of Ilya as he strode off toward a plant in the corner of the room. From there it wandered toward a couple of the other faces before settling on a woman by the fireplace, poking at the stones.

"Go on, you can't miss!" a man shouted encouragingly, so much so that it abruptly forced Valentin’s attention back, yet again, to Ilya; ready to smash a small table into the mirror.

The corners of his mouth began to soften and for a second, he managed a half smile of dry amusement. That was certainly one way to go about getting out of this room. Direct destruction wasn’t typically his modus operandi while sober, but there was a piece of him that craved the resulting chaos. Until he remembered that, despite his endorsement for destruction, he was currently standing in harm's way.

"Yer aff yer fuckin' 'aid, Big Yin!" A woman screamed just before Roman was suddenly moved from the corner of his eye; he turned his head to follow, noting the appearance of another woman from dinner—Caitriona Something? Val shook his head, squeezed his eyes shut, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

He needed to stop thinking and just move.

The air was suddenly rent by the sound of breaking glass and Val instantly knew that he had come to this realization a bit too late. Other than a gunshot, there was nothing else that got his attention sooner or spurred his heart to beat faster. He had enough sense to turn away. Using his arms to shield his head, Val ducked to the floor in an attempt to dodge a majority of the glass shrapnel. Thousands of glittering fragments rained down around him. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable slicing of pain. Only it never came.

His eyes peeled open and he watched in muted amazement as the fragments rejected gravity, hovering harmlessly in the space above and around his head. They held for a moment, shimmering in the dim light before each piece was carefully laid to rest on the floor around him. Val waited a second longer before resuming a standing position, the tension melting away from his body as if it had never existed to begin with.

"Superb," the same man with the tarot cards told Ilya brightly. Val watched the golden liquor swirl slightly in Devin’s champagne flute as he continued, "Absolutely tremendous."

Despite the close call to injury, an amused smile still tugged on the corner of his mouth. Val raised a hand toward Devin in thanks, assuming that he had been responsible for making sure the glass explosion hadn't turned him into swiss cheese. All of this excitement was invigorating and far more eventful than the drab dinner he assumed this was going to be. Though he wasn’t particularly fond of forced puzzles, he had to admit it was fun to watch them try so hard. It gave him a slight reprieve from the entity who’d been following him like a lost puppy all evening. But he would have appreciated it more if he were allowed to drink. Instead, his sanity was forced to hang solely on the amount of cigarettes he had in his pack. Discarding the butt of his now finished cigarette into the fireplace, Val fished a new one out to fit between his lips. He kicked at a couple of pieces of glass with his foot before moving out of Isolde’s path as she made a purposeful b-line for the fireplace.

“Well done, mon grand. You showed that mirror who was boss, Oui?” Val fidgeted with his unlit cigarette absently, chuckling without humor.

_{”—breaks like bone—”}

Garbled words whispered against the shell of his ear caused the smile on his lips to twist into a frown. He didn’t want to be in this room anymore. It suddenly felt too small, packed with too many souls. And the noise of multiple people talking at the same time was hardly doing any favors for his headache.

“There’s supposed to be two of each of your particular elements present. Divvy up,” the cowboy babysitter’s voice pulled him back to the task at hand.

Val’s scowl deepened, narrowing his eyes at Roland, and looking for all the world like a grumpy child whose Dad just told him to do something he didn’t want to. “Je suis désolé, but I don’t take orders. I barely take suggestions. Especially from the living.”

Despite the words of protest, the Frenchman still moved himself toward where Eben was standing with the plant. Peering sourly at the shrub, Valentin reached a hand out to drag a finger across an off-green leaf. It looked just as bad as he felt. He had never empathized with a plant before, but in that moment he found himself oddly endeared to it. It, too, was teetering between this life and being compost. The lower leaves were dying but the top was still forming new leaves, shiny and small.

“Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions are faded and gone.” Valentin spoke loud enough to be heard but mostly to himself, ending the phrase with a thoughtful hum. Dark cobalt irises flickered up to Eben, a weary smile curling the corner of his mouth, “I don’t suppose you have any water on you?”


[/color]

 

[BELIAL.]

» the rose plant

『 TAGGED 』 horses Hell0NHighWater

Although from a objective glance, the plant is still a bud and covered in green-- upon closer look it's most certainly a rose. The green of the stem and leaves looks almost... artificial. Metal, almost, and upon touch the surface is cold. It's warmer within the soil, naturally warm from the microbiotic life within the rocks and dirt.

Just below the surface of the dirt, however, there appears to be the tip of an object. Hard, round.

Spoiler

FIND: TWO CHISELS

Dig a bit into the vase, within the dirt, and you will feel something almost sharp and metal. You aren't sure what it is, and digging it out doesn't seem to be a good idea. But the soil is very dry.

code by @Nano

 

[noonshine]

ROMAN GRAVES

At times the world could stand completely still- as though time was forgotten by all participants engaged in it’s making. However- it was not one of those moments. With all of the fervor of a drunken composer the god he suspected was punishing him crafted a Handel-ian moment of absolute chaos. His extended hand, left unmet, withdrew and his eyes only momentarily shifted to Mr. Auclair who was being lifted and then consoled in a manner that he thought reserved for rowdy children.

Suddenly Mr. Zabolotsky had the table in his paws- and Roman was fool enough to not pay attention to the Irishmen, who were encouraging mayhem, as Irishmen often do. Well- one of them- but it may well have been both. He looked back to the paper in hand, trying to recall the poem- not quite understanding that the glass was about to be completely destroyed by the Russian who was making an improvised weapon out of the surface on which the vase was previously. Sleeve pulled, something told him not to resist and he let himself move in the direction that the Scot’s movement demanded. The shattering of the glass indicated exactly why, and suddenly the moment came together completely for him.

Absolute brutes. He nodded along to her scolding of the Russian, even though her chirp was charming he was positive that she had made her point, only muttering a “honestly…” letting himself cast a momentary glare in the general direction of the man without looking at him directly. He was, after all, a giant that Roman wanted nothing to do with.



“Miss. Maclerie- thank you,” turning to face her, his expression softened. Her features were- stunning to say the least- up close she was a Gentileschi- a soft face with unusually storied eyes that had a familiarity in shape and hue of green to one who had caused him some devastation yet to be recovered. His chest was suddenly tight- very unlike the comfortable tension that comes with meeting someone new.



“Yes, the poem-” he began, only to be cut short by the demands of the New Colombian in the room who, as the idea of these other mages in their unpredictability settled, quickly began to look like more of a threat than a watching eye. There was no way he was going to ignore that threat. “Pardon me,” with a small smile he bowed his head to her.



Shuffling past people, carefully stepping around glass, he made his way to the hearth, “maybe using the clues we’ve been given as- well, clues- instruction , you know, would make this go faster. But we can assume and break things, I suppose.”



Kneeling to face the inner hearth of the fireplace he glanced over his shoulder for a moment and muttered an “excuse me, my apologies.” There was no wood, nothing discernible, but after a moment a sharp smell met his nostrils, a smell that had to be in some way flammable. There was no harm in trying to set whatever that was aflame, if it didn’t work it wasn’t meant to.



With one, deep breath he considered for a moment the agitation in his gut, and it’s root of being locked in this room with people he earlier had no real intention of getting to know. It was enough to feel heat in his lungs, he placed one hand on the extension of the hearth to brace himself as he made a sound like a surprised unhappy cat spitting- which is what he did, he spat from between his teeth tongue pressed to them, and rather than spit embers flew from his mouth. Used to his own fits he was careful in positioning his head, neck craned to not let them land on his suit.

TEMPLATE © BOKEH​

 

[BELIAL.]

» the fireplace

『 TAGGED 』 noonshine L0ck0n StormWolf

Instantly, upon even a few embers reaching the inside of the hearth, flame emits. The interior combusts with a hot, fast flame. Eating away at the menthol smelling coating. It burns quicker than one would expect, perhaps the compound was made more potent in a chemist's lab, and before long it burns itself out. Though the surface remains hot on the inside, one can now see a bit deeper into the fireplace.

[Behind the grates lay not a wall, but a small door]. The door is locked, with a small and similar brass shaped hole to the trap door lock.

Roland working at the bricks with his knife would take a long time. Perhaps the chisels found may provide some help?

code by @Nano

 

[Hell0NHighWater]

↽LOCATION⇁‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎↽VIBES⇁
Bishop Manor; Trial Room‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎‎La Vie En Rose


↽INTERACTIONS⇁‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎↽OOC⇁
horses ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎smol reply to rose reveal
‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎‎‏

⑈ Valentin Auclair ⑈​

Valentin held the flower in his fingertips so that it did not touch his scuffed, calloused, palms. How was it that despite a lack of sunlight and water this delicate bloom could survive? It's stem was the hue of spring grass and it's brilliant crimson petals so thin that even the air, made dim by vague lamplight, could shine through them; bestowing an unearthly glow. The smile that had played at the corners of his lips faded. This flower, while reaching for a sun that did not exist, was a living corpse. Just as he was.

He pulled his hand away from the budding flower in favor of prodding at the soil. “It will be okay,” Val murmured to the rose, “A little water and—oh? Qu'est-ce que c'est?” His hand jerked away as it brushed against something unnaturally hard within the soil. He attempted to peer into the vase, but it was a bit difficult to see past the stem and leaves.

Sticking his hand back in, he ignored the pricks of thorns as he struggled to move the dirt without bothering the plant. Eventually, his hand once again ran over something hard and round, lurking just under the surface. Now positive that there was something buried in the soil, Val pulled his hand from the vase with a furrowed brow. “What mysteries do you hide, mon petit chouchou?”

Looking up at Eben once more, Val shifted his unlit cigarette to the other side of his mouth, “There’s something in there; Do you think it would come out if we turned the soil into mud? I'd like to avoid hurting the rose...”


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