Multiple Settings 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓥𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓾𝓪𝓻𝓭 (Main Thread)

[StormWolf]

Location: The Room

Interactions: wickedlittlecritta , noonshine , Open/et all

Roland MacCann ​

Roland had never been one to strike women or children, but the petulance of the young Valantin sorely tempted him into turning a new leaf. Suggestions, he said.

I suggest you make yourself useful before I put a window in your head, Roland thought, nearly saying it aloud, but he bit his tongue. His back twitched and tensed into a knotted bundle, old wounds creaking in silent discontentment. Worse still, was the mortar was not as pliant as Roland would have thought or liked, and the grating of the steel on pitted brick was only the fifth-most aggravating thing in the room.

From below came a demure plea of pardon, and Roland merely glanced down with an arching of his eyebrows at pallid skin and sallow cheeks before Roman ducked under the lip of the mantle. An odd duck, to be sure, but no more or less odd than the rest.

Then the hacking started.

Brow furrowing, Roland leaned to peer at Roman’s apparent fit, and nearly leapt out of his skin when the spitting of sparks lead to flame. His eyes goggled wide for a moment as he tensed against a sudden flash of panic, knuckles bleaching white in the knuckle-duster grip of his knife.

“Jesus,” he spat his meager blasphemy and shoved himself away from the mantle with a forced, practiced calm. Slipping the knife back into his boot sheath, Roland surveyed the other side of the room, spying the pair of chisels they’d apparently unearthed.

What arcane euro-trash parlor game were they tangled in?

“Pardon,” he said tightly, crossing the room in steady strides and paused in his traversal of the room to stop by the lout – Devin, if memory served. “I’m requisitioning this for the war effort,” he said lowly, gesturing to the flute of champagne. Not pausing for acquiescence or consent on the matter, Roland snatched it and kept moving. He didn’t much care if the stem snapped off.

Roland’s vest had hidden the patch of sweat that was growing between his shoulder blades, but it wouldn’t be long before he couldn’t hide his discomfort, especially with a Torch being so close.

He needed fresh air. He needed a drink. As tempting as the champagne was, it was destined for a greater purpose. Approaching the vase without a word, he poured the half-glass into the dirt.

 

[BELIAL.]

» the rose plant

『 TAGGED 』 @horses Hell0NHighWater StormWolf

Once the liquid hits the soil, it readily absorbs it. What liquid passes through, however, filters straight to the metal contraption within the dirt. As the liquid trickles in, a tiny whirring motion can be heard as the soil slowly churns, like a water wheel. As if cranked by a lever, the flower begins to bloom. It moves mechanical, a bit rough, but there's an element of smoothness to it.

Within the flower, [A BRASS KEY].

The soil is wet enough that digging the chisels out is a little more feasible.

Deeper in the soil, as well, there is a small cloth bag. It contains [ONE KEY PIECE].

code by @Nano

 

[wickedlittlecritta]

Devin Murphy
Location: Bishop Manor Puzzle Room| Mood: Not amused|Interacting with: Roland StormWolf

Watching Roman cough up sparks was, frankly, incredibly funny. What a stupid way to do magic. He loved it.

He was so amused about it that he almost didn't notice Roland approach until the big New Columbian was looming over him. Devin frowned up at him. He had time to notice that he looked rather unsettled--did they have a witchfinder that afraid of magic?--before Roland said, “I’m requisitioning this for the war effort,” and snatched the glass of champagne from Devin's hand. And for a moment Devin was so startled that he could hardly react.

Did that really just happen.

"Hey! You can't just take people's drinks, you animal," he snapped, and followed after Roland. "I'm not drunk enough to go along with this stupid fucking game yet."

Champagne, cocaine, gasoline and most things in between​

 

[Hell0NHighWater]

↽LOCATION⇁‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎↽VIBES⇁
Bishop Manor; Trial Room‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎‎Lights Out


↽INTERACTIONS⇁‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎↽OOC⇁
@horses ‎‏‏‎ Cashi ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎RIP
StormWolf ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎‎‏

⑈ Valentin Auclair ⑈​

He was in the midst of listening to Eben’s reply when the Witchfinder General’s pet emptied a glass of champagne into the vase. Burning rage hissed through his body like deathly poison, screeching a demanded release in the form of violence. A smoldering animosity was developing in his sapphire orbs, and as he turned the full weight of his attention to Roland the cigarette broke between his clenched teeth.

_{”—hit—break bones.”}

“T'es rien qu'un petit connard,” Valentin growled, too consumed with anger to note the whirring noise coming from the vase or the opening of the flower, “Are you incapable of waiting a fucking second for some fucking water!?” He held still, staring at Roland, eyes locked right on his. A wrinkle developed in his nose that had nothing to do with an oncoming sneeze, his muscles tight, and jaw clenched.

_{”—grab the pick in the vase. Stab him—”}

“Do you know the kind of pain it gives me, monsieur, to see perfectly good alcohol wasted?” His voice trembled with rage, his breathing uneven and heart rate skyrocketing. Unable to control himself anymore, Valentin stepped closer to the cowboy, almost comically leering at the much taller man. The light above began to flicker rapidly, dimming until the entire room was nearly blanketed in darkness, like water draining away. The ceiling became black first and the rippling surface descended until it reached the floor. Even as the immediate area around him began to chill and his breath became visible, Val kept his focus solely on Roland as he continued, “That rose was the best fucking moment of my sobriety. And you—you couldn’t even let me have that.”

_{”—choke—”}

At first the ghost was no more than a chill in the air, a shimmer of mist, diffusing. Through it the room became slightly out of focus, like a poorly taken photograph. It wasn't until Valentin’s hands curled into fists that it congealed into a form, the same woman with the heavily beaten face and the smile of a predator. Her body seemed to twitch in rough, jagged movements, like a puppet on a string just before she surged forward. Boney fingers wrapped around Roland’s neck, her mouth opening in a shriek of pure rage as her grip began to tighten.

Then, as quickly as she appeared, she vanished. The light above flickered back to life and the temperature of the room began to rise once more.

Regret washed over Val like the long slow waves on a shallow beach. Each wave was icy cold, extinguishing his rage and sending shivers along his spine. He staggered back, swaying on his feet as he held a hand to his head.

“I—I—I,” he swallowed past the lump in his throat and tried again, but found himself unable to continue his sentence. The room was spinning like a carousel from hell. His throat was dry and vision fuzzy. He took a step back and wavered again. Val’s distantly glazed gaze found itself resting on Ilya, a bit of a dopey smile sliding across his features. “Do you believe in ghosts now, mon grand?”

He barely finished the question before he collapsed, gracelessly hitting the carpeted floor as the world faded to black.


[/color]

 

[StormWolf]

Location: The Room

Interactions: Hell0NHighWater , et all/Open

Roland MacCann ​

It was, perhaps, inevitable that things would come to this. This was not a military unit. It was a gang. All miscreants and malcontents. Roland saw the silvery-grey of the Medium’s power flickering through Valentin’s eyes like smoked glass, and that was the spark that set it all ablaze. Gooseflesh rippled across Roland’s scarred skin, the Frenchman’s laments becoming muddied in the roar of blood and the thunder of a racing heart in Roland’s ears.

Lightning burned at the tips of Roland’s fingers as his eyes widened. Tension striped his jaw as air refused to fill his lungs. What little breath escaped Roland’s mouth came as a fog, crisp and cold as a winter morning. He watched the hate in Valentin’s eyes with a distance of worlds, but through the cold and the calm of those glacial blue eyes, a leviathan stirred.

By the time Valentin had fallen to the ground, the behemoth of a revolver seemingly appeared in Roland’s hand. The harsh and steely click of the hammer filled the room as surely as the gunshot that was promised at the next cough out of line,

“There seems to be a misunderstanding, so allow me to elucidate,” Roland rasped, thumb flicking to toggle the hammer for the shotgun barrel. “I am fully aware that the lot of you might pinch me in a rush, but by the time you do, our little French Prince will be among his ghosts, as will half among you.” Roland’s eyes had settled, half lidded and distant. His gun-hand was steady as a surgeon’s.

“One among you with the capacity for water, would you kindly deliquesce the earthen puck in the vase?” The propriety in Roland’s voice was gossamer as the floorboards groaned gently beneath him. Weight shifted onto his toes, his posture shifting ever so gradually.

“You should never question me,” he growled in a breath to the prostrate Spiritualist. It may well fall on deaf ears or he may well be ignored, but it seemed only right to lay it plain.

 

[wickedlittlecritta]

Devin Murphy
Location: Bishop Manor Puzzle Room| Mood: Not amused|Interacting with: Roland StormWolf , Valentin Hell0NHighWater

Devin hadn't been particularly keen on getting into a fight with Roland--simple math said that foot something height difference was going to hurt--but he certainly hadn't expected rescue in the form of Valentin flying into an absolute rage on behalf of his champagne glass.

And then the ghost flicked into view.

Devin had spent a good ten years faking ghost sightings, and the real thing was infinitely spookier. For one, she was actually there, sucking all the warmth and light from the room like she was using it to stay visible. Her hands wrapped around Roland's throat--

And then she was gone, like she never was.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Devin said, crossing himself reflexively. He looked at Val, thinking that that explained quite a few things, but not nearly enough. But before he could say anything else Val fainted, crumpling to the floor in a tangle of limbs.

"The fucking moon," he muttered, and dropped to his knee next to the Frenchman as Roland pulled his gun out and barked orders. We're all very impressed with the size of your dick, Mr. Witchfinder sir, he thought sourly, checking to make sure that Val hadn't up and made himself a ghost instead of just collapsing like a lady with a delicate constitution.

He kept the knowledge that he could keep that bullet from leaving the barrel of the revolver to himself for now. He did love surprises.

Champagne, cocaine, gasoline and most things in between​

 

[idalie]

Location: Baron's Manor
Interactions: wickedlittlecritta StormWolf Hell0NHighWater
Mentions: BELIAL.

Bernard King​

Congregating in the puzzle room was about as comfortable as riding a bicycle with no seat. Veering away from the flattery of lavish dining rooms, the challenges presented themselves in quick succession. Bernard kept back while the investigations bore fruit and perhaps to an extent, the fragility of their Spiritual practitioners. From the Russian smashing the mirror in his bullheaded brilliance to the fine-tuned mechanisms of the metal rose, it appeared the team was well-suited and in no need of his input. Although one might be misinformed to believe it was laziness on King’s part, he would prefer it referenced as reconnaissance.

Roland assumed his role of leadership well in a short assessment, the fellow surely knew how to control the room. Yet by the reactions of some, it became clear they didn’t understand the threat of the King’s heavy-handed punishment if the Vanguard experimental force failed. For all the forward-thinking reforms in parliament for magekind, some stupid few could regress the entire process by years. Beinhard could only hope training would whip some of their attitudes into shape, just as it had for plenty of the fighting fit.

However, the discourse over the requisition of Devin’s champagne added a new and utterly ridiculous level to the argument. Deciding now would be the best time to pitch in, Bernard furrowed his pronounced brow until Valentin’s unneeded display of power. The undead apparition was harrowing indeed, a sliver of insight into the medium’s head although an unwanted one. Nevertheless, it was the pure hatred and harm in her expression that had been so readily unleashed by Valentin that gave the fear it’s quickest route into anger.

Shaking the room for a second and even the nerves of the more worldly men and women among them, a vacuum of silence lingered between Roland’s speech and Devin’s pity.

“The reason we have a need for men like Mr MacCann is due to men like Auclair. It is scum, who lose control over themselves for a dig at another and it is scum who jeopardise the future of all magekind.” Bernard hissed through gritted teeth, breathing in raggedly, “We are being watched, observed, and studied by men who have no qualms with having us shot to hide the misery of misplaced government faith. How long have we fought to be equal? How many reforms have we scraped past just to save ourselves the pain of lobotomy instead to be shackled with servitude?”

He motioned outward in generalisation to the group, voice quiet yet shaking with solemn anger, “There is a war on. Tomorrow mothers will wake up without sons and you can stand here, arguing over a glass of champagne? Over your own petty grievances and insignificant little opinions?” His gaze rested on the unconscious Frenchman. “It’s disgusting. For what little a man would threaten to misuse when so much has already been put at stake. Perhaps the Witchfinder General is right to be wary of us. Selfish, impudent children.”

 

[wickedlittlecritta]

Devin Murphy
Location: Bishop Manor Puzzle Room| Mood: Not amused|Interacting with: Bernard idalie , Val Hell0NHighWater

Crouched on the floor next to Valentin, Devin scowled deeper and deeper as Bernard spoke.

"If I'd known rolling over and playing dead was what was in mind for us, believe me, I'd have chosen the noose," he snapped. "Tomorrow mothers will wake up without sons, yes, and the baron chooses to put us through puzzles. What sons will we save in this god forsaken basement, Mr. King? Do tell. I'm dying to know," he said. "Of course we're selfish. Who else gives a damn about us? Those men watching? They don't care. We're amusements. Possibly useful. And the moment we fail to be amusing, or useful, we'll be dead." He rose. "It isn't about the fucking champagne. It's about being treated like a god damned human being."

He wasn't thinking about himself, or Valentin, or any of them in that basement. He was thinking of his mother, and another baron, across the Irish sea. He was thinking about all the ways someone with more power and money could make life an inescapable hell. "I don't suppose you'd know anything about dignity, but don't ask us to kneel and lick another man's boot just because you've learned to like the taste of shit," he finished.

Gráinne Mhaol agus míle gaiscíoch ag fógairt fáin ar Ghallaibh!​

 

[idalie]

Location: Baron's Manor
Interactions: wickedlittlecritta
Mentions: StormWolf Hell0NHighWater

Bernard King​

“You can still choose the noose, boy. But unlike some of your stronger countrymen, you won’t die for the ideology, will you? Martyrdom doesn’t suit the youthful and brazen.” A voice filled with nothing but razors and nails, their points aimed at the young Irishman in the contest of tempers.
“And I willfully agree with you, Mr Murphy, there are no lives being saved here. This is a child’s game for the amusement of a few and yet it’s consequences will impact many. You think me to have been sitting on high for all my years? I know these games and I know that to play them, I am subject to the humiliation and control of politicians who will never shake my hand or give me the time of day.”

Bernard slammed his cane into the floor with a clatter of wood and ivory handle.
“You will NEVER be treated as a human for as long as you prove yourself to be everything they think we are. You play the game and beat them at their own hand. I’m not asking you to kneel, I’m asking you to behave as you wish to be treated so we can be granted the competence and trust of those in power. But you won’t even do that. Not even for those who stand in the unborn uncertainty of the future, still I forget, perhaps I am the selfish one for believing the Vanguard to be better.” His features slackened for a moment, returning to their neutrality.

“You can’t force change and you shan’t see it in our lifetimes. Your freedom is a dangerous fallacy. Mr Auclair and yourself, believe that being human is to be given champagne freely perhaps? Or perhaps it is the childish sense of want. For we forget what’s happened, Auclair assaulted a man over a glass of alcohol he didn’t even own. If that is your point to contest, then we really are doomed, politics aside.”

 

[wickedlittlecritta]

Devin Murphy
Location: Bishop Manor Puzzle Room| Mood: Not amused|Interacting with: Bernard idalie , Val Hell0NHighWater

God, did Tories ever listen to themselves? Bernard spoke like none of this had ever occurred to Devin, like he was a spoilt and petulant child, like he hadn't spent the first sixteen years of his life desperately and personally trying to make bigger men like him.

It didn't even work when they were your own blood.

"Oh, Mr. King, I know the games. I'm just so tired of playing when they're so pointless. We can ask as nice as we want, but they'll never ever give us more than table scraps. Because they want our perfect, unthinking obedience. They want control. And they keep all the cards stacked just so to keep it, tyrant kings of tiny kingdoms." His mother had tried to leave once, when he was small, but no one else would offer her a job, for fear of upsetting his father. No one would marry her either, not even after his father had lost interest. And so they'd stayed, victims of a rich man's whims, until Devin had finally run away, and he knew he'd never be able to go back to Cork. What did Bernard King know about humiliation? "Give us an inch, and they lose power."

Devin looked back down at Valentin. "Perhaps you could direct some of your empathy from the peerage to a very haunted, very stressed man, and you could come up with some reasons why a glass of champagne is a last straw. I'm not condoning the severity of his response, by any means, but I'd certainly rather be on his side then theirs." He crouched back down next to Valentin and shook his shoulder gently. "Wake up, sleeping beauty, this is a terrible floor to be laying on."

Gráinne Mhaol agus míle gaiscíoch ag fógairt fáin ar Ghallaibh!​

 

[BELIAL.]

Location: Baron's Manor || Room 1
Interactions: Bernard, Roland, Devin + boys, et al (including Sil)
Mentions: idalie StormWolf wickedlittlecritta L0ck0n

Isolde Bishop​

Isolde had had enough. Though she trusted Bernard enough to hold the Vanguard's honour well enough against the face of adversity, this being Mr. Murphy, she was annoyed that all of this was because of a stupid flute of champagne. Mr. MacCann had been wise to use it in the plant, though they did have a water user in the group-- but innovation was sorely lacking for people who had magic at their fingertips. More or less the reason for her Uncle's puzzle, no doubt. Hopefully Mr. MacCann would prove to be some inspiration to the others to think beyond their own fingers and toes. And yet, she wasn't blind to the brutality he quickly administered. Her eyes caught the gun in his hand, and the click of the hammer. His skill with the gun moved with the grace of the unearthly being that Valentin had summoned. The audacity of it, for sure. Her heart had thumped in her chest, beating against the cage, hoping that blood wouldn't be spilled so soon. Friendly sparring she could deal, but she wouldn't have expected that her Uncle would allow this kind of brute force to govern them in tight quarters. He'd never treated her, her sister, or even Berinhard like that.

Perhaps she'd been spared the unwavering truth. That she was just another mage, but spared from being put down like a smothered dog. She swallowed back this truth, focusing on the values she knew of the Vanguard. The rhetoric her Uncle had drilled into her. Taking this second to herself while the boys hashed it out, Kitty bravely strode toward the vase and sunk her palms into the dirt, producing more water from beneath her fingers as if it had existed in the first place. She said nothing but glared at the others, unceremoniously grabbing the chisels. She noticed the bag at the bottom and grabbed it as well. Kitty kept her jaw tight, stepping back to hand Vasilis and Isolde the chisels.

Isolde sighed rather audibly, digging her fingers into the bricks in hopes of quelling the flames of her magic from spilling out. She had control, and she knew control. Isolde took a deep breath, snatching the chisel and whirling on her heel to face the others. "Are you gentlemen quite done then?" She seethed, walking forward to the lot of them she held her chin high, staring them up and down with a savage grace. "Or are we to quarrel right here, and right now, rather than attend to the task at hand?"

Turning to Roland, the hasty glances and awkward shuffling she'd done earlier were gone. Seeing him draw a gun in anticipation of one of her kind brought out something fierce in her. She kept her gaze leveled, though a fire burned behind her eyes. "There will be no need for your guns, Mr. MacCann, I can assure you. Should the need come, I will not chastise you against protecting yourself. But, if I do recall, you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. Isn't that how the saying goes?" Although Isolde wasn't an outright pacifist, in her heart she wanted to spare the mortal man from anymore confrontations with the group's magic. With someone like Mr. Auclair, there was no doubt instability. "Your guns and your order may work when we're all fighting the enemy, but not here. The Vanguard is more than a military force, it is a group of people. We are not animals," she added with a bit of softness, hoping to appeal at the very least.

Kitty made a noise from the side, clapping her hands together before placing them on her hips. "Well, em, less' make a movin' then, lest we fash o'er the wallpaper an' who's the wallaper," she strode forward to snatch the key from the mechanical flower. "Let Uncle Jakey 'ave his rose, min. Had a tiff over it a'away. Doon the hatch, onybody?" The woman gave a wicked smile, bending down to put the small key in the hole. She turned the lock and it clicked. The trap door was a bit heavy, but Kitty managed to heft it over. She looked around to the others before gazing down the dark hole and the ladder that led down.

"Big Yin, yer shacked with me. Ladies first," Kitty purred with another grin, winking to Ilya as she quickly clambered down into the blackness.

Isolde gave another sigh, turning from Roland. "Alright. We'll group up by our elements, as Mr. MacCann advised. Though I'm afraid you can't be split in two and follow both of the doors," she said with almost a bit of cheek in her voice to the man. Clearing her throat, she walked carefully back to the fireplace. "What was your goal with these, Mr. MacCann? Do they correspond to the mirror numbers?"

 

[StormWolf]

Location: The Room

Interactions: BELIAL. , et al/Open

Mentions: wickedlittlecritta idalie Hell0NHighWater

Roland MacCann ​

Surprise burrowed its way through Roland’s coiled demeanor at Mr. King. Before, the man had conducted himself in a manner more akin to the Princeton brats back home; a man drunk of self-importance and the glamour of high society. The man who stood there now, stamping his cane and verbally sparring with the crooked-smiled Irishman, appeared much older. Such was the mileage of war.

Devin had taken to tending to the slumped form of Valentin, but Roland remained unmoved and unmoving for several moments that seemed to drag on into eons through the building tension in the room. Any more pressure, and Roland wouldn’t have been surprised if lightning struck.

Hearing Isolde, with her honied word and voice like silk replaced with the firmness and heat of a firebrand, his eyes drifted from Valentin to her with the subtlest arch of an eyebrow. There it was. The trained soldiers that the Baron had mentioned.

The hammer clicked again as Roland eased it down. “As you wish,” he said with a dip of his chin, giving the hefty hand cannon a flourish and a twirl, returning it to the holster under his arm in a single, fluid motion. His order, she said. It was like a new pair of shoes that hadn’t been broken in yet. Being called a Witchfinder felt foreign. It felt like a slur in its own way.

Taking a moment to pluck a kerchief from his vest pocket, the gunslinger dabbed at his face to wipe away the beginnings of a sweat and the mingling spittle from Valentin hissing and spitting like a vexed kitten. A chill still lingered around his throat where the specter had laid its hands upon him. Surely it would seem odd to some that getting manhandled by a ghost was less upsetting to Toland than a whoosh of magical fire, but Roland had grown up in the most haunted city in the New Columbian States.

With the pistol away, Roland straightened his tie, tugged at the cuffs of his shirt and the hem of his vest. It would be as the Lady said, then. No need for his guns.

“Numbers correspond to bricks on the appropriate face of the mantle. I imagine a series of pressure switches or something of the like behind the bricks. We need the chisels in the vase to get through the mortar.” He said plainly, hands folded at the small of his back so that his knuckles brushed the carved grips.

“I will defer to the capabilities of this fine group of people to conjure their discipline and resolve.” Roland said with a double-edged politeness that was as appealing as a bayonet. “And we can move on, peachy keen. I have a feeling that whatever group I join will be somewhat enemic in its number, so I'll make decision last.”

 

[L0ck0n]

Vasilis Laskaris

"FANABLA."

The situation was unfolding at an alarming rate. One that would lead to chaos if not handled properly, but Isolde had stopped chaos in its tracks. The trained mage of the vanguard was speaking in a manner that Vasilis didn’t think she would ever speak. First impressions were indeed never to be trusted. It was too early to decide if Vasilis would hold Isolde in a good light, but what she had mentioned could possibly be a turn in a positive direction.

It is true. Mages are people. A fact that the world has yet to accept. For the possible leader of the mages to consider that is a step in the right direction.

Thinking on the event that had led up to their current situation Sil came to the conclusion that both parties have a strong case against each other. On one hand, the kid was right about being treated with some sort of respect. The champagne is the problem because of what lies behind it. If it were a regular person would the security guard, Roland so they call him, do the same? As a mage Sil only assumed he wouldn’t. Any mage agreeing to this plan cannot simply let go of the inequality they go through, and what, for the greater good of winning a war? Inequality is as unfair as it is a way of life for them. But, as hard as it is to admit, the gentleman with the cane also has a point to make, though it’s hard to agree to that point when you haven’t had the chance to live on that side.


“Help me get through this Signora Kastaros.” Sil murmured under her breath.

Taking the chisel that the woman with the wild curly hair gave her Sil smiled. “Grazie, bella.” The woman then used her strength to open the door to the next set of puzzles. It’s not every day you meet a woman mage that can get their hands dirty, and move a hefty door without complaint. It reminded her of a female that she did not know, but that was in her mind. A memory that may or may not be hers, but it existed either way.


“I’m not waiting for the next person. See ya' guys on the other side.” Vasilis said aloud before heading in after Kitty. In the back of her mind Sil was going through the scenario that the drunk mage had done to cause the conflict in the first place. Though it had phased some of the others she was not so surprised about the incident. If she were to be honest the ...ghost?... Looked siliar to the illusions she creates. That, or she was in shock. To be able to manifest spirits that can possibly hurt someone...what a power.

"Ay, wait for me!" Vasilis called out to Kitty. Using the failure of her magic, a consequence from the alcohol that still lingered in her system, Sil created sparks of light to brighten the darkness just a tad. If she couldn't create illusions she could at least be of some use to the bella. The sparks were nowhere near close to a type of fire that Roman could create, but it still created bits of light.

Mood: Admiration, Curious| Location: Trial Room | Tag: BELIAL.

coded by weldherwings.

 

[noonshine]

ROMAN GRAVES

Leaning away from the flames, he ended up on his ass, eyes locked on Mr. MacCann’s blood drained knuckles, gripping a knife. Roman’s eyes followed him through the room- and for a moment he only heard the blood in his own ears, a fear gripped his ribs like rope pulling them together tight- that movement was so fast it seemed unintentional- or maybe it was, he could not tell, there was no determining what that man was thinking he had the steely suspicious gaze of a bird of prey, unreadable to Roman.

Staying in place, he took a long, slow, deep breath, swallowing what felt like a layer of ash coating the inside of his mouth. Normally a few sparks did not leave him needing a break, but the apprehension he had felt in that moment had to clear. His head was already hot, the area around him rising slowly in temperature. Just another breath or two- it had been worse before. Now was not an appropriate moment in which he could enter the visual terrain of fear that had before incited some incineration of less occupied spaces.

Turning his back to the fire place, still seated on the floor, he watched Mr. MacCann snatch Mr. Murphy’s glass and pour it in the vase that Mr. Auclair was looking at with all of the care a young woman would have for her small dog.



And then the room when cold, like a window had opened to a snowstorm- the tension in the air like a weight that kept him seated- all he could do was watch as a corpse of a woman took shape in the air to assault the New Colombian- and as quickly as it happened Mr. Auclair, who had summoned said spirit, made a quip and collapsed. Remarkable.

A threat from the New Colombian was just an indicator that the gunman was in fact at any moment ready to kill them, he’d like to write it off as an overreaction- however, it was starting to feel like an expected reaction, that was why he was placed with them after all, he was expected to quell any sort of ghastly behavior.

Rising to his feet- he watched in silence as there was a heated back and forth between the foulmouthed Irishman and Mr. King who was a zealot. He’d never considered the politics to magehood, he’d never had to, and he was not about to start. The fight seemed to have been a reaction, in stress to the event that had just occurred, and he wanted no part in it, but it was a delight to see such a theatrical back and forth.

A much needed interjection from Miss. Bishop ended the spat.

Doors were opening, and although his curiosity pulled him in the direction of the fireplace his lack of familiarity with most anyone left him eyeing the hatch Kitty had gone through- Vasilis only a moment after her.

Without much more hesitation he made his way to the hatch, following the women down, only peering back up to offer a little smile and gesture to the rug, “If you're worried about him just roll him up,” he suggested- not entirely in jest- “like a crepe, right?”

And then, turning back, he followed the glow that was being made by the young woman he’d had the pleasure of meeting earlier.

TEMPLATE © BOKEH​

 

[Cashi]

MOOD: focused, too casual

LOCATION: Puzzle Room

two

MENTIONS: noonshine

two

TAGS:
StormWolf BELIAL. Hell0NHighWater wickedlittlecritta

two

TL;DR: Witchcraft and Elsa

two

Ilya

The explosion of glass was the most satisfying thing that had happened all evening. The table weighed next to nothing and the shower of glass that rained down around the fireplace was deafened by the crash! of the table hitting the wooden floor and then bouncing onto the rug, table legs aloft. Pieces of mirror starbursted across the floor and nearly covered Valentin in a cutting spray--had the air not suddenly whipped the sharp pieces away, sparing any who were standing near from a grisly ordeal.
Ilya straightened his cuffs again--blin! Was the suit uncomfortable!--and took a moment to begrudgingly appreciate the fine, expensive tailors in the upper quarters for making a suit that could withstand the exertion of chucking a bit of furniture at a wall without ripping. One of the Irish men applauded his show of strength, and there were various comments of approval and distaste. Ilya paid little heed, more fixated on the numbers now revealed beneath the mirror--except that the sharp barking of the wisp of a woman who’d sat across from him at dinner caught him off guard. He leveled a blank stare at her, eyes as pale and sharp as the glass littering the floor, with only one thought in his mind.
Chto?
Blyat, he knew his English wasn’t the best, but he hadn’t understood a single word that had fallen out of her mouth. It took all of a few seconds for Ilya to decide she hadn’t been speaking English and to turn back to the mirror and the numbers. He took a step closer and braced his hands on either side of the brick wall where the mirror had been--eh, it was not good mirror anyway--stepping neatly around the fire user who spat flames into the fireplace. He raised an eyebrow, but otherwise was not entirely shocked. Whether this was due to the fact that he himself was a magic user or that the events of the evening had progressively gotten more and more bizarre he wasn’t sure. Regardless, with the way the dinner party had started and the way it was looking it might end, Ilya wanted nothing more than to retire to his rooms in the lavish estate and imagine he was back in the motorshop and had never agreed to be a part of this circus.
Then the ghost had appeared.
Not that he had known she was a ghost at first.
All Ilya knew was that one moment there had been eleven of them in the room, and the next a twelfth had appeared, looking very battered and bruised; a woman whose leer sent chills down Ilya’s spine as he turned to face her more fully, one hand still glued to the mantel.
Chernaya magiya, Ilya thought, his expression darkening.
Almost faster than the eye could perceive, the woman flew at the New Columbian, who had his fancy gun drawn and cocked quicker than his shadow could follow.
Ilya watched with bated breath as the tension in the room escalated. The mood of this merry band of sumasshedshiy had quickly soured from teasing and lighthearted to accusatory and irate.
If this was how their friendship--nyet, if this was how their partnership started it was a poor indication of how it would finish.
Valentin collapsed onto the floor with a murmured “Do you believe in ghosts now, mon grand?” and the ghost woman disappeared, leaving a rattle Roland and an irritated and unsettled room of dangerous mages. The Irish boy who had applauded him for breaking the mirror dropped to Valentin’s side, spitting venom at the New Columbian and doing his best to rouse Valentin.
Ilya’s gaze flicked to Roland as the man slowly put his gun away, and quirked an eyebrow.
“Little jumpy, Cowboy?”
He moved to take a step towards the huddled pair, but found his hand caught on the mantelpiece. Turning to see what inhibited his movement, he blinked once, long and slow, as he found his hand shining dimly in the low lamplight with a thin sheen of frost, tiny, delicate ice spikes poking out from between his fingers. He pulled, and with a gentle scrape his hand came free. Ilya moved quickly to hide the evidence of his magic with his back, facing the group and leaning against the mantel nonchalantly. He gestured vaguely to where Valentin lay in a crumpled heap on the floor.
“Maybe we get him chair for when he faint next time. He can carry under arm.” He snapped the bottom corner of his blazer back as he tucked one giant hand into his pocket; smooth, real smooth.
Ilya flicked his thumb under his nose and sniffed, then leaned an elbow against the mantel, casually, and said to Devin “give him slap or give him kiss. Like, ehhh, fairytale. Or comedy.” The next part he said under his breath: “we could be doing with laugh.”
The ginger-haired woman directed her attention to Ilya and, like siphoning the gas from a tank, all the rational thoughts filtered out of his head and Ilya suddenly found the design on the rug in the center of the room very intriguing. He wondered again if she wasn’t speaking something other than English, except that the rest of the mages in the room seemed to understand what she was saying. He maybe caught the word “big” and glanced up, expecting a referral to himself. Indeed, she had opened the trap door and was now, he noticed with dismay, grinning at him.
And winking.
Bozhe moi.

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

code by valen t.

Spoiler: Easy on the Eyes

The explosion of glass was the most satisfying thing that had happened all evening. The table weighed next to nothing and the shower of glass that rained down around the fireplace was deafened by the crash! of the table hitting the wooden floor and then bouncing onto the rug, table legs aloft. Pieces of mirror starbursted across the floor and nearly covered Valentin in a cutting spray--had the air not suddenly whipped the sharp pieces away, sparing any who were standing near from a grisly ordeal.
Ilya straightened his cuffs again--blin! Was the suit uncomfortable!--and took a moment to begrudgingly appreciate the fine, expensive tailors in the upper quarters for making a suit that could withstand the exertion of chucking a bit of furniture at a wall without ripping. One of the Irish men applauded his show of strength, and there were various comments of approval and distaste. Ilya paid little heed, more fixated on the numbers now revealed beneath the mirror--except that the sharp barking of the wisp of a woman who’d sat across from him at dinner caught him off guard. He leveled a blank stare at her, eyes as pale and sharp as the glass littering the floor, with only one thought in his mind.
Chto?
Blyat, he knew his English wasn’t the best, but he hadn’t understood a single word that had fallen out of her mouth. It took all of a few seconds for Ilya to decide she hadn’t been speaking English and to turn back to the mirror and the numbers. He took a step closer and braced his hands on either side of the brick wall where the mirror had been--eh, it was not good mirror anyway--stepping neatly around the fire user who spat flames into the fireplace. He raised an eyebrow, but otherwise was not entirely shocked. Whether this was due to the fact that he himself was a magic user or that the events of the evening had progressively gotten more and more bizarre he wasn’t sure. Regardless, with the way the dinner party had started and the way it was looking it might end, Ilya wanted nothing more than to retire to his rooms in the lavish estate and imagine he was back in the motorshop and had never agreed to be a part of this circus.
Then the ghost had appeared.
Not that he had known she was a ghost at first.
All Ilya knew was that one moment there had been eleven of them in the room, and the next a twelfth had appeared, looking very battered and bruised; a woman whose leer sent chills down Ilya’s spine as he turned to face her more fully, one hand still glued to the mantel.
Chernaya magiya, Ilya thought, his expression darkening.
Almost faster than the eye could perceive, the woman flew at the New Columbian, who had his fancy gun drawn and cocked quicker than his shadow could follow.
Ilya watched with bated breath as the tension in the room escalated. The mood of this merry band of sumasshedshiy had quickly soured from teasing and lighthearted to accusatory and irate.
If this was how their friendship--nyet, if this was how their partnership started it was a poor indication of how it would finish.
Valentin collapsed onto the floor with a murmured “Do you believe in ghosts now, mon grand?” and the ghost woman disappeared, leaving a rattle Roland and an irritated and unsettled room of dangerous mages. The Irish boy who had applauded him for breaking the mirror dropped to Valentin’s side, spitting venom at the New Columbian and doing his best to rouse Valentin.
Ilya’s gaze flicked to Roland as the man slowly put his gun away, and quirked an eyebrow.
“Little jumpy, Cowboy?”
He moved to take a step towards the huddled pair, but found his hand caught on the mantelpiece. Turning to see what inhibited his movement, he blinked once, long and slow, as he found his hand shining dimly in the low lamplight with a thin sheen of frost, tiny, delicate ice spikes poking out from between his fingers. He pulled, and with a gentle scrape his hand came free. Ilya moved quickly to hide the evidence of his magic with his back, facing the group and leaning against the mantel nonchalantly. He gestured vaguely to where Valentin lay in a crumpled heap on the floor.
“Maybe we get him chair for when he faint next time. He can carry under arm.” He snapped the bottom corner of his blazer back as he tucked one giant hand into his pocket; smooth, real smooth.
Ilya flicked his thumb under his nose and sniffed, then leaned an elbow against the mantel, casually, and said to Devin “give him slap or give him kiss. Like, ehhh, fairytale. Or comedy.” The next part he said under his breath: “we could be doing with laugh.”
The ginger-haired woman directed her attention to Ilya and, like siphoning the gas from a tank, all the rational thoughts filtered out of his head and Ilya suddenly found the design on the rug in the center of the room very intriguing. He wondered again if she wasn’t speaking something other than English, except that the rest of the mages in the room seemed to understand what she was saying. He maybe caught the word “big” and glanced up, expecting a referral to himself. Indeed, she had opened the trap door and was now, he noticed with dismay, grinning at him.
And winking.
Bozhe moi.

 

[BELIAL.]

Location: Room 2
Interactions: Sil, Roman + others who will join
Mentions: L0ck0n noonshine

Kitty Maclerie​

A flurry of movement came from behind Kitty, making the woman throw a grin over her shoulder. It was awfully dark, and as keen as her eyesight was, it couldn't make up for genuine light. She looked around, maybe for a lamp or something, but was instead greeted by the slow flickering of a light source from Vasilis. Kitty turned fully, gazing with wide eyes at the small light that the woman produced. Kitty grinned like an elated child, glittering eyes finding Sil's.

"Ah got to say, that's absolutely barry, hen. Ah can piss from my fingers, but that's pure class," Kitty said with a small chuckle, almost entranced by the mage light produced. She shook her head, focusing again on the task. She saw Roman, one of the pretty boys, stumble down from the top. She wondered how many others would join, and if the small room would get cramped or not.

With Sil's creation, it was enough to bathe the room in a maneuvering source of light. [Though small and bricked in, there was a stream of glow from the hole in the ceiling. Kitty could see that on the other side of the room were three, relatively large, casks. They stood an even space from each other and were perched belly-down on metal supports. Clean spouts poked out from the front. On the top of each cask was a small cup, probably made of a white porcelain.

Other than that, nothing remained in the room. That is, except for the folded note on the top of the middle cask's cup.] Kitty cocked her head, blindly going forward toward the note. She noticed no other exits in the room. It appeared to be a dead-end... unless there were more hidden doors. Just like the one above.

"Ah swear to the lord this fandan Bishop's got it out for us," Kitty growled with an annoyed glance to the others. She rolled her eyes, sighing and opening the paper.

"'Exit lies at the crossroads, where three become one'," she read, accenting her words as sharply as possible to not get lost in translation. "Ah can make sens'a meanin' the casks, but, ah ken the Baron's a manky bastard. Makin' shite outta pile of black puddin'." she said, pouting her lips to the others.

 

[L0ck0n]

Vasilis Laskaris

"FANABLA."

Vasilis was taken aback by the compliment Kitty had thrown her way. The light source was only ever a consequence, a visible limit of sorts, to the magic she was born with. Not once had Sil considered that weakness a potential strength, but Kitty seemed to think otherwise. Not knowing any other way to process a compliment Sil laughed awkwary. “Pure class? Pissing from your fingers is the best shit I've ever heard, bedda.” Turning behind them to the noise of another following them Sil grinned wide like a child. “Glad you’re joining us Signore Graves!”

Using her newfound asset to illuminate the room as much as she could Sil was bewildered by what they were walking into. The area, or room, looked to be made of bricks that surrounded the few people that entered. Up above them a ceiling that let in a strange glow from an unknown source. In front of them lay 3 barrels of who knows what with three cups, standing perfectly symmetrical on top of the barrels. Eyes jumping from item to item Sil began to wonder why there were only three barrels, three cups, and absolutely nothing else in the small room they had just entered. Three barrels, three cups…Three barrels, three cups, nothing else… For this to be a fulfilling puzzle game Sil needed to have the brains to play, but if she were to be honest, she barely had any.

Well, maybe it has to do with numbers. Three spiritually could mean wisdom... creativity… be creative about your wisdom? No, can't be it. Three barrels and three cups, that’s 6 things... intuition, realms, nurture… nurture... nurture the barrels? No, that does not even make sense Sil, come on…

Watching Kitty walk over to the middle cup to grab something Sil snickered at the comment she made right after. “Gotta give it to ‘em though, he got us dinner before fucking us.” Listening to the poem that Kitty read aloud Sil wished it was longer. There was something about her accent that made her feel some type of way. Shaking her head abruptly, Sil stopped her thoughts from going further than they should. She wasn't one to force anything on anyone. She only knew the name of the woman through dinner at that. With time, more about the mage would unravel, and decisions could be made then. Glancing up at the cup that stood atop the left barrel, and then down at the spout below it she pondered on the idea that what was in the barrel could be a key to getting out. "Least we know there's an exit in this room, but...where?"

Sil wasted no time in picking up the cup to attempt to pour whatever was inside the barrel into the cup.

Mood: Curiosity, Frustration| Location: Trap Door Room | Tag: BELIAL. noonshine

coded by weldherwings.

 

[BELIAL.]

Location: Baron's Manor || Room 2
Interactions: Bernard, Roland, whoever comes into this room someone please
Mentions: idalie StormWolf et al

Isolde Bishop​

She listened acutely to Roland's reasoning for the numbers corresponding to bricks in the fireplace. It made sense, and she was a little envious that she hadn't jumped to that conclusion first. He mentioned joining whatever group lacked numbers, emphasizing the word people, which only annoyed the brunette. She bit back a quip, opting not to enrage the man with a gun, and simply chewed the inside of her cheek as she got to work on one of the bricks.

She was even less elated to find that Vasilis was opting to head down into the trap door, the easy way out in Isolde's eyes. "Ms.!--" Isolde said, her voice raising half a decibel in worry, but closing her mouth quickly after. Was she one of the only ones willing to put in the actual effort to get through these insipid traps? Isolde growled quietly, clutching the chisel tightly in her palm. She eyed Bernard, taking the chisel that Vasilis had abandoned and tossing it to him. Whether or not he caught it, she didn't care.

"Mr. King, be useful, would you?" She felt it easier to pick on the man, knowing him much more than the others. Fiercely determined in her own work, she could only grumble as she beat the mortar in-- some of the emotional investment due to her own sour mood.

Eventually the bricks managed to slide out, given the quick work of the group by the fireplace, revealing three separate pieces of a brass key. They clicked together rather easily, Isolde quickly throwing herself into the fireplace to open the door. Stooping so low, she prayed that the inside was clean enough to not destroy the fabric of her nice dress so easily. She brushed some of the soot from the lock, placed the key, and delightedly soaked in the quiet creaking of it opening.

"Shall we?" She said, looking over her shoulder to whomever remain. Isolde shuffled in, stretching to stand on the other side. [The room was fairly similar to the one they were just in, at least until she noticed the wide hall that made up most of the room. It was seemingly descending, but accented by vacuous pits alongside the floor, stretching to a singular door at the end. The hallway looked half finished, and she didn't want to dare looking to see what lay in the holes. A table stood next to the small door, with a pile of blindfolds.]

Isolde bit her lip, crossing her arms. "As if it couldn't get worse. I'm going to have a word with my Uncle about these... games! I understand a few mental exercises, and that we should work as a team and all but... this can't be productive, can it?" Isolde asked to the person coming through the door next, a small pout on her lips.

Turning back to the table, she fingered the silken blindfolds before noticing a small slip of paper beneath them. She pulled the thing out, reading it carefully under her breath before exchanging it to the others.

"One by one, put on the blindfold and be directed down the hallway by your teammates. At the end of the hall, there is a lever to rise the floor and remove the obstacles. Should anyone attempt to cheat or pass the system, such as not wearing the blindfold, the lever will be inoperable and all will be required to walk. This will require clever communication. Things are not always what they seem."

 

[wickedlittlecritta]

Devin Murphy
Location: Bishop Manor Puzzle Room| Mood: Not amused|Interacting with: Ilya Cashi , Val Hell0NHighWater

Devin had to crack a grin at the big Russian's comment. "If I kiss him and he wakes up, that means I'm his true love, and the poor thing certainly has enough problems." He sighed and sat back and watched the group begin to split. McCann didn't seem in a hurry to enact any sort of vengeance, so he probably didn't need to make Valentin submit to the further indignity of being dragged along. And he wanted to be trapped in a room with Bernard King like he wanted to be shot in the head.

He knew better than to open his mouth like that, but God, somebody had to. He sat back and watched the Baron's niece bark orders (Sensational. More nobility to tip toe around), and then looked down at Valentin again.

"Don't make me leave you on the floor, ya big eejit," Devin told the Frenchman, and then, just to be sure, sent a cold little eddie of air down Valentin's spine.

If that didn't wake him up, he supposed he'd have to leave him, like it or not.

Gráinne Mhaol agus míle gaiscíoch ag fógairt fáin ar Ghallaibh!​

 

[StormWolf]

Location: The Blind Man's Hall

Interactions: BELIAL. , idalie

Mentions: Bit of everyone in passing

Roland MacCann ​

One by one, Roland watched the Mages drift into their respective groups as he smoked his cigarette down to the butt. All the while, his mind worked with a mechanical focus. The would-be Vanguard, the so-called group of elite combat-magi, were petulant and undisciplined. Every little look, every little quip, barbed or otherwise, was answered with discordant contempt.

They may be people, but when it came to people and horses, there was one thing they had in common. If they could not be coaxed in line with a carrot, the only option was to break them. Everyone had their tipping point. Nobody was invulnerable or indominable. It all came down to applying the right pressure to the right places.

It should have provided no surprise that the Irish, the Slav, and the French were the most vocal with their discontentment. At least the Irish woman – Kitty, if Roland remembered correctly – knew how to wrangle her kinsmen.

The Tomboy Italian seemed to toe a line and would garner further observation.

Roland was brought out of his mental cataloguing by Isolde’s coy invitation. Snuffing out the ashes and embers that singed his lip upon the mantle, he nodded.

“After you,” he said, looking from Isolde first, then to Bernard. Roland didn’t want to say it, but it was customary for the infirm to take up the middle. Since Mr. King had a cane, he qualified, and would set the pace. Normally, Roland would have gone first, but he was expected to play the part of the Shepherd.

The room, or rather treacherous hallway, that rose to meet them on the other side ushered a whispered blasphemy from Roland’s lips, which had twitched up into the briefest glimmer of a snarl.

“We couldn’t have normal parlor games? You folks sure know how to shindig, at least,” Roland said, extending one hand for a blindfold while the other undid is necktie and the first couple buttons of his shirt. If he was going to deal with some European tomfoolery, he was going to be as comfortable as he could.

“I’ll go first. Don’t lead me astray, now. I’m a poor, lost little lamb.” He smiled thinly as he tied the blindfold around his head.

“Alright. Say when…”

 

[Hell0NHighWater]

↽LOCATION⇁‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎↽VIBES⇁
Bishop Manor; Trapdoor Room‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎Binary Mind


↽INTERACTIONS⇁‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎↽OOC⇁
Cashi BELIAL. ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎Oop I tried
wickedlittlecritta L0ck0n ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎
noonshine ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎‎‏

⑈ Valentin Auclair ⑈​

Valentin didn’t know what happened after that. His mind, for once, was empty. Nothing but a distant memory of ocean waves crashing against rocks. For a moment he wondered if this was what it was like to die—clinging to a single bit of memory as consciousness began to fizzle out. Surely, it had to be because this was the most peace he had had in twenty-five years.

A soft sky above, sharp stones underfoot and clouds caressed with reflected light—he could picture it as if it were yesterday. The lacy waves were a drumbeat that echoed his heart, the breeze blew the tension right out of his bones, and all the while the birds arced above. He remembered standing on the edge of the cliff, a boy of no more than fourteen years, with eyes as round as saucers—painted in wonderment. It was the first time he’d seen the ocean and the first time he’d felt free.

In the mirage of memory he saw his child self rip a necklace from around his neck and hurl it into the sea. Pausing for a moment to stare at the waves before he turned, but instead of starting down the cliff he stopped. And looked right at him, as if he had been there all along. The child's expression turned incredulous, "You are kind of an idiot, aren't you?"

Silence hung between them for a brief moment before Val sighed, tiredly weaving his fingers through his hair. He opened his mouth to speak, a weary sort of annoyance seeping into his tone, "My bloodline is irrelevant to my value."

"Oh? And what value is that, Valentin?" The boy with his face observed him with the gaze of a stranger, aloof, judgmental, and with an absurd amount of cynicism. For a brief second, Valentin wondered if this was what other people saw when they looked at him.

The notion made him a bit uncomfortable.

“Your value as a soldier? Or as a man?” The boy’s eyes narrowed for a moment before he shrugged, waving a hand with a dismissive scoff, “Not that it matters; Despite what you tell yourself, no matter how much you try to deny it, an idiot is an idiot, and a low life will always be a low life. You stopped having value the moment you pressed that needle into your skin.”

Valentin stood there, a sort of toddler expanded to adult size, irritation in his anger, with a sort of impetuousness branded into his expression. “Fuck you. I don’t need this, this, bullshit coming from you!”

There was an ominous chuckle that didn’t sound like his voice at all, “Then run away, Valentin. It’s the only thing you’re good at anyway.”

A cold shot tore down his spine.

Valentin’s eyes snapped open as if it were an emergency and sleeping had become a far too dangerous thing. His rapidly pounding heart coupled with the buzzing in his brain felt like panic sparked with jump-leads. Only his brain was a flat battery, leaving him with the ache of a hangover, not from drink, but from the nightmares that demand solutions he didn’t want to give.

As the ceiling blurred into focus, he ran a hand down his face pulling at the skin around his eyes as if that would help wake him up faster. He pushed himself into a sitting position with a groan. Trying to rub feeling back into his arms, Val squinted up at the man standing beside him. “Merde, did I pass out again?” He shook his head rapidly, clambering to his feet and taking a moment to steady himself, “Non, nevermind, that’s a stupid fucking question.”

He blinked, looking around at the nearly empty room. The trap door was open and there was another door in the fireplace—apparently he’d been out for a while.

“Ah, Devin, oui? Which one of those did the Nouveau Colombien venture into?” He paused, biting his bottom lip as his finger danced between the two openings. Seemingly weighing his options before deciding that it was best to go with the path of least resistance—this time. At least until his skull stopped feeling as if it were being split open and pried apart.

Striding toward the trap door, armed with burning curiosity, he paused to peer into the hatch and was greeted with darkness. There was the tiniest bit of illumination at the bottom of what appeared to be stairs. Val turned to look back at Devin briefly, as if to see if the other man was following, before refocusing on the trap door. He shifted a bit uncomfortably muttering ‘there better not be rats down there’ before he began his descent.

When he got to the bottom he was greeted with the sight of a woman with fiery red hair reading an inscription on a piece of paper. Everything that came out of her mouth after that didn’t make a lick of sense. Sliding his hands into the pockets of his pants, he moved further into the room with a scowl on his face.

“Is there something worth drinking in there?”
Was the first question that popped out of his mouth as he settled himself in front of one of the casks. Plucking the cup off the barrel, he twirled it around in his palms for a moment. Looking at the woman standing at the cask beside him, he arched a brow, “I do not suppose it is as easy as mixing everything together, is it?” Val stuck the cup under the spout with a deflated sigh, fiddling with the nozzle, and anxiously awaiting the reveal of the mysterious liquid inside.


[/color]

 

[BELIAL.]

» the mysterious casks

『 TAGGED 』 Hell0NHighWater L0ck0n

Opening the spout on the casks, and filling the cup(s), reveals a suspiciously clear liquid. Unsure of what it is entirely, the two parties may be willing to drink it anyway. It does have a small floral aroma. Almost like roses.

The taste is sickeningly sweet, too much almost, and begs to burn the edge of the tongue with the sharpness of it. Whatever it is, it doesn't entirely seem good to drink a surplus of.

Although they don't know it yet, the casks have to be emptied. Which ones? What lies inside? That's for the team to find out.

code by @Nano

 

[BELIAL.]

Location: Baron's Manor || Room 2
Interactions: Bernard, Roland
Mentions: idalie StormWolf

Isolde Bishop​

Isolde's mouth open and closed like a faulty dumb waiter as she watched Roland dive headfirst into the task at hand. He willingly grabbed the blindfold and began to undo his necktie and first few buttons. A quick flash of scarlet danced across her cheeks and she pressed her hands to her sides. "Mr. MacCann!" Isolde said, flabberghasted. She looked to Bernard, maybe for some reassurance that she wasn't the only one completely astounded that he would go first. She figured the New Columbian would simply stand aside, grumbling about the situation he was in... but his quickness to jump into action was refreshing. A man of war, no doubt. Soldiers had the same reflexive habits. Head first, questions later. The other mages would prove to be difficult cases, no doubt. Hell, even Isolde was guilty of sometimes hesitating.

She scoffed at the lost lamb comment from Roland, rolling her eyes toward Bernard. Part of her desperately wanted to tie it herself, an excuse to get close, but she reminded herself that she'd told him they'd be purely professional. No flirtations, no distractions. Yet, he was already a terribly distracting individual..

Pressing her lips together, Isolde attempted to gaze and see if anything was hidden in the hall. It didn't look to be. Just those treacherous holes she hoped none of them would have to fall into.

"Er... you should be good to go then, Mr. MacCann! Just start walking forward, straight line now!" Isolde called, biting her lip as she hoped that this was all it was. Just a simple walk.

After the first step however, she watched one of the wide doors on the wall swing open on Roland's left.

Isolde gasped. "Oh, on your left! Duck--jump back! Ack!"

 

[noonshine]

ROMAN GRAVES

“Happy to be joining you, Miss Laskaris, Miss Maclerie,” he greeted as he went to look over the room- the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end when the absolute brute of a Russian found his way down the steps as well- it did make him pick up his leisurely pace to take a quick walk about the room, inspecting what little there was to look over. Miss. Maclerine was unexpectedly crude, but it was entertaining enough- and made in some compliment to Miss Laskaris who was making a fairly impressive little light.



As the room filled, Roman's eyes wandered back to the stairway, lips pursed in a moment of thought. It seemed he had elected to wander into the room also selected by the- well, cheaper looking of the bunch. People who liked to bicker with their authorities and became wildly irrational with out a moment's notice. A sort of unpredictability he detested. The corner of his mouth turned up in a scowl that he had to shake his head to get off of his face. His arms rested crossed over his chest, ever defensive even in his more casual posturing.



Truly, he wished that they’d have taken his joke a bit more seriously and rolled that man into the rug. Clearly Mr. Murphy had his intentions set on enabling the drunkard in continuing to make a buffoon out of himself- or maybe he was interested in seeing another one of his horrifying stunts and now that a gunman was not in the room with them there was more terror to be had. He watched him pour from one of the casks, astonished by the way he managed to carry himself without making any indication that he was embarrassed by his behavior- because he should have been. At least Roman thought so. “Unfortunately, I do not think they would be so kind as to provide us with that alleviation,” he mumbled, in his own way displeased that he too could not be more intoxicated for the event.



He eyed along the floor, it was a bit too dim to tell if there was any peculiar lean to it. “Could it be that when drained the liquid from all three might come together in one stream?” with a shake of his head, he huffed, looking to the cup in the hand of Mr. Auclair “Well, I don’t see why the cups would be there then, unless they’re just to throw us off.”

 

[L0ck0n]

Vasilis Laskaris

"Those who preserve, shall win."

Turning to see who had entered the room Sil did a double take. The mage who threatened Roland, fainted, and looked to be dead on the ground earlier walked into the room with a demeanor that confused her. It was almost as if the scene from the other room had not played out at all. He had walked over to them, struck up a conversation, and remained nonchalant about it all. His presence alone gave Sil an uneasy feeling. Not that it was hard to make her feel anxious. The feeling was as common as breathing, but something about him. About his magic. To be able to utilize souls from the other side…

Looking back at the barrel Sil narrowed her eyes as she considered what roman suggested. The glass in her hand was filling up with a strange substance that the barrel contained. Lifting the glass up to her lips Sil sniffed to see if the liquid could probably be wine. “Che cazzo…”she mumbled. Sniffing again she furrowed her brows in confused frustration. “If I’m to be honest, i have no fucking clue what to do here.” Looking up to speak to everyone in the room Sil pointed to Roman. “Signore Graves seems to have an idea that I support.” She grinned at a thought that passed through her mind. “And, if the Baron wanted to keep the place clean then he recruited the wrong mage.” Abruptly making the decision to drink all the liquid that was in the glass Sil coughed. The clear substance was worse than anything she had ever tasted. It was worse than the sweetest sweet the world had to offer. Clicking her tongue a few times she shook her head. It may have been naïve to think that the liquid was some sort of alcohol, but that only fueled Sil for what she was about to do next.

She eyed the supports that held the barrel in front of her in place. They weren’t the best, but she hoped they would keep the barrel steady. Lifting her leg she then slammed her foot down on the nozzle. The force was not enough to knock the nozzle from its place, so Sil slammed her foot down on the nozzle a few more times until it broke off. Liquid began to tumble out from the barrel onto the floor.

“Grandioso!" Sil beamed while running her hands over her hair to fix the few strands that fell out. She’d be lying if she said she didn’t enjoy breaking the nozzle. There was a bit of frustration, and anger that was peeking out from doing so. "Next one?"

Mood: Curiosity, Frustration, Confusion| Location: Trap Door Room | Tag: BELIAL. noonshine Hell0NHighWater

coded by weldherwings.