>>6178118

Previous: https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=Moloch

“You tripped over a log?” Ariel asks, without even a token attempt to hide her scepticism, “Really?”

“Oh come on, you know how clumsy I can be!” Daniel replies with a cavalier grin, “Besides, it wasn’t a fair fight. It was a cowardly ambush!”

“Make up your mind, was it a log or a bush?” she presses, turning to give you a probing look, “Maybe you can give me a trustworthy answer. Was he REALLY outsmarted by a piece of lumber?”

“In his defence, it was an unusually cunning piece of lumber,” you remark, your words causing Daniel to let out a snort of laughter. Daniel Teilhard is not a man for whom deception comes easily, but here he makes an exception. Either he’s trying to put Ariel’s mind at ease, or he’s judged that looking clumsy will be slightly less embarrassing than admitting to being mauled by a feral woman. You’re just not sure which.

Ariel sighs, as if deciding that this whole conversation isn’t worth it. “I suppose you’ll be going back out there?” she says instead, giving you a guarded look, “Not you, Daniel. Obviously.”

“I was,” you confirm, “I know the route, and I know what I’m looking for. There’s nothing to worry-”

A muffled chime from the side office announces the arrival of a new telegram. Ariel quickly rises to her feet and hurries away. You throw a quick scowl across to Daniel, but Ariel returns before you can question him about the absurd lie. “I think you might need to change your plans,” Ariel warns, handing you the slip of paper, “It’s from Sakhalin.”

“I apologise for the sudden message,” Sakhalin’s telegram reads, “But I have been contacted by someone with information regarding our matter of mutual interest. They have requested a meeting at Warwick Grove, at the furthest border of the Teilhard lands. They have indicated that this a matter of some urgency, so I propose that I meet with this individual in your stead. I am closer, and will not have to travel far to meet with them. However, I can delay until your arrival if you feel it is necessary.”

“I have made discrete enquiries with an oracle, and she senses both danger and opportunity,” the note concludes, “It may be that this is the lead we have been searching for.”

The “matter of mutual interest” must be King Albrecht, of course, and his recent behaviour. Perhaps Daniel’s mention of an ambush has planted the idea in your head, however, but Sakhalin’s note leaves one idea at the front of your mind – a trap.

>I trust Sakhalin to meet this contact. My business is here, with Gratia and the forest
>The forest will have to wait once more. I’ll go with Sakhalin to meet this contact
>I don’t think this is a good idea. I’m telling Sakhalin to call it off
>Other

>>6178119
>The forest will have to wait once more. I’ll go cover Sakhalin while he is meeting this contact in case it's a trap

>>6178131
+1
Sakhalin is cool, I trust him and he began the quest for Isambard

>>6178119
>The forest will have to wait once more. I’ll go with Sakhalin to meet this contact
Black guy dies first. Every horror fan knows this. Bro's gonna need back-up from someone who is as un-black as possible: a waifish albino nobleman!

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The more you think about it, the more inescapable the possibility seems – a trap, an ambush, a murder carried out under the cover of deceit. You can practically see the path leading up to it, each step bringing Sakhalin closer and closer to a final, fatal danger. You may never truly know what it feels like to be an oracle, but just for this haunting, harrowing moment, you may be getting close.

“The forest will have to wait,” you announce, although it feels as if someone else is saying the words, “I’ll go with Sakhalin to meet this contact. If there is danger, it’s best that he doesn’t face it alone. I fear what may happen if he does.”

How far you’ve come since the start of your journey, to delay the reunion with your sister just to offer your aid to a man you scarcely know. But then, isn’t Sakhalin doing the same?

“I’ll send the message,” Ariel says softly, reading something in your face that she doesn’t put into words.

-

Plans are made, arrangements discussed, and soon you’re off towards Siegfried House. You’ll meet up with Sakhalin there, then head on to the meeting place. You act as quickly as possible, but even that seems agonisingly slow. Sakhalin is a solid, reliable sort, definitely not the kind of man to get impatient and run off ahead, but you can’t chase the thought out of your mind.

It’s only when you see Sakhalin waiting for you at the gates of Siegfried House that you finally allow yourself to let out a little sigh of relief. He stands as tall and stiff as a mountain, while servants and soldiers scurry around him like ocean waves. Slowly, like rocks grinding together, he raises one hand in a solemn salute.

“Master Pale,” he greets you, gesturing towards his waiting carriage. It’s a discrete model, stripped of any ornamentation or insignia, but the door has a weighty heft to it – enough to stop a bullet, you suspect. It seems that you’re not the only one with misgivings about this whole affair.

“Sakhalin. I’m glad you waited,” you tell him as you settle in. It might be discrete and protective, but the carriage isn’t especially comfortable to sit in. “What else can you tell me?” you continue, talking to distract yourself from the growing pain in your spine, “Do we know who this contact is?”

“We do not,” the dark-skinned man answers, pausing a moment before continuing, “I am aware that this could be a trap, Master Pale. I have been careful and cautious with my enquiries, but there is no such thing as perfect secrecy. Even with my position at the King’s side, I am still just a humble servant – there would be little outcry if I was killed under uncertain circumstances.”

“Well then, that’s why I’m here,” you assure him, forcing a crooked smirk, “If someone as important as me gets slain, it’ll definitely stir up trouble.”

“A joke, Master Pale,” Sakhalin says in his mournful voice, “Very good.”

[1]

>>6178140

Warwick Grove, you learn, is one of the many, many hunting outposts scattered throughout the Teilhard lands. This one has been defunct for a very long time, abandoned and left to rot once the game grew thin and the noblemen moved to more abundant lands. As far as Sakhalin can tell you, the place should be completely abandoned by now. A good place for a discrete meeting, you suppose, but you’re starting to get paranoid about these remote, isolated places.

The sun is fading from the sky when you arrive, the deteriorating state of the narrow road forcing you to leave the carriage a short distance from the outpost itself. Slowly, methodically, Sakhalin takes a wooden case out from beneath his seat and opens it to reveal an especially large revolver. There’s something deeply unsettling about seeing him load a half-dozen of the fat bullets into his gun, like waking up one morning to find a gentle, delicate oracle sharpening a hunting knife.

Still, you’ll be glad to have the extra gun at your side if things go wrong.

“This way, I believe,” he says mildly, lighting a gas lantern and stepping out of the carriage. You follow, dust and dried leaves kicking up under your boots as you march. Though the back of his head reveals nothing, you spot a pensive expression on Sakhalin’s face whenever he glances back. “Master Pale,” he adds, strangely hesitant, “If anything should happen, I would ask that you take care of our contact, and yourself. You should not put yourself in danger for my sake. I am-”

“We both know that that’s not going to happen,” you interrupt gently, shaking your head.

Sakhalin doesn’t raise the subject again.

-

Fortunately for you, a search of Warwick Grove doesn’t leave you with much to cover. Only a single wooden cabin remains standing, all the other buildings having either collapsed into disrepair or burned to the ground at some point in their sad history. Trading a glance with Sakhalin, you cautiously approach the cabin. With the lantern flame lighting your approach like a firefly’s glow, there’s no chance of approaching undetected. You can only hope that this “contact” isn’t an assassin waiting to shoot you down.

The heavy door is unlocked, swinging open with a slow creak as you push against it. Sakhalin holds the lantern high, but the soft light reveals nothing of note – some old furniture, but no sign of your waiting contact.

“Were we too late?” you murmur. Sakhalin shakes his head, touching a finger to his lips. You creep into the cabin, wincing to yourself every time a floorboard creaks underfoot. It’s only when you’re walking over a mouldering rug that the creak sounds different – louder, hollower. Stepping back, you draw back the rug to reveal a trapdoor set into the dusty boards.

[2/3]

>>6178142

Another creak rings out as you lift the trapdoor, this time from the rusting hinges. For a moment you almost expect to see the pristine white stone of the Demesne behind the trapdoor, as if fate had conspired to drag you down into that uncanny realm. Then the moment passes, and you see the stones for what they really are – simple grey stone, roughly hewn and overgrown with moss.

The faint stench of rotting vegetables still hangs over the cellar as you descend, the lantern’s light revealing a cringing figure huddles beneath a thin blanket. They tremble as you approach, hiding their face as if afraid of the light. Sakhalin dims the flame somewhat, and the figure slowly pulls back their blanket. When you see his face, you can’t help but let out a gasp of surprise.

-

The last time you saw Armin Leigh, the former Tomoe agent was in Master Teilhard’s care – or custody, perhaps – with the vague promise of a new, legitimate job ahead. You left him to it, then promptly forgot about him. For all you’d know, Master Teilhard might have shot him in the head as soon as you were out of earshot. Now he’s here, hiding in the storage cellar of a derelict hunting cabin.

It’s a small world. Small, and very strange.

“You?” he rasps, “Oh I get it. I’m hallucinating. Right, right…”

“No, sir,” Sakhalin answers gently, reaching down and pulling Leigh upright, “This is no vision or hallucination. You contacted us, I believe? You had something to tell us?”

“Yes! Um, yes. But I was starting to think nobody was coming,” he whines, yelping with pain as he tries to climb the stairs. Sakhalin carries on regardless, practically dragging Leigh back up to the surface. There, he unceremoniously dumps Leigh down into a chair and steps back to check through the smeared, dirty windows. You search your coat pockets and find some trail biscuits wrapped in wax paper, tossing them over to Leigh before joining Sakhalin.

“I am… concerned,” the tall man admits in a low whisper, “He does not seem reliable.”

“He’s probably been hiding in that cellar for… well, I don’t know exactly how long, but I don’t think he had anything to eat or drink,” you reply, glancing back as Leigh devours the snack, “He’s hurt his leg too, goodness knows how. He’s not going to be quick on his feet.”

Sakhalin lets out a low grunt, going back to checking the windows.

>You need to get Leigh out of here, as soon as possible. Everything else can wait
>Try and get some information out of Leigh. If he doesn’t make it out, at least you’ll have your answers
>Take a moment to try and put Leigh’s mind at ease. He’s not going to be much help in this state
>Other

>>6178147
>Try and get some information out of Leigh. If he doesn’t make it out, at least you’ll have your answers

>>6178147
>Try and get some information out of Leigh. If he doesn’t make it out, at least you’ll have your answers
How and why has he escaped Teilhard custody?

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“Keep watch,” you murmur to Sakhalin, your words answered with a tiny nod. Leaving him to gaze out into the darkening ruins and the trees beyond, you return to Leigh. Brushing dust off a spare chair, you drag it across and sit opposite him. For a moment, you just study the dishevelled young man. His skin is streaked with dirt and grime, wild tufts of hair sticking up in all directions. The biscuits are long gone, but he keeps glancing about as if there might be more. Unfortunately for him, there aren’t.

“Leigh,” you begin, your voice causing him to flinch, “What did you want to talk with us about, Leigh?”

It takes him a moment. “The King, wasn’t it?” he offers.

“I think it was the King, yes. Very good, Leigh,” you reply, fighting down an urge to shake the young man by the shoulders, “What about the King, though?”

Leigh’s brows dip into a deep frown of thought. The question seems too much for him now, so you change track with a suppressed sigh. “The last time we saw each other, you were with the Teilhard family, weren’t you?” you press, hoping to stir his memory, “Can you tell me what happened after that? You must’ve left Siegfried House at some point, and gone… where exactly?”

“Master Teilhard sent me to one of his, um, friends. A business friend, not a… you know, a friend friend. He said it was for work, so I could do something good with my life. But I didn’t stay there long, he sent me on again. To… um… Petrichor,” Leigh’s mouth twitches into an unsteady smile, “I was working there for a while.”

Petrichor, you recall, is the main city at the heart of Silvera territory. Which could possibly mean…

“Were you working for Choirmaster Moreau, by chance?” you ask, the name causing Leigh to shudder – so badly that you can only take it as a confirmation. “So, you were sent to work for Choirmaster Moreau,” you continue, “Is that right?”

“Sweeping the floors, emptying the bins, that sort of thing. But I kept my head down and I listened. I looked at things I wasn’t supposed to look at,” a secretive smile, wicked and triumphant, flickers across Leigh’s face, “She keeps files, you know. Files on everyone, even the King. I think she’s been-”

The sharp crack of a rifle cuts Leigh’s sentence short, causing the young man to fling himself to the ground with a desperate little wail of fear. Another shot rings out a second later, this one causing glass to explode from a shattered window. Dropping low and drawing your revolver, you scuttle over to the broken window and peer out as best as you can.

“I believe we have company, Master Pale,” Sakhalin says, with no more panic than a waiter announcing that dinner is served, “Master Leigh, were you followed?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know!” he wails, “Maybe!”

“I believe he was followed,” Sakhalin decides, brushing some shards of broken glass off one shoulder.

[1]

>>6178165

More rifle shots ring out, silencing any further attempts at conversation. Judging by the number of shots, you can easily guess that you’re outnumbered – there might be eight, perhaps as many as ten armed men descending upon you. Risking a glimpse out, you can see faint flickers of movement as they dart between cover and hide behind stout trees. They wear black, just like the men who attacked you at Professor Silvera’s dig site.

One of the men is slower to get into cover than the rest, allowing you a brief moment to fire back. Your shot drops him, although you can’t tell if he’s dead or merely wounded. Two of his companions start to drag the fallen man into cover, only to drop him as Sakhalin coldly shoots one of them down. The rest of the unseen solders fire back, forcing you back into cover. Even as the gunshots ring out, and Leigh screams, you hear something else – a metallic rattle as one of the soldiers throws a metal cannister towards you, shortly followed by a sinister hiss as white smoke belches up from where it fell.

Almost immediately, an acrid smell hits you like a slap in the face and brings tears to your eyes. A second more, and twin daggers of burning pain stab at your eyes. Every moment seems to bring fresh torment, with the gas creeping into your lungs with every shuddering breath you take and burning you from the inside out. Leigh writhes on the ground, coughing and spluttering, while even Sakhalin struggles to keep his composure. Through a veil of tears, you can dimly make out the soldiers converging upon the outpost.

“The back window, Master Pale!” Sakhalin hisses, pointing to the rear of the cabin, “Take Master Leigh and go. I can stay, to hold these men for as long as possible!”

“Damn you, Sakhalin, I’m not-” you hesitate, “If we’re going, we ALL go!”

“And they will catch us, because we march at the speed of our slowest,” he rasps, “Do not put yourself in danger for my sake. Take Master Leigh, and leave!”

“You heard him!” Leigh pleads between retches, “We need to leave!”

>You’re not leaving. You’ll hold this cabin, whatever it takes
>Sakhalin’s right. If he holds the soldiers off, you have a chance to escape
>You’ve got enough information. Leigh is just dead weight now – leave him behind
>You’ve still got the cellar. Perhaps you could take shelter there
>Other

>>6178169
>Leave the cabin, circle back and hit them from behind
Static defense against tear gas is doomed, but I don't want to leave our homie behind

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“Wait, just let me think for a moment,” you hiss, turning to shoot Leigh a dark glare, “Shut up, will you?”

Leigh is so startled that he actually does fall silent, save for his ragged breathing. You’ve still got the constant rattle of gunfire to distract you, but at least you don’t need to listen to his whining. Sakhalin frowns, leaning around the edge of the window and firing off a single, precise shot. Out in the dark, someone wails and dies.

“Next chance we get, we make a break for it,” you suggest, nodding to the back window, “I know, I know. We can’t outrun them. But if they start to follow us, we circle around and hit them hard. Draw them in, then cut them down.”

Sakhalin considers this for a moment, heedless of the bullets whistling and cracking all around him. Then he nods, the gesture curt and clipped.

-

Sakhalin drags Leigh upright and crosses over to the window, smashing the glass with the butt of his revolver before pushing Leigh through the opening. The young man grunts with pain as he lands, crawling a few paces away as Sakhalin follows him through the window. You cast a fleeting glance backwards, seeing movement in the trees, then hurry after Sakhalin.

Once outside, you drop low and flatten yourself against the cabin’s outer wall. For those first few moments, you don’t dare move a muscle. The rifle fire continues for a second or two, then falls silent. Though your ears are ringing, you think you can dimly make out the faint whisper of footsteps. Glancing aside to Sakhalin, you gesture for him to move. You’ll take one side, he’ll take the other.

Thumbing a few extra bullets into your revolver, you creep around the outermost edge of the cabin, stopping every few steps to listen for any suggestion that your plan is ruined. When you get to the corner, you take one last moment to wipe tears from your eyes before swinging around. The soldiers are halfway through climbing into the cabin when you round the corner, caught completely off-guard by the first bullets that rip into them. You fire from one side, and Sakhalin fires from the other, cutting down the soldiers in immediate view. The survivors scramble to regain their composure, one leaping through the window almost directly in front of you.

You have just enough time to see his eyes growing wide beneath the glass lenses of his mask before you plunge your dagger into his side, hot blood spilling out over your hand as you pull the blade sideways. He dies with a gurgle, slumping down as you rip the dagger free. With no time to reload your revolver, you snatch up the fallen man’s rifle and search out for a new target – but, at first, you don’t see any.

Then you hear the soft rustle of fallen leaves, spinning around to see one of the wounded men limping away into the forest.

[1]

>>6178195

“Stay here with Leigh!” you shout to Sakhalin, taking off after the wounded man without waiting for an answer. You don’t think about what you’ll do once you catch up with him, you haven’t thought that far ahead yet, but you run after him regardless. Like a hunting hound chasing a promising scent, all you need to do is pursue the man.

An iron vice of pain clamps down around your temples as you run, the smell of blood causing your head to spin. Even as you move further away from the cabin, the smell seems to get stronger and stronger rather than weaker. The scent of blood has always roused strange feelings in you, strange and terrible feelings, and this is no different. Your instincts, operating on a level below rational thought, all cry out a single message – something bad is about to happen.

But even as these thoughts race through your head, you keep running. Even when you hear the wounded man scream, a scream unlike any you’ve heard ripped from a human throat before, you keep running.

You keep running until you arrive at the base of a great tree, looking up at the spreading branches in horror. The soldier, the bloodied strip of quivering meat that was once the soldier, is draped across the branches, speared in place by countless sharp points. Other branches are bent under the weight of the night owls perched upon them – ragged, cadaverous things with sharp beaks and piercing eyes, their feathers flecked with gore. The birds gaze down upon you with inhuman intelligence, even as the clouds above part to reveal a burning red eclipse in place of the moon you know so well.

And then it’s gone, all of it. The eclipse, the night owls, all of it, gone in the blink of an eye.

All of it, save for the soldier’s viciously mutilated remains impaled upon the tree’s branches.

>I’m going to take a pause here for today, but I’ll be carrying on tomorrow at the same approximate starting time
>Thank you to everyone who stopped by, I’ve been eager to get back into writing for a while but I just haven’t been able to make the time until now

>>6178198
Thanks for running!

These guys were well equipped but pretty poorly trained. I think whatever organization they belong to hasn't been deploying them for long

>>6178203
>whatever organization they belong to
It's probably the Church or one of their benefactors. But as to exactly why they are running interference like this we just don't know yet. Maybe one of them has yet to die of their wounds and can answer some questions

Hopefully we can get the body down without leaving, and take it back to the cabin. So we have proof of our claims

>>6178228
I would rather not come any closer to the mystical man-flaying tree

>>6178229
The tree's probably fine. It's the owls you gotta watch out for.

>>6178198
Thanks for running! It's a busy weekend for me, but I'll vote if I get the chance. Welcome back, QM! Been missing this quest.

>>6178228
>>6178229
Fairly certain that guy just got Strixed. And i'm fairly certain that the Oracles are compromised and infiltrated by Strix, which was the cause of that hysteria before quest started.

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It’s a grim task, to recover the soldier’s remains from their resting place upon the tree, but you fight back your initial nausea and persist. The body is still warm when you touch it, sticky blood immediately staining your hands as you pull it free from the thorny branches piercing it. It takes time, and careful attention, but eventually you manage to get the body free. Most of it, at least – a few shreds of meat still cling to the tree, but you can live with that.

Looking at the sad remains, you’re somehow reminded of poor Dunblane and his gruesome death even though the two aren’t that similar. Dunblane had been utterly destroyed, no less than a man struck full on with an artillery shell, while this soldier is more… intact. Between that, and the elaborate presentation of his remains, you can’t help but see his death as the act of some malicious intelligence. The same intelligence, perhaps, that has been stalking the land ever since your father called out with his offerings of blood and terror.

-

Leigh turns away and vomits into the long grass when he notices the ragged remains held in your arms. Politely ignoring him, you set the corpse down before Sakhalin and step back, wiping blood off your hands as best as you can. Sakhalin studies the remains with a mild curiosity, looking up to you with a question in his eyes.

“He was like that when I found him,” you insist, a defensive note in your voice.

“I see,” Sakhalin answers, “May I ask, Master Pale, why you brought it here?”

The question leaves you fumbling for an answer. Why DID you bring it back with you?

“I don’t know, I just… I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t the only one who saw it. So I know I’m not losing my mind,” you admit, forcing a laugh, “If I had to see this, you have to see it too.”

“Thank you, Master Pale,” the dark-skinned man muses, without a hint of irony.

An awkward silence descends, broken only when you gesture towards the neat row of dead bodies and clear your throat. “No survivors, then,” you remark, eyeing up the corpses with a faint irritation.

“One, though he was badly wounded,” Sakhalin explains, “He died having said nothing.”

Leigh moans softly, but you both ignore him. “It’s funny, but I expected them to put up more of a fight,” you muse, “Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”

“When I was young, I knew of a group of warriors. They carried strong weapons, and wore the skins of great beasts. They were feared by all, until one day when our elders rallied together to defy them. In a single day, they were defeated,” Sakhalin recalls, frowning at the distant memory, “They had ruled through fear for so long that they had forgotten how to fight. These men, stripped of their weapons and the element of surprise, are no different.”

“That’s, um, that’s very interesting,” Leigh mumbles, “But can we go now?”

[1/2]

>>6178626

Nobody speaks during the journey back to Siegfried House. Leigh sleeps for most of the trip, while Sakhalin lapses into a thoughtful silence. A distant glow of firelight reddens the night sky behind you, cast up by the burning cabin – you set it ablaze as you left, to serve as a funeral pyre for the slain soldiers. You were happy enough to leave them for scavengers, but Sakhalin insisted.

Your bloodied clothes draw no small amount of attention when you arrive back at the Teilhard estate, but the servants there are too well trained to do anything other than usher you into a spare bedroom. By the time morning arrives, your clothes have been washed and prepared for you. Quickly dressing, you follow a servant to a private dining room. There, Sakhalin sits opposite Master Teilhard while an empty seat awaits your arrival.

“Master Teilhard,” you begin as you sit, “I see you’ve been putting Young Master Leigh to good use.”

“I can’t take any credit for this one. I entrusted Leigh to my associate, a man whose singular skill is ensuring that the right person ends up in the right place,” Master Teilhard answers, “I suspect that he learned of Master Sakhalin’s enquiries, and placed Leigh accordingly. The Choirmaster’s private office, correct?”

“So he claims. Although-”

The soft click of a door interrupts you, and you look around to see Leigh himself standing by the entrance. A good meal and a proper night’s sleep has done wonders for him, although he still looks nervous – that, you suspect, is not something that can be so easily fixed. Fidgeting slightly, he takes a seat at the far edge of the table.

“Um… Thank you, by the way,” he says cautiously, “I suppose I should tell you everything. But, uh, I don’t even know where to start.”

“You said you were sent to Petrichor, to the Choirmaster’s office. You said she had files there,” you prompt, “Is that it, she’s somehow blackmailing King Albrecht?”

“She claims…” Leigh hesitates, glancing aside to Sakhalin and Master Teilhard. The old soldier gestures for him to speak, his scowl betraying a hint of impatience. “She claims that King Albrecht murdered his predecessor,” Leigh continues, his voice dropping to a whisper. The effect is immediate – Master Teilhard’s eyes widen with surprise, while Sakhalin’s hands clench into fists.

“I don’t know the how or the why of it, I didn’t have much time to look at her papers,” the young man insists, shaking his head, “It may not even be true! I mean-”

“It has to be true,” you interrupt, “Or else, why would King Albrecht take the threat so seriously?”

A cold silence answers this.

>Only King Albrecht can tell us what really happened. We need to speak with him
>Choirmaster Moreau has a lot to answer for. Is she still in Petrichor?
>It’s too dangerous to act now. We should lie low for a little bit
>I have some more questions… (Write in)
>Other

>>6178628
>I have some more questions…
What happened after that? How did he come to be in that hut? Who contacted Sakhalin?

>>6178635
+1

>>6178628
>I have some more questions… (Write in)
You said she had files on everyone, what else does she have or claim to have? It doesn’t matter if it’s true, just mattters if people will believe her and she’s been playing politics so long she’s got almost everyone’s ear. Look what she did with me. So what other “ammunition” does she have?

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“Well, we’re not at the end of your story just yet,” you tell Leigh, “What happened after that? Who contacted Sakhalin, and how did you end up in that cabin?”

Leigh’s jaw hangs slack as he tries to process the rush of questions. “I didn’t have much time to look through the Choirmaster’s files, so I decided to come back later. The security in that office is… really lax. Once you’re inside the building, I mean. I thought I’d be able to sneak into her office again while she was out, say I was cleaning if I got caught, but…” he hesitates, “I think she realised what I’d done. The next time I visited her office, the whole place was cleaned out. Everything was gone, and so was the Choirmaster.”

“So I realised my cover was blown. I got out as fast as I could, and went straight back to Master Teilhard’s man. He got me to contact Master Sakhalin, and suggested a good place to meet,” the young man continues, “I never realised that I was being followed, but I got a… a bad feeling. I was running for the cabin when I fell and hurt my leg. Then I was down there in the dark, waiting and waiting-”

“Yes yes, we know that part,” you interrupt, casting a glance across to Master Teilhard, “I don’t know who this agent of yours is, but you need to check on him. He might be in danger too, if Leigh led the Choirmaster’s men to him.”

“I’ll contact him straight away,” Master Teilhard replies, rising from his chair and stalking out.

You turn back to Leigh, who has somehow managed to look even more worried. He was so concerned about himself that he never thought that anyone else might get caught up in his troubles. “You said that the Choirmaster had files on everyone. What else does she have – or claim to have?” you press, giving Sakhalin a look, “It doesn’t even matter if it’s true or not. When the Choirmaster speaks, people will listen. I know that all too well.”

“She had so many files, I couldn’t check through them all,” Leigh whines, “I saw files for all the major families, the key figures. Priests, industrialists, military officers…”

You shudder a little as Leigh’s voice fades into silence. It’s hard to grasp the scale of what he’s suggesting. Elle told you about the “official” archives that the oracles keep, but Moreau’s private archives seem just as extensive. You can only assume that she has enough material to ruin whoever she chooses, a sword to dangle above the head of the nation.

“So,” Sakhalin says at last, breaking his silence, “We find ourselves in a difficult situation. Young Master Leigh, you mentioned that the Choirmaster has gone, correct?”

“Right. I heard that she left in a carriage, but nobody seemed to know where she was going,” he lets out a nervous laugh, “Of course, I didn’t stick around to ask too many questions. But I don’t know where she is now.”

“I may be able to help with that,” a gentle voice offers.

[1]

>>6178665

“Forgive my intrusion,” Elle says as she enters the dining room. Sakhalin swiftly rises to his feet and lowers his head as she approaches, but she waves away the gesture. She meets your eyes for a moment, then quickly looks away as a flash of pain darts across her face. Gracefully sinking down into one of the vacant chairs, Elle smoothes out her dress and clears her throat.

“Out,” Sakhalin orders, giving Leigh a hard glare. The young man turns pale, leaping to his feet and scuttling out of the room. Sakhalin follows after him, gently closing the door behind him.

“...Hello Isambard,” Elle murmurs, glancing your way once more, “You look well. Have you been keeping busy?”

“When am I not busy?” you counter, still trying to shake off your surprise. The last time you saw Elle, she had been leaving for her family home – summoned back by her dogmatic parents, for fear of your tainted reputation. She had chosen to leave, but now…

Elle slowly looks around the room, her gaze occasionally darting back to you only to flit instantly away. “Choirmaster Moreau is at Castellan Point,” she says at last, “It’s a fortified monastery at the furthest corner of Silvera territory. Of course, it hasn’t been used as a monastery for years.”

“How do you know?” you ask, a faint smirk touching your lips, “Although I realise that that is often a foolish question for an oracle.”

She shakes her head. “This is no divine insight, no guidance from the Godhead. If pursuing the Choirmaster is part of the natural order, it hasn’t been revealed to me. No, I know about Castellan Point because…” she hesitates, “Because Choirmaster Moreau told me about it. We’ve spoken… quite a lot these past days. She often came to visit me at home. I had realised, by then, that she had been pressuring my parents to call me back home. I wanted to know why.”

“The same reason, I assume, that she barred me from the Demesne,” you decide, “She doesn’t want me to complete my mission.”

“Yes, I think the same thing,” Elle nods, “Although I don’t yet know why that is. I suspect that’s something we would have to ask the Choirmaster herself. We could go to her… together.”

You say nothing for a long moment, thinking to yourself. You’ve already survived one ambush, and now Elle has reappeared to lead you off to another remote hiding spot. As guilty as you feel, you can’t help but wonder about her motives.

“I know that you have no reason to trust me, after everything I’ve done,” Elle says gently, as if reading your thoughts, “But I’m trying to put things right. As much… as much as they can be.”

>Thank you, Elle. I’m glad to see you again
>I’m not sure if I can trust you, but I’ll take any lead that I can get
>Sorry, but I’m not walking into another ambush
>Other

>>6178677
>Thank you, Elle. I’m glad to see you again
Is it really an ambush if we see it coming and we go in prepared?
Is it really a trap if Elle is falling for Isambard as hard as he's falling for her?

>>6178677
>Thank you, Elle. I’m glad to see you again
She's never done us wrong.
sorry, twincest anons

>>6178682
The only way this can work out is if Elle somehow supports the tWINcest, or if Gratia approves of Elle for Isambard

>>6178677
>I’m not sure if I can trust you, but I’ll take any lead that I can get

So what happens if we just Shoot the Choirmaster when we see her?

>>6178683
...would Gratia be the yandere sort of twin sister, or a "I like you, you can come over to our estate and fuck my brother" sort of wingwoman?

>>6178685
Only an oracle can say for sure.

>>6178677
>Thank you, Elle. I’m glad to see you again
>Let's bring Sakhalin along
I doubt it's really an ambush, but rather the Choirmaster probably isn't going to just be there alone and unguarded

>>6178677
>Thank you, Elle. I’m glad to see you again

File: Elspeth Legrasse.jpg (312 KB, 1024x1024)

312 KB JPG

“Thank you, Elle,” you say quietly, reaching across and placing your hand over hers, “I’m glad to see you again.”

Elle’s eyes widen slightly, and she draw her hand back only to reconsider and hold still. Her skin feels soft and smooth, pleasantly warm to the touch. Then you remember the sticky blood that had been coating your hands not so long ago, and abruptly pull your hand away from hers. Moreau’s meddling aside, there really might be a good reason for a girl like Elle to stay away from a man like you.

And yet, here she is.

“But if we do go to see the Choirmaster, I don’t think we should go alone. Sakhalin will accompany us, I’m sure. He’s just got as many reasons to hold a grudge against Moreau as I do. Well… almost as many reasons,” you muse, “I don’t think we should take too many people. We could all end up in a lot of trouble if this ends badly.”

“How bad could it be?” Elle asks, trying for a curious smile.

“Well, I could shoot Moreau in the head as soon as I see her,” you answer, “Can your oracle instincts tell me how bad that would be?”

“...Quite bad, I should think,” she decides after a moment’s thought.

-

“Castellan Point. Here,” Sakhalin rumbles, pointing a finger down to the large map spread out before you all, “The lay of the land favours a strong defence. Ocean on three sides, and a narrow land bridge leading to the entrance. Even a small number of men could hold that fortress against an army for as long as their supplies held out.”

“I hope you’re not planning a siege, Master Pale,” Master Teilhard warns, “That would be going a little too far, even for you.”

“I don’t think my meagre resources would be able to handle a siege,” you sigh, tapping a finger against the vast expanse of ocean, “We could take a boat, just a little thing would do, and sail around the back. If we go on a cloudy night, the darkness would cover our approach. Then, assuming we can scale the cliffs, we might be able to find an unguarded entrance. They wouldn’t be expecting a sneak attack like that.”

Even as you say this, you realise how suicidal it all sounds. Unless the cliffs are especially favourable, you’d be taking a terrible risk. You might have plenty of hiking experience, but that won’t be worth a damn if you need to scale a sheer cliff – and that’s assuming you’ll have a moonless night for your approach, AND you’ll be able to find a way into the monastery.

“Let me think,” the old soldier growls, “There’s no fortress that cannot be defeated, given the right approach.”

“Master Teilhard, please. We appreciate the help, of course, but this is our fight. You needn’t involve yourself in this,” Elle insists, “And, I fear that you may be implicated if we fail. It could ruin you.”

“If the Choirmaster is blackmailing King Albrecht, that would be an act of treason,” he counters, “I cannot sit idly by and let this continue.”

[1]

>>6178699

With a look of wolfish cunning on his face, Master Teilhard starts taking old books down from the shelves and flicking through them. Leaving him to strategise with Sakhalin, you guide Elle into the privacy of a discrete reading room. “Can I ask you something?” you murmur as you both sit, “When Moreau came to visit you, what did you talk about?”

Elle hesitates, then raises her hands in a vague gesture. “How much of a disappointment I turned out to be, essentially,” she answers, “Do you remember my family’s prophecy?”

“A child of your line will descend into the Demesne and rouse the sleeping god at its lowest depths,” you recall, “And that, presumably, is a good thing.”

“Mm, exactly,” Elle nods, smiling as if pleased by your recollection, “The Choirmaster really believed that I was the one who would do it. She’d been following my training from the moment I entered the Choir, expecting great things from me. Instead, I left the Choir under… well, not especially good circumstances. But I don’t think she ever gave up hope that I might still live up to her expectations.”

What she doesn’t say – that there’s a part of her, too, that wants to live up to those expectations, no matter how impossible they may be.

“I don’t know,” Elle sighs after a moment, “I think we’re overthinking things. Maybe we should just go to the monastery and ask to see Moreau.”

“Just ask nicely?” you repeat, raising an eyebrow, “Do you really think that would work?”

“If I was the one doing the asking, yes.”

You’re still considering this when Sakhalin knocks lightly at the door. “Master Pale, Miss Legrasse. Forgive me for interrupting,” he says in a low murmur, “But we may have something.”

-

“Your boat idea might not be so bad after all,” Master Teilhard announces, setting an open book down in front of you, “But you won’t need to scale any cliffs. According to this, there’s a cave at the base of the cliff that leads inside the monastery itself. Some of the more… disobedient monks used it to smuggle wine inside. The whole incident had to be covered up. It would’ve caused quite the outcry if it had come to light.”

“And you think the cave will still be open?” you ask, “Moreau could’ve had it blocked off when she arrived.”

“That is the risk, yes,” he admits, “But, given the secrecy around the original incident, my hope would be that Moreau never learned of it – there’s little blackmail material to be found in the antics of long-dead monks.”

>Right now, it’s the best plan we’ve got. Let’s give it a try
>Elle thinks the peaceful approach might work. I trust her judgement
>Let’s go out there and see what we’ve got to work with. We’ll improvise, if we have to
>Other

>>6178710
>Right now, it’s the best plan we’ve got. Let’s give it a try

>>6178710
>Right now, it’s the best plan we’ve got. Let’s give it a try
I'm down. If we get caught, maybe we can convince Morwau that we and our Demense-diving are instrumental to Elle fulfilling her grand purpose?

>>6178710
>>Let’s go out there and see what we’ve got to work with. We’ll improvise, if we have to

>Write two letter, one to the people waiting for us at home, and one to a certain Tomoe detailing everything for if and only if we don't return in a timely manner. If he asks why, Insurance.


I fully expect some curveball to happen or Moreau to be waiting for us cause lmao oracle.

>>6178727
>>6178728
Both excellent ideas +1

>>6178728
>Moreau to be waiting for us cause lmao oracle
If that's the case, just shoot her, nothing good can happen if she is predicting our planning.

“Right now, I think it’s the best plan we’ve got. Let’s give it a try,” you decide, “But if we get out there and things look bad, we should pull back and rethink our approach. We can improvise, if we really have to.”

“I would prefer that you do not,” Sakhalin warns, “Rash action may prove disastrous.”

“That’s why I want you to come with us, Sakhalin,” you counter, giving him a cocky grin with a confidence that you really don’t feel, “To keep us from doing anything too foolish.”

Sakhalin considers this in silence, gears grinding away behind the impassive mask of his face as he thinks. “Very well,” he decides eventually, “I shall make the travelling arrangements. Discretion will be important, of course. I will be at the gates. Please, Master Pale, join me when you are ready to depart.”

“I shouldn’t need much time. I just need to write a few letters – some insurance, just in case things really do go badly wrong,” you tell him, leaving him to depart with a curt nod. Murmuring your thanks to Master Sakhalin, you retreat back to your drawing room to write. It doesn’t take you long to write up two copies of a letter explaining how you’ve got to this point. One to be kept at home, the other to be sent to Juno if you should vanish without a trace. As you’re setting the pen down, you glance aside to Elle. “Well, here we go,” you say casually, “Nervous?”

“Absolutely,” she admits, giving you a shaky smile, “I don’t know how this is going to go. Not even a hunch.”

“Let’s hope Moreau is no better. It would really ruin the plan if one of the Emanations tells on us,” you joke, giving her a playful nudge with your elbow, “Try and put in a good word for us, won’t you?”

-

Castellan Point is a foreboding place, even at a distance. An angular spire of grey stone rising up from a crumbling cliff, it seems to make the surrounding land seem more hostile just by existing. You can only imagine how dour it must have been to live there as a monk, your entire life devoted to the most tedious kinds of prayer and meditation. No wonder some of them turned to drink.

Elle called it a fortified monastery, and it certainly seems to lean closer to “fortified” than “monastery”. A high outer wall blocks the singular land entrance, guarded by a few men in familiar black uniforms. From your vantage point high atop the ridge, you watch them pace back and forth through a borrowed pair of binoculars.

“The Choirmaster must be here,” Sakhalin rumbles, “I can think of no other reason why the place would be so heavily guarded.”

“I don’t see any caves,” Elle adds, peering down at the base of the cliffs.

“As expected. The records suggest that it was on the far end, facing out into the sea,” the dark-skinned man points out, “We will need to circle around the rocks and search for it that way.”

“By the cover of darkness,” you add, “Don’t forget that part.”

[1]

>>6178756

The eastern coast is peppered with tiny fishing villages, many of them too small to even have a name. Though Sakhalin’s foreign features startle some of the locals, a pouch of coin is more than enough to settle their nerves and purchase the use of a sturdy rowing boat. Sakhalin takes up the oars himself, to your great relief, leaving the search to you and Elle.

Your luck holds with the weather, granting you a sky blanketed in heavy cloud, although you don’t feel very lucky when the first drops of an icy rain hit your head. Then again, this too might be a blessing – a cold rain might drive some of the weaker guards inside, away from their posts. You’ll take even the slightest advantage, even if does mean suffering through some foul weather and rough seas.

Searching in the darkness is exactly as hard as you expected it to be, but you don’t dare light your lantern for fear of revealing yourself. Even the rare glimpse of moonlight that pierces through a gap in the clouds is enough to set your heart racing. Heedless of your mounting dismay, Sakhalin keeps rowing with a steady, almost mechanical rhythm. Even when you’ve almost completely circled the monastery without success, he doesn’t seem to tire or lose hope.

“Take us closer!” Elle whispers suddenly, clinging to you with one arm and pointing with the other. Sakhalin dutifully obeys, guiding the little boat closer to the craggy cliffs. There, hidden in the shadows of a rocky overhang, you see a kind of deeper darkness. Closer still, and you see that this is the cave entrance that you’ve been looking for. You pat Elle on the arm, drawing a little hiss of triumph from her lips as Sakhalin cautiously steers the boat into the cave. Once you’ve got solid rock above your head, you allow yourself to relax a little. Not much, but a little.

There’s not much left to suggest this place was once used to smuggle barrels of wine, but Sakhalin is able to light a lantern and tie a rope around a rocky outcrop in order to secure the boat. You climb ashore as he works, taking Elle’s hand as she delicately steps out of the boat. “So far, so good,” you murmur to her, “Now we just need to hope that security is light, but not TOO light.”

“Because if it’s too light, it might be a trap,” she guesses, “Right?”

“Who’s been putting all these nasty ideas in your head?” you remark, “You’ve fallen in with a bad crowd, Miss Legrasse.”

“Perhaps so, Master Pale,” she teases back, “But whose fault is that?”

Sakhalin clears his throat from behind you, silencing the both of you. He makes a tiny adjustment to the lantern flame, lowering it slightly, and nods for you to move on ahead. In a dark corner of the cavern, you find a stairwell roughly hewn into the rock and start to climb the narrow steps.

[2]

>>6178776

The rocks are slick with moss and slime, as if they haven’t been used in countless years. That, you hope, is a promising sign. If Moreau or any of her men were aware of the stairwell, there should be more signs of use. The possibility that it’s unused because it was sealed off many years ago does come to mind, but you quickly banish the thought. You’ll worry about that if it happens, and not a moment before.

The moment seems to come when the stairwell ends in a solid brick wall. Your initial dismay turns to hope when you notice a brick that juts out slightly from the rest of the wall. You push the brick, smirking triumphantly to yourself as it gives way and sends the whole wall swinging out. Even after all these years, the mechanism is still smooth and quiet, with just the slightest groan of stone against stone. The secret entrance leads you into what you take to be a kitchen, empty save for a lone servant kneading bread by an open fire.

The servant turns as you’re emerging from the tunnel, his eyes widening when he sees the revolver in your hand. In the space of a single moment, you see every thought that flashes through his mind – the thought of crying out, or running away, and eventually the base instinct to freeze up. He stiffens like a board, with only his eyes able to follow you as you cautiously approach him.

“I…” he whispers, “I’m just a cook. I’m not… I won’t say anything, I swear.”

“We should move,” Sakhalin growls to you, scowling at the cook, “Leave him. He is a distraction, nothing more.”

>Keep moving. You’re not here to intimidate the kitchen staff
>You can’t risk leaving him. Silence him – for good
>Take a moment to question the servant… (Write in)
>Other

>>6178785
>Keep moving. You’re not here to intimidate the kitchen staff
Though if possible...
>Bind and gag him with kitchen stuff first

>>6178776
>be me, tribal killer from tropical colony
>come to heartland as servant or laborer
>work my way up through diligent, dirty, and dark work
>no vacations, no complaints, no compunctions
>eventually hried by the king himself as his personal agent and security chief
>discover a plought to blackmail or even depose my boss
>this is my moment!
>get stuck chauffering two giggling, rich white kids from fancy prep schools on a date
Poor Sakh-Man.

>>6178788
I don't think Sakhalin thinks that of Isambard because not only did Sakhalin's boss personally give Isambard a mission of extreme importance, but he was a solid backup during the men in black ambush AND Isambard was the one to tip Sakhalin off about shit secretly going down that led him to this clusterfuck of subterfuge comibg to light. Elle meanwhile is clearly directly related to the king himself somehow. Sakhalin has been there since thread 1 post 1

>>6178788
By the way +1 to being nice to the cook despite binding him

“Stay quiet. I won’t hurt you,” you tell the cook, carefully holstering your revolver. He doesn’t relax any, even when your gun is out of sight. If anything, he seems to get tenser as if preparing to flee. After a moment, you realise that he’s waiting for the second half of your sentence – the inevitable “yet” or “but” that signals disaster. Glancing around the darkened kitchen, you snatch up a few towels and bring them to bear.

With the cook gagged and bound, you guide him into the relative shelter of a large pantry. It won’t hide him from a thorough search, but it’ll defeat a casual glance around the doorway.

Without a map, you have to steadily make your way through the monastery and search for any sign that you might be getting close to your target. Here, you allow Elle to take the lead – whether it’s some half-remembered detail that Moreau mentioned to her, or just her honed instincts at work, she seems to know where she’s going. Or, at least, she’s good at pretending that she knows where she’s going. Though the corridors occasionally take aimless turns and bends, reminding you somehow of the Demesne, your path inevitably leads you up, to the highest point of the monastery.

As you’re climbing what must surely be the last spiralling staircase, you pause and sniff the air. The faint stench of cigarette smoke reaches your nostrils, and for once you feel your hopes soar. Touching a finger to your lips, you listen carefully. A little further up, you can hear the soft scratch of a pen on paper. That’s all – if there’s anyone else up there, they must be as silent as the grave.

Sakhalin hangs back to guard your rear, allowing you to lead Elle up the last of the steps. At the top of the stairwell, there’s only one possible way to go – a short corridor ending in an ajar office door. You start to draw your revolver, only for Elle to grab your arm.

“Isambard, please. Just… let me talk with her,” she whispers, “I want to know why. Why she’s doing all this, why she’s so…”

“I can’t promise anything,” you reply, although you slowly return the gun to its holster. Even then, you keep your hand close to the revolver’s grip as you reach out to push the door open. The office is small, almost claustrophobic, and the air is thick with the smell of cigarettes. Moreau sits behind a large desk, writing notes in a cramped book of some kind.

“Salvador, I told you that I wasn’t supposed to be disturbed,” she says without looking up from her book. Then, taking one final drag on her cigarette, she glances across to the ashtray and stubs it out. As she does, she finally notices you and freezes. Time slows to a crawl, each second seeming like an eternity, as her bloodshot eyes slowly drift between you and Elle.

“I wish I could say that I was expecting you, Master Pale, but I clearly wasn’t,” the Choirmaster says at last, finally breaking her silence.

[1]

>>6178812

“I’ve always had something of a blind spot when it comes to my own affairs,” Moreau continues in a rueful tone, “That’s my failing, I suppose. What the dramatists might call a fatal flaw. That IS why you’re here, isn’t it? To murder me?”

“I’m considering it,” you reply casually.

“Considering it,” she repeats, lips curling with scorn, “I’m going to reach for a cigarette. I don’t have anything in here that would serve as a weapon, and I’m not going to make any sudden movements. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I’d rather you didn’t smoke, actually,” you tell the old woman, snatching the cigarette case out of her reach. Her gaze follows it as you toss the silver case aside, sending it rattling to the floor. “You’ve been causing me a lot of problems, Choirmaster. Not just me, either,” you continue, “Blackmailing a King? You’ve got some nerve, at least.”

“Oh come on. Albrecht is hardly some innocent victim here. He stained his hands with blood to get to where he is today. We’ve all stained our hands, Master Pale. Some more than others,” Moreau rasps, “I’m not going to beg for my life. I won’t plead. My only regret is that I didn’t act sooner.”

“Choirmaster Moreau, please!” Elle cries, her voice pitched in a desperate whisper, “What have we done that is so wrong? I believe, I truly believe, that we are acting in accordance with the natural order. If I am wrong, then please – tell us where we have strayed!”

A nasty, sickly smile spreads across Moreau’s face, revealing a mouth filled with yellowing teeth. “How long have you got?” she asks, her words laced with venom and bile.

>I’m going to pause here for tonight. I’ll be planning on running for a few hours tomorrow, starting at the same approximate time
>Thank you for reading along today!

>>6178821
I'm willing to hear her out. Godhead knows we've treated worh worse. But still... I fear whatever Elle wants, this vile woman will probably not leave this room alive.

Thanks for running!

>>6178821
>"As long as you don't get us killed or throw yourself out of that window. Ideally a long time without somebody stupid doing something equally stupid."

File: Eve Moreau.jpg (315 KB, 1024x1024)

315 KB JPG

“The truth is, Miss Legrasse, that we all strayed from the path a great many years ago. The natural order is a dying beast, breaking down around us with each tiny act of Calamity and disobedience,” Choirmaster Moreau says, gesturing vaguely with her pen in the absence of a cigarette, “I’m not so foolish as to blame it all on the Tomoe. We’re all part of the problem, every one of us. The Godhead laid out a plan for all of us, but we decided that we knew better.”

“I had just one hope – that your family prophecy might bear fruit, and you would call forth God from the lowest depths of the Demesne,” she continues, pointing towards Elle, “I had it all planned out, too. You and Young Master Silvera-”

“Cato Silvera?” you interrupt, scowling at the old woman.

“And why not? He’s loyal, obedient, and he hails from an excellent family. He’d be the perfect candidate,” Moreau waves away your words, “Don’t take it so personally, Master Pale. I’m not trying to attack your masculine pride, or whatever you want to call it. It was never more than a plan, anyway. Miss Legrasse made quite sure of that.”

“But we can still…” Elle protests, “The only thing stopping us reaching the bottom of the Demesne is YOU!”

Moreau doesn’t answer this straight away, simply casting a mournful glance at her fallen cigarette case. Uttering a disgusted curse under your breath, you snatch up the case and throw it down in front of the old woman. She eagerly cracks it open, lighting up a cigarette with a practised flick of her hand. “You’re the problem, Master Pale. I’m sorry for saying that so bluntly, but it’s true. Right from the start, the omens surrounding you were… ambiguous. I saw great potential in you, but also great risk. So, against my better judgement, I allowed you to enter the Demesne,” she recalls, a bitter look settling onto her face, “That was my error, I freely admit that. I allowed myself to be… optimistic.”

She says the word as if it’s a profanity.

“Forgive me, Choirmaster,” Sakhalin asks in his mournful voice, approaching from behind you, “But did you ever approach King Albrecht with these… misgivings?”

“Ah, the faithful retainer. You know Albrecht better than anyone else, so tell me. Do you think he would have listened?” Moreau raises her palms in a vague shrug, “What about you, Master Pale? If I had told you to abandon your mission and never enter the Demesne again, would you have dutifully obeyed?”

“...No,” you admit. Not while Gratia still haunted those white stone halls.

“No. Of course not. You’re just like your father,” Moreau’s lips draw back in a sickly smile, “I did everything within my power to keep him from the Demesne. I sabotaged his projects and sullied his reputation – although he hardly needed MY help with that – but nothing would stop him.”

She sighs. “That’s why I needed to take drastic action.”

[1/2]

>>6179312

The whole world seems to drop away, the blood turning to ice in your veins. Everything around you seems to retreat, drawing back until you’re aware of only two things – the old woman sitting in front of you, and the revolver at your hip.

“A man and his daughter will descend to the lowest levels of the Demesne and, in doing so, bring terror, death and ruination upon the world,” Moreau recites, “A clear and unambiguous prophecy. Your father was the only one who matched the description – he had access to the Demesne, and I know that he had been trying to bring the girl in too. I don’t know how he managed it, but the two of them were seen in the Demesne together. When I learned of that, I knew that I had to act.”

“You murdered my father,” you whisper, “You might not have held the dagger yourself, but you were the one to give the order. His blood is on your hands.”

“Your father created the circumstances that led up to his own death. In that regard, it might be fairer to say that he killed himself,” Moreau counters, “Are you really going to pretend that this wasn’t justice? Your father called up something that he could not control, something capable of devouring the world. Men have been sent to the gallows for far less than that, Master Pale.”

Something inside you snaps. Snatching your revolver from its holster, you lunch forwards and press the muzzle against Moreau’s temple. Your finger is already tightening on the trigger when Elle grabs your arm. “Don’t do this, Isambard!” she pleads, “I know how angry you must be, but… but you’re better than this!”

“I’m not afraid to die,” Moreau says calmly, her head tilting to the side, “I know that I’ve failed, and I can see which way the wind is blowing. I’d rather die, here and now, than face the world that is to come. If you won’t pull the trigger, then give ME the gun. I’ll do it myself.”

“I do not think it will be so easy, Choirmaster,” Sakhalin warns, “It would be better, I think, if you returned to the capital with us, to face the King’s judgement. Your crimes deserve to face the full force of the law.”

“Oh come now, we both know that that will never happen,” the old woman sneers, “I know far too much for any kind of public trial.”

Sakhalin can’t argue against that point, although the deep scowl on his face says that he dearly wished that he could. No doubt the King would have her killed, quickly and discretely, just as she had your father killed.

She created the circumstances that led up to this point. Now, it’s just a matter of reaching the inevitable conclusion.

>You see no reason to drag this out. You’ll finish her off, here and now
>If she’s sincere about ending her own life, you’ll give her that opportunity
>It’s the King’s place to decide her fate, not yours. You’re taking her back to the capital
>There are still matters you need to discuss… (Write in)
>Other

>>6179313
>It’s the King’s place to decide her fate, not yours. You’re taking her back to the capital
I don’t think we liked dad enough to be unreasonably angry over his life

>>6179314
No, but what about Gratia? This is implicitly a threat to our sister, too.

>You see no reason to drag this out. You’ll finish her off, here and now

No shenanigans. No potential for escape.

>>6179313
To clarify,

>>6179318 is a vote.

>>6179318
Alright yeah that's fair, I can swap to killing now

>>6179313
>You see no reason to drag this out. You’ll finish her off, here and now
>Is there any way you can call off those mercenaries?
>Who killed our father?
It's what she wants, and it prevents her from escaping like the Black Wanderer.
Escaping this place ourselves might be a problem unless the mercenaries somehow wouldn't be able to hear the gunshot.

>>6179360
+1

The longer you hold the revolver against Moreau’s gaunt skull of a head, the more your hand starts to shake. You try to tighten your finger against the trigger, but the weight seems insurmountable. Moreau watches you all the while, her bloodless lips pressed into a hard, tight line. There’s a flicker of fear in her eyes, despite everything, but she hides it well. You almost wish she was facing away from you. It might be easier that way.

“Sakhalin,” you spit, unwilling to even address the old woman directly, “Tell her to call off her dogs. I don’t feel like fighting my way out of here.”

“Choirmaster, please dismiss your men,” Sakhalin asks mildly, “Your cause is lost, but they do not need to die here.”

“Oh, I don’t expect they’ll give you any problems,” Moreau answers, raising her shoulders in a tiny shrug, “Only true believers would throw their lives away like that, and we ran out of those some time ago. These few men that remain believe in money, nothing more – and a dead woman can’t pay their wages. Once they realise that their contract has been terminated, if you’ll excuse the term, they will melt away like the morning mist.”

“I suggest we keep our guard up regardless, Master Pale,” the dark-skinned man murmurs to you, but you barely hear him.

“Elle,” you whisper as you tighten your grip on the revolver, “Could you step outside for a moment, please?”

“I think that would be for the best, Elspeth,” Moreau agrees, “Go on. I’m sure this won’t take long.”

Drawing in a long, shuddering breath, Elle turns and flees from the room. She closes the door tightly shut behind her, but even the thick wood can’t fully stifle her moan of despair. “I want to know who killed my father,” you press, forcing the words out through gritted teeth, “You gave the orders, but who wielded the knife?”

Moreau considers her words for what seems like an eternity. “Nobody in particular,” she says at last, a mocking tone worthy of a Tomoe creeping into her voice, “A fine, upstanding gentleman, one among many. The sort of man that you might walk past in the city street, and perhaps even exchange pleasantries with. Think about that. Every stranger that you meet, perhaps they were the one-”

Suddenly, the trigger feels very light indeed. You don’t even hear the gunshot, not really. The only way you know that the gun has fired at all is the kick of recoil running up your arm. Blinking away your confusion, you slowly realise that Moreau is slumped back in her chair with her head twisted to the side. Thick blood drips to the worn carpet below, darkening the fabric as it soaks in.

“Very good, Master Pale,” Sakhalin says quietly, touching your arm with one broad hand, “I believe that brings our business here to a conclusion. Shall we depart?”

[1]

>>6179391

Elle says nothing as you leave Moreau’s office, silently falling in behind you as you march towards the stairs. She starts to glance back towards the ajar door, but Sakhalin reaches back and gently turns her head away. Your whole body feels numb, as if you were walking through a dream, but the feeling doesn’t last. A distant clatter of footsteps rings out from the spiralling stairwell, growing louder as the soldiers approach.

Such is your fatigue, your resignation, that you don’t even bother to raise your gun. You simply stand and watch as the black-garbed men descend upon you. One pushes you roughly against the wall, aiming his rifle at you, while another slowly creeps into Moreau’s office. A moment later, the man emerges with a grim look on his face.

Without a word, the man walks past you and starts to descend the stairs once more. The rest of the soldiers gradually follow after him, all traces of urgency and purpose having deserted them in an instant. The soldier who manhandled you is the last one to leave, pausing only to shoot you a sneering grin before vanishing down the stairs.

You wait a few moments, giving them time to disperse before following them down the stairs. After descending one level, Elle breaks her silence. “Wait,” she whispers, “Here. There’s something here.”

Brushing past you, she crosses to the other end of the short corridor and tries one of the unmarked doors. The lock rattles without any sign of giving way, but Elle doesn’t seem to notice. She just tugs harder and harder until Sakhalin ushers her away, bursting the lock open with a single thrust of his shoulder. Stepping around the shattered door, you peer inside and see stacks of boxes lining the room. These, you realise, must be Moreau’s files.

Your gaze is immediately drawn to an open box, the files left in a mess from recent use. One file in particular has your family name printed on the front, the word screaming out at you like an accusation.

“Step back!” Elle pleads as you’re reaching for the file. You turn, eyes widening when you see the flask of lantern oil in her hands.

“Elle,” you warn, “Be careful with that.”

“This is horrible, all so horrible!” she whimpers, “All these nasty secrets, sins and crimes and scandals… We should destroy it all!”

>This is valuable information. It might take some effort, but it’s worth taking it with you
>Elle is right. Moreau’s secrets should all burn. They’ve done enough harm already
>There’s a file with your name on it. You’re taking that one, but the rest can burn
>Other

>>6179400
>This is valuable information. It might take some effort, but it’s worth taking it with you
They all brought it upon themselves! The truth will exist even if the evidence is gone! The perpetrators and their victims will know! This is nothing like what was beneath the Martense tombs, or beneath that tree with the flesh siren, or beneath all those other places we've been to, Elle! This is the reality we live in! And I for one have had it with all these secrets stacked against us every which way.

>>6179400
>There’s a file with your name on it. You’re taking that one, but the rest can burn

>>6179400
>There’s a file with your name on it. You’re taking that one, but the rest can burn
Sakhalin is right there, so it probably wouldn't end well taking all of this, especially the King's file.

>>6179400
>This is valuable information. It might take some effort, but it’s worth taking it with you
We were tasked with rooting out corruption by the king
Here it all is

>>6179434
Oh shit you're right. Sakhalin was right there when the King tasked us of this too, wasn't he?

Turning, you carefully take Elle’s wrist and pull the flask of lantern oil from her grasp. “Let’s not be too hasty here,” you tell her, “This information could be important… and valuable. We’ve got time to think over our options. There’s no need to do anything rash. Ink and paper isn’t evil – it’s what Moreau was using this stuff for that that was the problem.”

Elle hesitates, but doesn’t make any attempt at taking back the oil. “I still think we should burn it,” she insists, “But… fine. It can wait a few moments.”

Murmuring a final excuse about getting some fresh air, she retreats from the claustrophobic room. You watch her leave, following her with your gaze as she staggers across to an open window and stares out at the night sky. “What do you think, Sakhalin?” you ask, gesturing vaguely at the boxes, “Do you think King Albrecht would have any interest in all this?”

“It is possible,” he replies in a guarded tone, “But it may not be easy to carry everything out with us.”

“You want to burn it too, don’t you?”

Sakhalin doesn’t answer this immediately, but he doesn’t need to – the look of distaste on his face tells you everything you need to know. You feel a sudden pang of sympathy for the older man. These past few days have shaken his faith, not just in the nation’s institutions but in the King himself. Faith can be a comfort, but losing it can be terrible indeed.

Reaching for the file with your name on it, you pull out the thick folder and tuck it under your arm. It’s heavier than you had been expecting, and you have to fight the urge to open it up and immediately start reading. After everything you’ve learned, could there really be fresh secrets waiting to be uncovered?

“King Albrecht could do a lot of good with this information. Not to blackmail those involved, but to bring their crimes to light. Destroying it won’t make those sins go away, it’ll just help them to stay hidden,” you decide, “I think we should bring these files to the King. Let him decide what to do with them. If he wants to burn them, then so be it. But this one, my family’s file, is coming with me.”

“Understandable,” Sakhalin says, “King Albrecht is a good man. So I have always believed. He will not abuse this gift.”

“So we’re in agreement, then?”

“Yes, Master Pale,” he pauses for a moment, “But only so long as you do your fair share of the heavy lifting.”

>It’s a little early, but I’m going to pause here for tonight. I’ll be running again tomorrow, for what may be a shorter run depending on how things go.
>I’m sorry for ending on something of a compromise, but I wanted to wrap things up tonight instead of leaving the vote open until tomorrow

>>6179459
Thanks for running! Zero problems with how that vote was resolved, very appropriate.

So happy that all the evil was Moreau and our perfect king is entirely blameless and has never done anything wrong ever.

>>6179459
The monastery is abandoned now after all the men in black goons ditched and scattered. Well, maybe not entirely with that one cook we bound and put in the pantry. We could free him and search the premises for anybody else, tell them they're all free to go? I had the thought to press them into moving the files with us, but it takes one curious impulse and a slipping paper scrap to compromise somebody. I think just the three of them are enough to haul all the loot to the monastery front door. With the place clear, it'll be safe to bring a carriage or cargo vessel to the front doors via the land bridge and simply load them up and head back home

>>6179400
Now that I'm here, I'd have personally voted to burn it all, too, but fair enough.

>>6179459
Thanks for running, QM!

>>6179459
>>6179480
If the King fails to act to bring crimes to justice - we will.

We should review some of these files on our way back - especially those which relate to the major houses (and Juno…)

File: Ariel Teilhard.jpg (291 KB, 1024x1024)

291 KB JPG

With the soldiers gone, you’re free to wander through the monastery in an uneasy silence. Only a few servants remain, peering out at you from behind doorways with cautious, curious eyes. You wave these sad remnants away with a gesture whenever you see them, wordlessly dismissing them before turning away to focus on the slow, methodical work of carrying the crates of files down to the entrance. Now that you don’t need to worry about being discrete, Sakhalin is able to bring the carriage right up to the front of the monastery to help with loading the boxes up.

Curiosity gets the better of you as you travel back to Siegfried House, and you start reading through your family file. The folder is split into three separate sections, one for your father, and one each for you and Gratia. Your father’s file is by far the largest, crammed full of letters and documents. Skimming through the file, you see that much of the material is tediously mundane – short letters noting your father’s movements and contacts, information gathered from a network of countless discrete informants.

Though the information itself isn’t particularly interesting, you notice a curious trend. As times goes on, as indicated by the dates neatly written on each document, the tone seems to change. The eager informants of the early days are steadily replaced by blackmail material, or other information extracted by coercion. Taken all together, it paints a picture of deteriorating power and influence, and an increasing desperation.

Closing the file with a sigh, you lean back and close your eyes. You’ll deal with this later.

-

“Hello stranger,” Ariel remarks as she sees Elle walking through the front door. Elle doesn’t reply aloud, but walks straight across the room and gives the pale girl a big hug. Ariel endures the embrace for an appropriately polite time, then deftly wriggles free. “Please tell me that you didn’t abduct her from the family home,” she adds, nodding towards Elle, “We really don’t need that kind of drama right now.”

“No no, it was all perfectly above board,” you assure her, “Actually, Elle was the one to come to us. Quite the surprise, actually.”

“Huh,” Ariel studies the oracle carefully, “At the risk of prodding a sensitive matter, what did your folks think?”

Elle hesitates for a moment. “Well, I think I’ve burned that particular bridge,” she says, forcing an unconvincing smile onto her face, “But it was always going to end badly. I just… didn’t want to admit it to myself.”

Another long pause.

“Excuse me,” she murmurs, glancing towards the stairs, “Do I still have a room here?”

“Of course,” you assure her, “It’s just as you left it.”

[1/2]

>>6180046

Later, as you’re flicking through your file, you can’t help but notice the number of telegrams included. You don’t think much of them until you look through your own section of the file and spot a very familiar message – a copy of one that you’ve sent yourself. Every message you’ve ever sent is collected here, reproduced in perfect detail. You’ve always been a little suspicious of those machines, and you can’t help but feel a little smug at having been proven right.

Aside from the collection of letters and messages, the only other item of any interest is a rather unflattering profile of your personality and behaviour, apparently collated by some of your teachers at Coral House. Torn between the masochistic urge to read it in detail and the desire to crumple it up and throw it across the room, you instead move swiftly on.

If your section of the file had been sparser than your father’s, Gratia’s section is almost empty. No letters or messages at all, just a brief profile from her teachers. The profile describes her as highly intelligent, but with no particular interest in her lessons. Few friends, and no relationships. No records of any community work, membership of any clubs, anything of that sort. It’s as if she’s lived these past ten years and barely left a single mark on the world.

Putting down the file, you gaze off into space for a long moment as you think to yourself. You’d been hoping to find a description of your sister, of the woman she’s grown to become, but all you’ve found is an absence. What little is written about her defines her almost entirely in terms of omission – all the things she isn’t.

-

Losing track of time, you couldn’t say how long you sit with the papers spread out before you. It’s only when there’s a knock at your bedroom door that you snap back to reality. Opening it, you see Ariel standing with a telegram in her hand. You’re not exactly thrilled to see one of those right now, and some of your unease must show on your face.

“Hey, relax. It’s good news for once,” Ariel assures you, “It’s from Master Sakhalin. He’s had a chance to speak with King Albrecht, and it sounds like things are getting back to normal.”

“I’m not sure what “normal” means, these days,” you sigh.

“It means you’re getting your Demesne privileges back,” she explains patiently, “He also says that if you want to stop by to discuss the files, or just for a visit, King Albrecht can make time for you. I mean, that’s the least he can do after everything you’ve done for him.”

A pause.

“Uh, Sakhalin didn’t say that last part,” Ariel adds, “That was all me.”

“I thought as much.”

>You’ve delayed this long enough. Travel to the Demesne and continue your descent
>Make arrangements to meet with King Albrecht. You should talk over everything that’s happened
>Other

>>6180047
>Make arrangements to meet with King Albrecht. You should talk over everything that’s happened
Gratia needs more time to reach God

>>6180058
+1

>>6180047
>You’ve delayed this long enough. Travel to the Demesne and continue your descent

File: King Albrecht.jpg (281 KB, 1024x1024)

281 KB JPG

“Has Elle told you about the files?” you ask, seeing Ariel nod, “I’m curious. What would you do with them?”

“I’d probably keep them,” Ariel replies with a shrug, “Not to blackmail anyone or anything like that. I just think they’d be interesting to read. Some of them, at least. But then, I guess I’m in a pretty fortunate position – I’m far too unimportant for anyone to go raking up any of my dark secrets. Not, uh, not that I have any dark secrets!”

“Just the usual sort of secrets?”

“Yes, I mean no!” she pouts, “You’re an ass.”

No secret there.

-

“Oh, Daniel asked me to pass on a message to you,” Ariel says as you’re walking downstairs, “He said that he was going to travel down south and visit the Iron Keep. He said he was missing the place, but I’m pretty sure he was kidding. I’ve got to admit, I’m also a little curious about how things are getting on down there. Just, you know, not curious enough to go there without a good reason.”

“Maybe Daniel will send us a letter, let us know how things are going,” you suggest.

“I wonder if they’ll get a telegram wire running up there...” she muses, “It wouldn’t feel nearly so remote, that way.”

“Speaking of the telegram, could you send a message for me? Tell Sakhalin that we’ll be taking him up on his offer. I think we should meet with King Albrecht,” you tell her, “We’ve got a lot to discuss.”

“I’m on it,” Ariel assures you, hurrying off ahead.

-

As if he had been anticipating your response, and keeping his schedule open just for you, you get a message back immediately from King Albrecht, by way of Sakhalin. You can come straight away, the message says, as if to suggest “the sooner the better”. Even so, you detect a faint note of resignation in the message – this might be a necessary conversation, but not one that anyone is going to enjoy.

And so, you travel out to the capital under an uneasy mood. The sky above seems to mirror your sombre mood, with a thin rain falling from heavy, leaden clouds. From the station, you walk through eerily deserted streets on your way to the palace, most of the usual crowds driven indoors by the looming weather. It’s only when you arrive at the palace itself that you see a significant number of people, and those are just the guards on duty.

The guards usher you in quickly, and with as much discretion as possible, before delivering you into Sakhalin’s care. With a nod and a murmur of greeting, he leads you through the palace until you arrive at a secluded office. Inside, King Albrecht awaits.

“Please, sit,” Albrecht asks, gesturing to the vacant seats, “I’m afraid that I’ve treated you very poorly, Master Pale. I was in an impossible situation, but that’s no excuse. Regardless, it is my hope that we can start to repair our relations today, if only by a little bit.”

[1]

>>6180087

Since the last time you saw King Albrecht, he seems to have aged by a decade or more. The lines etched in his face are deeper, and his skin has an ashen pallor. He has a face of a man who hasn’t slept well in a very long time. “Sakhalin, you should sit too,” he adds, gesturing to one of the empty seats, “I’d like you to hear what I have to say as well.”

“Very well,” Sakhalin murmurs, a note of reluctance in his voice.

Albrecht lapses into silence, drumming his fingers on his desk as he thinks. This must be a conversation that he has rehearsed in his head countless times, only for his words to fail him when it’s time for the real thing. “You will have realised by now that Choirmaster Moreau sought to unduly influence my actions,” he says at last, “Yes?”

“Yes,” you answer, awkwardly clearing your throat, “She was claiming that you, ah, murdered your predecessor.”

“She was correct,” Albrecht replies simply, his words causing a ripple of dismay. “I want you to know. What I did, I did out of necessity. It was not an act of naked ambition, or a lust for power,” he continues, “You know of the Cacophony affair, yes?”

“A little before my time, but I’m aware of it. False rumours regarding malicious prophecies spread by evil oracles,” you pause, “But it was all hysteria. At least, that’s what the history books say.”

“For once, the history books are correct,” the King remarks, a humourless smile touching his face, “But King Justinian believed otherwise. Even when the investigation concluded, he still believed there was a conspiracy against him. I was a young man, then, studying under him. I saw what nobody else saw, how paranoid he had grown and how dangerous he was becoming. But he was not the only danger.”

“If I recall, there was a Lliogor migration not long after the Cacophony affair,” Elle murmurs.

“Correct. The signs were there, even if the Cacophony affair had blinded us. Lliogor ships were sighted beyond the Galsean islands, and the oracles foresaw grave danger. Preparations needed to be made, but King Justinian had grown to fear the military,” Albrecht sighs, “To face the Lliogor migration, we needed more soldiers, more weapons. But King Justinian saw a coup in the making. He blocked any attempts to expand the army, and even threatened a purge of the officer class. So long as King Justinian reigned, our nation would be defenceless against the Lliogor.”

“I did what I had to do,” he finishes simply, “A subtle poison was sufficient. I’m sure the physician knew what I had done, but he said nothing. Then the Lliogor migration descended upon us, and I considered the matter concluded – until Choirmaster Moreau confronted me.”

You can figure out the rest from here.

>I would’ve done the same, had I been in your position
>You did what you had to do, but it’s your sin to bear
>A crime is still a crime, no matter the circumstances
>Other

>>6180102
>"...Did he know it was you, in his last moments?"
>You did what you had to do, but it’s your sin to bear
Shit sucks

>>6180102
>Don't say anything

>>6180102
>You did what you had to do, but it’s your sin to bear
>We probably would have done the same though
The real crime was backing down to Moreau over it years later

For a long while, nobody speaks. Elle has her eyes closed and her head bowed as if deep in thought, while Sakhalin stares directly ahead, his gaze fixed on a point just beyond King Albrecht’s shoulder. Ariel is the only one to move a muscle, fidgeting ever so slightly in her seat. Judging by the pained look on her face, she’d rather be anywhere else right now.

“Did he know that it was you?” you ask quietly, finally breaking the silence, “In the end, I mean. In his last moments.”

“...I think he did,” Albrecht decides, after thinking for a moment, “I was there, in his final moments. As his appointed heir, I stood at his bedside as the life left his body. It was… slower than I had been expecting. There was a moment, towards the end, when our gaze met. He saw something in me, then. He realised what I had done.”

And that gaze, that fleeting moment, has haunted him ever since. He doesn’t need to say that aloud for you to realise.

“You did what you had to do,” you breathe at last, shaking your head, “It’s your sin to bear, but under the circumstances…”

“I sometimes wonder. If I had confessed my crimes, there and then, and explained my motives, would I have been condemned?” he thinks aloud to himself, leaning back in his chair, “Maybe. Or maybe not. But secrets fester with time. Had the truth come to light now, after so many years, it would have destroyed me. And so, knowing the harm it might bring to you, to your family, I offered you up as a sacrifice.”

You look away, offering King Albrecht an awkward shrug. You’re not exactly forgiving him, but there’s no need for you to be enemies. “What’s done is done,” you say vaguely, “For once, I’m not going to try and rake up the past. I need to start moving forwards.”

“The Demesne?” Albrecht asks.

“Exactly,” you pause, hesitate, “Moreau... had my father killed. Do you know who could’ve done it?”

Slowly, Albrecht shakes his head. “That woman kept her operation well concealed. I understand that most of her agents are dead now, or have dispersed,” he grimaces, “In all likelihood, your father’s assassin is already dead – or, if not, has vanished into the crowd.”

“No,” Elle whispers, “He’s not dead. I know he’s not dead.”

Another silence, all eyes turning her way.

“The silver bird,” she continues, her chest shuddering as if fight back a sob, “The silver bird killed your father, and now it hunts your sister. Yet… why do I feel sorry for it?”

“Excuse us,” Sakhalin murmurs, offering Elle his hand and delicately guiding her out of the room. Ariel watches her leave, glancing back at you in confusion. You give her a slight nod, and she quickly scurries away after the oracle just as Sakhalin is returning. With another apology, the dark-skinned man sinks back down into his seat and goes back to scowling off into space.

[1/2]

>>6180127

“The Demesne, then,” King Albrecht says, in the vague tone of a man who has lost his train of thought, “I’ve sent a messenger with instructions that you’re to be allowed full access again, although I’ll write you a letter as well. Just to make sure there’s no miscommunication.”

“Thank you,” you reply, “Will I need to get the church’s permission too?”

“That won’t be required. I won’t bore you with the full extent of the law, but I hold a veto over access to the Demesne. It’s rare that a King has the need to use it, but it IS the law,” he explains, “I’m merely lifting that veto. As far as I’m aware, your permissions with the church remain in place.”

Hopefully you won’t find a nasty surprise waiting for you when you arrive at the Demesne.

“Well, I think… oh, the files,” you recall, snapping your fingers, “What do you intend on doing with them?”

Here, you see a vague look of dismay flash across King Albrecht’s face. “I shall have to review them carefully. A task such as this would normally be delegated to a number of workers, but given the sensitivity of the material…” he grimaces, “I shall have to be careful with who I get to assist me. I can only hope that the reward is worth the arduous task ahead. Should I find anything in the files that may be of use to you, Master Pale, I will inform you. I believe we owe you that much, if not more.”

You’re not going to argue with that.

>Okay, I’m going to pause here for today. I’ve got less time available this week, I’ll be resuming this on Saturday, same usual starting time
>Thank you for reading along today!

>>6180140
Thanks for running!

>>6180140
Thanks for running!

Hope Moreau didn’t just make shit up in those files for funsies

>>6180140
Thanks QM! I do think we ought to try using the demesne access on our own estate though, it's kinda pointless to pretend it doesn't exist.

Bah I've been too busy.

So we have a bunch of scared, very well equipped mercenaries having an open world single player experience across the kingdom, and at least one has been possessed by the silver bird.

And the choirmaster facilitated all of this.

>>6180140
Thanks for running!

Here's hoping that Dan's trip to the Iron Keep goes well for him and won't be another diversion. Bard can't keep getting cockblocked forever.

File: Denizens.jpg (321 KB, 1024x1024)

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“I’ve been thinking,” Elle says cautiously, carefully, as you stand at the gates of the old capital, “I think… I should stay behind this time too.”

You glance around, reading the conflicted emotions swirling through her eyes. There’s a part of her that desperately wants to see the Demesne with her own eyes, and to see it while standing by your side. Yet, there’s an innate instinct for discretion. After everything you’ve been through, Gratia is finally within your reach. This is a moment for family, not for the callous eyes of outsiders.

Saying nothing, you merely nod and carry on into the ancient palace. It feels harsh and unfamiliar after what seems like a very long time away. Guards and a few rare servants scurry around the entrance hall, very deliberately avoiding meeting your gaze. You keep King Albrecht’s letter clenched tight in your fist, but nobody stops or challenges you. You almost wish they would, just to give you an excuse to flaunt your credentials.

As with the guards in the entrance hall, the soldiers watching over the Demesne are polite, awkwardly so, around you. Nobody mentions the ugly little matter of your temporary banishment, but the memory hangs over you all like a funeral shroud. Captain Milgrim glances meaningfully at a weapon rack, a few swords already stored there, but you shake your head.

Taboo be damned, you’re not going in there without a way to defend yourself. If that means spilling blood in the Demesne, then so be it.

“Isambard,” Elle whispers, touching your sleeve, “When you meet her… make sure it’s really her.”

-

You’d like to say that returning to the Demesne is like meeting an old friend after a long absence, but it’s really not. You’ve grown to resent the Demesne for all the things that it’s taken from you, as if these cold stone halls were responsible for all your woes. They are, in a way, but there’s no sense in hating unfeeling rock – no point in hating something that cannot bleed and will never die.

A shudder runs through you as you pass a group of Denizens, their blank eyes gazing aimlessly into empty space. Here again, a poor target for your loathing – you might as well hate a tailor’s dummy. Ignoring them, you press on and descend down into the third layer of the Demesne. Despite all your attempts at bracing yourself for it, the sheer vastness of the white space that spreads out before you still manages to take your breath away. The great hall stretches out so far that the distant wall fades into a thin mist, but you can still see a faint movement ahead. There’s only so much you can tell from this far away, but it looks like a crowd of people.

Though, in this uncanny place, you know that those are no human beings.

[1/2]

>>6182914

Resigning yourself to a long trek, you rest one hand on the hilt of your sword and slowly trudge through the vast hall. It helps to keep your gaze low, keeping your eyes on your feet rather than letting them wander about the inhuman architecture here. Even so, you feel compelled to glance up every now and then as you steadily grow closer to the crowd. It’s larger than you first realised, a surging mass of disorderly bodies slowly plodding towards the far exit.

This isn’t the first time that you’ve seen Denizens move, but it certainly feels like the first time that you’ve seen them move with purpose. This time, they’re not just wandering aimlessly or mindlessly repeating some simple task. This time, they’re definitely ambling towards the stairs down to the next level.

Which puts them directly in your way. If you want to get to those stairs, you’re going to have to make your way through the crowd. The mass of bodies is packed tight, but not so tight that you shouldn’t be able to push your way through – though, the thought of rubbing shoulders with so many of the eerie beings is far from a pleasant one.

Hanging back, you take a wider look at the crowd. It’s less dense around the outer edges, with many of the Denizens having drifted away from the crowd to linger, motionless, in a vague spread. You would have an easier time making your way through out there, although you don’t like the look of those motionless stragglers – even at this distance, their malformed silhouettes sends a thrill of loathing through you. Not all of the Denizens are so well-formed as those on the higher levels, as you’re coming to realise.

>You’ve wasted enough time. You’ll cut your way through the crowd if need be
>It’ll be slow work, but you’ll push through the crowd of Denizens
>Take a detour around the outside of the crowd. You’ll have some breathing room that way
>Other

>>6182915
>>It’ll be slow work, but you’ll push through the crowd of Denizens
Or find a big one and ride on it

>>6182921
+1

The more you look at those malformed creatures lurking at the outermost peripheries of the crowd, the less you like them. Each step closer reveals more and more details – the tumorous lumps distorting their bodies, the oversized limbs sprawling out with more joints than any limb rightfully ought to have, the twisted faces like balls of unformed clay…

Whatever strange process created the Denizens went terribly wrong when it birthed those things into the labyrinth, and you dearly hope that they never stray from their white stone prison.

Turning your gaze away from the stragglers, the outsiders, you tentatively approach the mass of bodies and plan out your approach. The outermost layer of the crowd isn’t quite as dense as the centre, and so you’re able to slip past the first few Denizens without too much trouble. It’s only when you push further in that you start to brush against them. More than once, a groping arm claws at your sleeve or grasps for your hair as you squeeze past some of the Denizens. All you can do is wriggle free as best as you can, pushing grimly forwards.

You’d judge that you’re about halfway through the crowd when you realise that something has changed. Before, the Denizens would fumble at you as you passed them by but otherwise ignore you. Now, you can see their heads turning in your direction as you move. Like a wave slowly rolling in from the sea, some of the Denizens start to move towards you.

Once, at Coral House, you saw a revered oracle visit some of the church faithful. The wretches had pressed in around her, each one of the desperate peasants fighting for a chance to touch her. If not for her bodyguards forcing them back, the holy woman might have been crushed beneath the crowd. Now, you fear that something similar might happen.

And you don’t have any bodyguards.

Abandoning any attempt at caution, you shove the clumsy Denizens aside and plunge forwards into the mass of bodies. Your violent push sends a ripple through the crowd, allowing you one brief moment of freedom as the bodies sway backwards. You don’t waste it, charging forwards through the opening before it can close up again. Ahead of you, you can see the stairway leading deeper into the Demesne.

You almost make it. Almost.

About a dozen paces away from the stairs, the crowd presses in on you once more. Thrashing, flailing, gouging with your elbows and throwing wild punches, you drive back the Denizens but, in the process, unbalance yourself. You fall hard, landing badly on the stone floor, but the thought of being crushed beneath the mass of bodies chases away any thought of pain. Scrabbling forwards, kicking away the hands that grope at your legs and ankles, you stumble upright just in time to nearly fall down the stairs ahead.

The Denizens do not follow, but let out a terrible chorus of groans as you flee.

[1]

>>6182960

When you reach the bottom of the stairs, you sit down and let out a long, shuddering breath. After all the terrible things you’ve seen, you can’t understand why the Denizens’ strange behaviour should disturb you so much, yet your harrowing journey has left you shaken nonetheless. It takes you a moment to gather up the strength to rise to your feet and keep moving.

A long time ago, in what seems like a different life, Cato told you how to find your father’s remains. You’re glad of that now, seeing the winding passageways that stretch out before you. A true labyrinth, that was how Cato described it. To find your father’s remains, you just need to stick to the left side as much as possible. You’re fairly sure that’s what he said.

Or was it the right side?

“Definitely left,” you tell yourself, taking comfort from how steady your own voice sounds.

-

Cato’s directions sound simple enough, but the reality isn’t quite so easy. The corridors rarely stay straight for long, taking abrupt turns or even doubling back on themselves. With patience and persistence, you walk slowly and keep an ear open for any hint of movement deeper within, anything to hint that you might be getting closer to your father’s resting place.

Then, with no warning whatsoever, you turn one corner and nearly walk straight past it. A simple doorway set into a nondescript wall, it’s only the faint flash of darkness in the corner of your eye that causes you to pause and look around. It was the heel of a boot, of all things, that caught your eye. A white sheet covers the rest of the body, as if someone had tried to hide it from sight.

With your heart pounding in your chest, you kneel down beside the covered body and draw back the sheet. Though it has been many years since you last saw your father, you recognise the blunt, craggy face immediately. The only thing that’s unfamiliar about his is how… peaceful he looks. Relieved, almost, as if he died knowing that his ordeal was over.

You’re not sure how long you spend, sitting there by the body. It could have been a minute, it could have been an hour. Perhaps you would have stayed like that forever, if not for the cold touch of steel against your throat. You tense up at the feel of the blade, the sharp edge gently caressing your skin. There had been no hint that you weren’t alone here – no footsteps, no sounds of movement, nothing.

Slender fingers brush against your cheek as your unseen attacker explores your face, and you sense a thrill of excitement run through them.

“I know your face,” the unseen woman whispers, “How long I’ve waited!”

You know that voice.

>It’s Gratia. It has to be her
>Remember Elle’s warning. You need to make sure
>Other

>>6182966
>Remember Elle’s warning. You need to make sure

>>6182966
>Remember Elle’s warning. You need to make sure
Why else even befriend or woo an oracle?

File: Gratia Pale.jpg (227 KB, 1024x1024)

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Every fibre of your being cries out for you to turn and face her, to embrace her as the culmination of your long-awaited reunion. The blade at your throat is forgotten, a meaningless distraction. Yet, Elle’s warning cuts through your giddy feelings like a blast of cold water, shocking sense back into your mind. The Demesne can be cruel, it can lead the gullible astray and drive weak men into madness. This could be one final temptation, a snare to catch the incautious and destroy them.

“How do I know that it’s really you?” you say, forcing the words out through a dry throat, “Tell me something… tell me something only SHE would know.”

A long pause, or what seems like a very long one. Somehow, you can tell that she’s smiling. If this was a test, you’ve passed.

“Do you remember the last time we saw one another?” Gratia asks, her voice low and measured. Just hearing her voice takes you back to being a child, when you’d listen to her telling stories as rain lashed against the windows. Her voice is unhurried, each word carefully formed and intoned. Your heart soars at the sound of her voice, yet there’s a part of you that dreads what she’s about to say.

“That night I came to your bedroom, not as a girl but as a woman. I had blood on my hands, and I was so scared,” she continues, savouring the words as she whispers them, “But you took my hands in yours, and you kissed them. You told me that I had nothing to be afraid of. I had dreamt that we would be separated, but you told me-”

“Even if it took my entire life, I’d find you again,” you finish for her, “Because you’re the other half of my soul, and I’m the other half of yours.”

“We will always be one,” Gratia murmurs, and the blade is withdrawn from your throat.

Slowly, numbly, you rise to your feet and turn around. You almost expect to see a child standing before you, as if Gratia hadn’t aged a day since your last meeting. But, of course, she has aged just as you have. A young woman of slender, delicate build, she practically glows like the full moon. Yet, there is one thing about her that has changed.

“You cut your hair,” you say, fully aware of how foolish you must sound as you gesture to her head. As a girl, her hair was always worn long – sometimes all the way down to the small of her back. Now, it’s been cut short and neat.

“Oh yes. This is far more practical, don’t you think?” she replies, flashing you a coy smile, “Long hair is fine, when you’re spending your entire life in libraries and drawing rooms, but we both lead more adventurous lives now, don’t we? Not by choice, of course!”

She laughs softly, then takes your hand and starts to lead you away. “We’ve got so much to talk about, dear brother,” she murmurs, “But not here. Somewhere more private.”

You glance back to your father’s remains. Somehow, you doubt he’d be eavesdropping.

[1]

>>6183004
Wait till you see all the "acquaintances" Isambard has gathered. Wait till you see how badly all this adventure and Teilhard spirit has corrupted this poor lad

>>6183004

Gratia leads you through the Demesne with the easily familiarity of one who has spent countless hours walking these corridors. Even if she was to close her eyes, you don’t doubt that she’d be able to navigate without fail or flaw. She leads you into another small chamber, although this one isn’t quite so blank as all the rest. There are a few blankets nearly folded in one corner, and a small satchel placed by the doorway.

“You’ve been… living here?” you guess, gesturing around at the room.

“Mm, well, I’m afraid it’s not much,” she replies with a delicate shrug, “It’s far from the comforts of home, but it’s good enough for me. Sit, please. I’d love to hear what you’ve been getting up to. You must’ve been working very hard to get this far into the Demesne.”

“I’ve been busy,” you tell her, some unspoken weight in your voice causing her to smile again. When you think of everything you’ve been through, you feel a sudden sense of helplessness – where do you even begin?

Gratia’s gaze never leaves your face as you think, but she shows no hint of impatience. She doesn’t hurry you, or try to fill the silence with needless babble. She simply waits, her face set in a gentle smile.

“You were always better at telling stories than I was,” you remind her, “You go first. What have you been getting up to?”

“I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, but there isn’t much to do around here,” she points out gently, spreading her hands as if to show the white stone around you both.

“Before coming here, then?”

“Oh, it was all very tedious. You went to Coral House, I’m sure you understand,” Gratia feigns a yawn, “But, if you insist, we can swap stories. You go first, and then I’ll go. I just hope that I don’t bore you too much.”

Telling your whole story might be a bit much, but perhaps you could narrow things down a little.

>Tell her about some of your new companions
>Tell her about one of your adventures
>Warn her about the silver bird
>You’ve got an idea… (Write in)
>Other

>>6183030
>Warn her about the silver bird
There will be time for the rest. Relay the critical warning first before it is too late.

>>6183030
Why is our beloved sister, who hasn't seen us in forever, speaking to us like she's a Tomoe or something?
>Warn her about the silver bird

>>6183004
Oh no, she's hot

>>6183030
>Tell her about one of your adventures
>Warn her about the silver bird
>Compliment her for her resilience in toughing this out on her own, and ask her if she's okay

“We’ll have time to discuss everything later, when we’re both safe. As long as you’re here, you’re in danger,” you tell Gratia, although her expression doesn’t waver, “I have to warn you about something. I’ve heard it called the silver bird. I think-”

“He’s the one who killed our father. I know,” Gratia interrupts gently, leaning forwards and placing a hand on your shoulder, “He’s a man, dear brother. Just a man – and he’s no danger to me.”

You hesitate, both confused and vaguely irritated to have your warning dismissed so easily.

“He’s been looking for me for some time, but he won’t find me. I can hear him coming long before he gets anywhere close, and I know this labyrinth far better than he does. He’s a clumsy fool, nothing more than that,” she continues, “I’ve thought about tracking him down myself, but so far I’ve always stayed my hand. I’m… curious about him. I would very much like to understand why he’s doing this.”

“Choirmaster Moreau – she is, was, this silver bird’s master – believed that something terrible might happen if our father reached the lowest level of the Demesne. She did everything she could to hinder his progress, and when that didn’t work…” you let your words trail off here, nodding back in the direction of your father’s resting place. She can figure out the rest, you’re sure.

Gratia thinks on this in silence for a moment. “Father did say that he had powerful enemies. I just assumed, to be perfectly blunt, that he was delusional, paranoid,” she pauses, “He was definitely paranoid. It just so happens that he was also right – about this one thing, at the very least. Tell me something, dear brother. If I was to lead you to this silver bird, to our father’s murdered, would you kill him?”

The question takes you off-guard. “I… don’t know,” you admit, blurting out the first answer that comes to mind.

“Ah, I’m sorry. That was an awful question to ask,” Gratia waves the subject away with a delicate swish of her hand, “It was an idle curiosity, but I retract my question nonetheless. I shouldn’t ask you such awful things. I hope you can forgive me.”

“Forget it, there’s nothing to forgive.”

“Though, I did notice one thing,” Gratia’s eyes brighten, “You said that this Moreau WAS the silver bird’s master. Past tense. Is she…?”

“No longer alive,” you confirm, taking a deep breath, “She was trying to stop me from exploring the Demesne, just as she stood in father’s way. With the help of some, ah, allies, I managed to track her down. I chased her all the way to the edge of Silvera territory, and that’s where it all ended. It’s complicated. It’s a bit of a long story.”

“We’ve got time,” she says, sliding closer and resting her head against your shoulder, “Down here, we’ve got all the time in the world. Tell me, dear brother. We have so much to catch up on.”

[1]

>>6183091

As you talk, you realise that you picked a difficult story to tell. To explain how you ended up confronting Moreau, you have to explain how she was blackmailing King Albrecht. This leads you to a diversion on how you know the King, and his original mission – the mission that sent you into the Demesne in the first place. You’re not sure how much sense your story makes, but Gratia listens faithfully nonetheless.

“I must confess, I feel a little inadequate,” Gratia remarks with a soft laugh, “You’ve seen and done so much, while all I’ve done is haunt these halls like a restless spirit!”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” you urge, “You’ve lasted so long on your own, all while avoiding an assassin. You’re resilient and determined, perhaps more than I could be. I might have faced dangers, but I wasn’t doing it alone. You-”

“I was never alone,” she insists, gently placing the palm of her hand over your heart.

You place your hand over hers, feeling her cool skin against yours. “What about you?” you ask eventually, “Before you came to the Demesne, what then?”

“Father came to collect me from Coral House,” Gratia’s smile hardens slightly, “He wasn’t going to take no for an answer.”

“And before that?” you prompt, but your question is met with the slightest of shrugs. She’s teasing you, of course, the playful smile on her face based on an easy familiarity that no amount of time could weaken. “Oh come on,” you press, playing along with her game, “Do you really mean to say that nothing happened, between leaving the estate and being taken from Coral House? No didn’t meet anyone, you didn’t do anything, you have nothing at all to say?”

You jest, but you’re suddenly reminded of her file – a yawning absence, a profile defined by omission.

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” she concedes at last, “I won’t claim to have led a life as interesting as yours, but it wasn’t completely empty. But… it’s a bit of a long story.”

A smirk crosses your face at that, hearing your own words thrown back at you. It’s no accident, of course. “We’ve got time,” you reply, following your half of the script to the letter.

Sitting back, drawing slightly away from you, Gratia takes a moment to compose her thoughts. Then, without flourish or ceremony, she starts to tell her tale.

>That seems like a good place to pause for today. I’ll be continuing this for a few hours tomorrow, same usual starting time
>Thank you for playing along today!

>>6183125
Thanks for running!

Finally wincest is back on the menu

>>6183125
Thanks for running it, Moloch!

>>6183127
>conceiving a child of incest with Gratia in the Demesne with Father's corpse right there in the room
What a way to score BIG Calamity gains and become honorary Tomoe

There's plenty I still find sus, but I still need to go back and check the archive. Did Silvera give the same information? Where's the message we asked the old man to leave? Has she seen Cato?

File: Sarah Teilhard.jpg (326 KB, 1024x1024)

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Ten years. It’s been ten long years since you were driven from your home with your soul split in two, banished to this dreary academy to learn all the mundanities of modern life. The history of a world that you have no connection to, rituals of etiquette that mean nothing to you, and other trifles aside – these things are of no use to you, and certainly no interest.

Everything that you need to know, you learned within the cold stone embrace of your family estate. There you spent countless hours with your brother, telling tales in a language shared only between yourselves. By flickering candlelight, you charted the histories of worlds that no man has ever seen. By the light of the moon, you recited strange prayers to unseen gods. You knew that there was a world outside, but it concerned you little.

Until you were cast out into it.

-

An unseen clock ticks away the seconds behind you, while an even fainter sound lingers deep beneath the metallic clicking. There’s someone outside your bedroom door, slowly and falteringly working up the courage to knock. You ignore them, focusing on the mirror instead as you practice your expressions. You’re particularly proud of your eyes, the hard work and dedication you devoted to them – now, with the slightest effort, they can glitter with a playful amusement or shimmer with a sheen of tears.

You hear a low murmur of voices outside, and finally the awaited knock comes. Sighing, you rise from your dressing table and open the door, reminding yourself to look surprised when you see who it is.

“Sarah, Alicia,” you announce coolly, looking between the two girls, “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Well, Miss Martense, I came to remind you about the party tonight,” Sarah chirps. That’s her favourite joke, “Miss Martense”, owing to your propensity for solitude. Her favourite joke, but not necessarily a good joke.

“You will be coming, won’t you?” Alicia, who is in love with you, adds hopefully, “You said you would!”

While you would never call the two girls friends, you admit that they serve their purpose well enough. Upon arriving at Coral House, you quickly learned that people noticed when any of the girls – they noticed, and started asking annoying questions. Recruiting a few of the more desperate girls to serve as your retinue guarded against this unwanted attention, at the price of the occasional social event.

“And don’t pretend that you’ve got other plans!” Sarah teases, smirking at you.

“Seraphina,” you warn, knowing that she hates her real name, “I would do no such thing. I remember my commitment, and I shall not break my word. Though, I can already see how this is going to go. You’re going to drink far too much and throw yourself at some wildly inappropriate man, while you, Alicia, will spend the whole night pining after whoever it is that you’re secretly in love with.”

[1/2]

>>6183698

“Hey now, that’s not fair!” Sarah protests, trying to pretend as if your predictions haven’t already come true countless times before. Alicia just stares, aghast, as her cheeks flush a dark red. “Anyway, there won’t be any men there,” she continues hastily, “So you’re doubly wrong. So there!”

Murmuring a vague acknowledgement, you allow the two girls to lead you through to the common room. There, you notice a sack resting on the shared table. A few objects, wooden masks, have been placed beside it. You pick up one of the masks and study it before shooting Sarah a curious look.

“It’s a masked party. We’re all supposed to be wearing masks,” she explains, “I don’t know why, but Rhea insisted and it’s HER party. She bought these for us all, so I guess I can’t complain too much.”

“Trying to buy our friendship?” you suggest, raising a delicate eyebrow.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Alicia whines, “She’s been awfully lonely since her sister left. It was so abrupt too…”

You remember Rhea’s sister, although the name escapes your mind. She never liked you, from the moment you first arrived at Coral House. You never bothered to learn why, but she quickly started talking behind your back and spreading nasty rumours about you. It stopped soon after you started letting yourself into her bedroom and subtly moving things about, the fearful paranoia distracting her from malicious gossip.

But that wasn’t enough for you to defeat an enemy, you needed to destroy them. You escalated your attack, even as hers faltered. The final blow came when you left a dead rat on her pillow, and she fled the academy with a peal of girlish screams.

“What are you smirking about?” Sarah asks, nudging you with her elbow.

“Nothing of any consequence,” you answer, gesturing to the bag, “So I need to pick a mask, is that all?”

“Yeah. Nothing boring though,” she holds up a warning finger, “You were thinking of getting some plain white mask or whatever. I know what you’re like.”

She really doesn’t, but you’re not about to correct her ignorance. You turn to the masks instead, listlessly sifting through them. You see a few masks shaped like famous saints, bland and beautiful, but mostly they resemble animals. There’s a mask in the shape of a fox’s muzzle, etched from a bleached wood that matches your own complexion, and then you spot the strange sight of a night owl – once a symbol of your own noble family, but now thought of as an ill omen.

>Take the night owl mask. You’ll wear your heritage with pride
>Take the saint mask. You’re no saint, but nobody else needs to know
>This is absurd. You have no need for masks
>Other

>>6183699
>Take the saint mask. You’re no saint, but nobody else needs to know

>>6183699
>Take the night owl mask. You’ll wear your heritage with pride
Pale pride
We have more dead rats if anyone gives us trouble

>>6183699
Oh god, she's just like Bard.

>Take the saint mask. You’re no saint, but nobody else needs to know

File: SaintsMask.png (498 KB, 1000x500)

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There’s something pleasingly blasphemous about the idea of the saint mask. You’re no saint, of course, but nobody else needs to know that. Taking the mask from the pile, you turn it over in your hands for a moment. The more you look at it, the more curious it seems – what you first took to be a gentle, benevolent smile has a more cynical edge to it, more akin to a mocking sneer.

“This will do me perfectly,” you decide, holding the mask up, “It suits me, wouldn’t you say?”

“Uh, sure. Whatever you say,” Sarah says with a dubious shrug, “Alicia, you need one too. Hurry up and pick something, so I can share the rest of these out with the others. Hurry!”

With a soft yelp, Alicia rummages through the bag before emerging with a delicate mask shaped like a rabbit’s face. She studies it for a moment before holding it up to her face and turning to you.

“It suits you,” you tell her, picturing some quivering prey animal. Alicia grins, taking your compliment at face value, and hurries out with Sarah. As soon as the door clicks shut behind them, you sit back down with a sigh. Sometimes you wonder why the two girls are still willing to accompany you. Perhaps they sense some vague kinship with you, all of you outcasts in your own way.

Sarah Teilhard, from a distant branch of the family, is the worst of all things – a mediocrity. With no particular talents to lift her above the rest of her expansive family, she faces a vague, directionless future. Even worse, she’s already been overshadowed by her younger brother, Erwin, already regarded as something of a prodigy. Little wonder that she seethes with a self-destructive frustration, well hidden beneath her carefree smile.

Though she doesn’t hail from one of the great houses, Alicia Rosenbaum has very much the same trouble. While her family has raised generations of talented oracles, Alicia herself has never shown even the slightest hint of prophecy. No doubt her family sees her as an embarrassment, something to be married off to a suitable husband and forgotten about as soon as possible.

You’ve already spent countless hours pretending that their petty troubles mean anything compared with the noble struggles of your fading family. One more evening won’t matter.

-

You’re no stranger to these dreary outings, mindless voyages into the town below the twin schools that make up Coral House. Usually you spend a few hours with a glass of wine, coldly rebuffing anyone who approaches you as you watch the crowd. You’ve always had the secret hope that you’ll find HIM here, his descent from the gentlemen’s school mirroring your own. You know in your heart, though, that it won’t happen. You’re fated to meet again, but not like this. Not here, surrounded by the noise and filth of humanity. You’ll meet in a place like your home, a purer world beyond all this.

[1]

>>6183733
I'm guessing all of these had calamity.

....Erwin? I sure hope this whole flashback isn't a complete fabrication to entertain bard.

>>6183733

A bonfire is already burning when you arrive, and some of the other girls pass a jug of wine around. You’ll admit that Rhea has outdone herself with this little gathering, even arranging to have a few primitive drums and other musical instruments set aside for anyone who wants to try. The commitment deserves credit, but you’re also left wondering WHY she’s decided to delve into this playful imitation of pagan worship. Is that the fashion nowadays?

“It’s probably just a rebellion thing,” Alicia whispers to you, noticing your expression, “I think her father is a priest or something.”

“How very wonderful for him,” you mutter, lowering your mask so she doesn’t see your lips curling with contempt. Scanning the sparse crowd, you finally notice Rhea – slightly chubby, wearing a mask that is far prettier than her real face. Someone passes you a goblet of wine as you turn away, and you quickly gulp it down before lowering your mask back into place. You don’t normally drink much, but you feel as if you might need it tonight.

-

With rather more enthusiasm than talent, some of the girls start banging away at the drums to form something approximating a tune. It’s not much, but it’s enough to get a few people up on their feet and dancing – although “dancing” seems like a charitable term for this. Leaping and swaying, their bare feet kicking up loose dirt and dried leaves, the girls cavort around the bonfire as if they had drunk a dozen goblets of wine instead of one or two. It’s amusing enough to watch, you suppose.

“Um,” Alicia says, nervously raising her voice above the drumbeat, “Would you like to dance?”

You’re still thinking of a way to gently rebuke the dark-haired girl when you hear yourself agreeing. Her eyes widen with disbelief, then delight, as you rise to your feet and take her hand. Entwining her body with your own, you spin her around the bonfire in a dance that leaves her flushed and trembling. Even as you dance with her, though, you study your actions with a cold detachment. It’s not like you to get carried away like this, to get swept up in the moment, and it’s DEFINITELY not like you to indulge her childish yearnings.

Heedless of your cold thoughts, the dance grows wilder and wilder as the drummers cast away their inhibitions. Bodies twirl in mad spirals as the other girls writhe to the discordant music, their fine gowns tearing and slipping loose. When someone falls, the dance carries on without pause or hesitation.

Prying yourself free from Alicia, you step back from the insane dance. Yet, as soon as your bodies are parted you feel a sharp yearning, an urge to rejoin the dance until it reaches its end.

>Rejoin the dance, and the delirious pleasures it has to offer
>Try to interrupt the dance. This can only lead to madness
>Hang back and observe. If the others want to make fools of themselves, so be it
>Other

>>6183735
>Try to interrupt the dance. This can only lead to madness
Damn it's really this easy to invoke pagan spirits? Godhead getting mogged out here.

>>6183735
Wrench the tools off the drummers and mess up the rhythm.

>>6183737
>>6183739
+1

File: Bonfire Ceremony.jpg (285 KB, 1024x1024)

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You watch the dance for a moment, swaying to the beat of the drums before you realise what you’re doing and halt yourself. You’re not some weak-willed maiden, to be swept up in hysteria and lose her wits. The others might be, and they certainly don’t realise how ridiculous they look, but you’re not about to let your own reputation get tarnished through associating with this madness.

With a decisive step forwards, you plunge into the churn of dancing bodies. Grabbing a girl at random, you push her apart from her dancing partner before slapping her once, hard, across the face. She drops like a stone, a thin ribbon of blood seeping from beneath her mask, but the blow does little to bring her back to her senses. To the contrary, she lies where she fell and writhes, her hands crawling all over her body. Turning away from the undignified display with a snarl of disgust, you turn your sights on the musicians instead.

Shoving bodies aside, you advance on the drummers and waste no time in kicking aside the first set of drums that you see. A great cry of anguish rises up as the music falters, but you pay it no heed. As you’re turning to the next set of drums, someone slams into you from behind and drives you town to the ground. You wrestle with the squirming woman, rolling over until you sit astride her. It’s Alicia, although there’s no recognition in her blank eyes as she struggles.

Without thinking, you place your hands around her throat and squeeze. Her hands flap at you, knocking your mask askew as you tighten your grip. You carry on regardless, dimly aware that the sound of drumming has stopped. In its place, you hear a deafening chorus of birdsong and the sound of beating wings. One final swipe from Alicia’s hand knocks your mask free completely before she arches her back, letting out a guttural cry before slumping back down.

Slowly, on unsteady legs, you rise upright and look around you. The dance has fallen still, all eyes gazing towards you in muted horror. You meet their gazes defiantly, staring out until the girls timidly look away. It’s only then that you turn your gaze skywards, to face the great eclipse blazing down upon you.

-

It takes a great deal of effort to open your eyes, to force your aching body back into consciousness. A weak, watery sunlight fills the sky above you, the first signs of morning bearing down on you like a lead weight. You’re dimly aware of faint signs of movement around you, although you don’t quite understand what that might mean. Bracing yourself for the worst, you slowly sit up and look around.

A forest clearing. The charred remains of a bonfire. Broken, flattened drums. Countless young woman sprawled out in various states of consciousness. Each detail slowly sinks into your mind, but they don’t connect to form a cohesive picture.

Your head is pounding.

[1]

>>6183757
....oh. I probably should have been more explicit about playing the instrument deliberately offkey or just a constant rapid thump.

Although I doubt Gratia actually knows anything about instruments.

>>6183760
I don't think that would have been enough
We'd have just gotten drowned out by the rest

>>6183757

Somewhere, a girl groans. This small, pitiful noise sends a ripple running through the whole clearing, one girl after another squirming or moaning. Sarah is the only one who manages to sit up, though, gazing around her with bleary eyes before spotting you. Confusion fills her face for a moment before a crooked smile emerges, like sunlight breaking through the crowds.

“Good party, huh?” she rasps, “But man, I’m sure I didn’t drink THAT much…”

“Where’s Alicia?” you ask, looking around at the girls.

“Uh,” Sarah closes her eyes, rubbing her temples with one hand, “I think I heard her get up a little while ago. Yeah, it was definitely her. She went running off into the woods. I think she was going to throw up. Pretty gross, but at least she’s doing it far away from me.”

Very thoughtful of her. Fighting off a wave of nausea, you stand fully upright and start stalking about the clearing. After a moment, you find what you were looking for – one of the jugs of wine. Raising it your nose, you take a sniff of the sticky residue left behind. The strong scent of cheap wine nearly causes you to throw up like Alicia, but you hold your nerve. Almost completely masked by the wine scent is something bitter, more medicinal.

You know, of course, about the various herbs and drugs that some oracles use to induce visions, although you can’t yet explain how your wine ended up tainted with them. “Who brought this wine?” you ask sharply, fixing Sarah with a cold, piercing glare.

“Shit, I don’t know. Ask Alicia, if she’s not too busy throwing up,” Sarah shrugs, gesturing vaguely around her, “Or ask any of these idiots. I need to try and wake some of them up, I could use the help.”

“What about Rhea?” you press, “This was HER party, was it not?”

“Sure, she might know. Why are you so worked up about this? I know it was shit wine, but that’s no reason to get mad. It’s not like this is the first time we’ve drank bad wine before,” the Teilhard grumbles, looking around her again, “Ugh, I don’t see her here. She must’ve woken up early, gone running back to the dorm before anyone could see her. I bet she was really messed up…”

Sarah chuckles softly to herself, then winces as the tiny motion causes her head to groan with pain.

>See if you can fine Alicia. She probably needs someone to hold her hair anyway
>Help Sarah wake the other girls. One of them must know something about this disaster
>You need to find Rhea. If this was her idea of a good party, you’re going to destroy her
>Other

>>6183784
>You need to find Rhea. If this was her idea of a good party, you’re going to destroy her

>>6183784
>You need to find Rhea. If this was her idea of a good party, you’re going to destroy her
It was a pretty good party though

>>6183815
+1
Good party. Still going to destroy this bitch anyway

Certainly, you could spend some of your very valuable time comforting Alicia as she empties out the contents of your stomach, but it’s too early for you to be appropriately sympathetic to her plight. Besides, you don’t want to give her any funny ideas, like thinking that you might actually care about her. Likewise, you have absolutely no desire to help Sarah rouse the rest of the girls. The chances of them having anything useful to say is practically nil, anyway.

“I’m going back to find Rhea. I want an explanation for all this,” you tell Sarah, making sure your outfit is at least remotely presentable before leaving the clearing.

“Wait! Wait wait wait!” Sarah yelps, “What about this lot?”

“I have absolute confidence in your abilities, Seraphina,” you lie, pausing to sniff the air, “Although I think someone may have just emptied their bowels. Do be careful with that.”

-

As with most things in life, you can see two potential motives – ignorance, or malice. Either Rhea prepared this deliberately, for her own bizarre reasons, or she was duped into this disastrous party. The latter option seems more likely, as Rhea would not be particularly hard to fool. If it’s the former options, though, you’ll have an interesting situation on your hands. You’ll have to destroy her, of course, and this time you won’t stop at dead rats.

You find Rhea – pallid, trembling, ghastly looking – in one of the common dining rooms. The room is empty aside from the two of you, with most of the other girls who might normally be here attending some tedious morning class. Rhea flinches as you sit opposite her, fixing her with a merciless stare. You say nothing, merely watching and waiting as she grows increasingly uncomfortable.

“H… hey Gratia,” Rhea says finally, her faltering voice breaking the long silence, “Were you at the party last night? I… I don’t think I saw you there.”

“I was wearing a mask,” you remind her, your voice like cold steel, “We were ALL wearing masks. It was your idea. Remember?”

That last word cuts so deep, you almost expect Rhea to burst into tears there and then. She holds herself together, but only just. “Oh right, right. That was fun, wasn’t it? I had fun… I think. Did you have fun?” she hesitates, whimpers, “Have I done something… wrong?”

“I don’t know, Rhea. Have you?” you pause, but not long enough for her to answer the question, “Where did you get the wine? It WAS you, wasn’t it?”

“There was a guy at the market. One of those wandering traders, you know? I got everything there. The wine, the masks, everything,” Rhea answers quickly, as if deciding to get the conversation over with as soon as possible, “I thought he had a… a creepy smile, but he was cheap and didn’t ask any weird questions.”

Of course. A creepy trader who doesn’t ask questions - the most trustworthy source of illicit liquor.

[1]

>>6183842

In the end, you decide to leave Rhea be. Maybe you’re feeling unusually merciful, or maybe you just don’t have the effort to appropriately punish her. She’s already scared out of her wits just from your brief conversation. Anything more than that would be a waste of your precious time. You can always come back to her later, after all.

Instead, you hurry out from Coral House and descend to the town below, heading directly to the market. Even at this early hour, the market is filled with people miserly haggling over wilting vegetables and lumpen loaves of bread. Ignoring the occasional cajoling call from an over-excited trader, you approach a large covered wagon. The rear door is ajar, and you waste no time in showing yourself in.

The cramped interior is lit by a single flickering lantern, but the feeble light is enough to reveal the wooden masks lining the walls. The trader himself hasn’t noticed you yet, his back to the door as he works on a new creation. He tenses up when you clear your throat, then awkwardly twists his body around to face you.

“It’s early, pretty miss,” he leers, “But never too early for a bargain. What can I-”

“I was looking to buy some drugged wine,” you interrupt mildly, “I understand that you’re the man to see.”

The trader hesitates. His eyes narrow as he measures you up, calculations of risk versus reward flashing through his mind. “Is this about your friend, hmm?” he muses.

“She’s not my friend.”

“Ah, is that so? Well, either way. I promised her an unforgettable experience. Something truly… fantastical. Did I disappoint?” his smile widens as he leans in close, “Don’t you find it fascinating, Miss Pale, how easily the trappings of civilisation fall away? We are all heirs to an ancient tradition, something that our masters have tried very hard to suppress – but they will never succeed.”

“That’s all very interesting,” you reply coldly, “But I didn’t ask. I was more curious why an agent of the Tomoe is out here selling drugged wine to young women. Do you really have nothing better to do?”

The man’s eyes widen, and you see that your guess hit the mark – not that it was particularly hard to guess.

“I have planted a seed today,” the trader whispers, “You, your friends, will never forget what happens. When you sit in church with your head piously bowed, you will remember a different kind of worship – something violent, something ecstatic. You will keep that ancient tradition alive, if only in your dreams.”

As much as you hate to admit it, you feel a faint thrill run through your jaded soul at his words. While it may not be as flash as toppling an esteemed ruler or perverting a sacred law, his actions have an impact all of their own – the insurrection of the human soul.

[2/3]

>>6183889
It's always the Tomoe, god damnit
THEY CAN'T KEEP GETTING AWAY WITH IT

>>6183889

“Thank you,” you tell the man, giving him a pleasant smile, “But I don’t think you should linger here too much longer. The magistrates will soon be looking out for a man fitting your description, a man with a wounded hand.”

The man pauses, confusion darkening his face. “But I don’t-” he begins, but you don’t give him the chance to finish that sentence. Without breaking eye contact, you snatch up a tool from the counter – an awl, you think – and plunge it down into his resting palm. The slender point pierces through his flesh, pinning him to the counter even as his jaws stretch wide in a silent scream.

“Don’t wait around too long,” you warn again, turning and leaving him alone with his agonies.

>I’m going to pause here for today. I’ll be continuing this next Saturday, closing out this little flashback episode then
>Thank you for playing!

>>6183904
Thanks for running!

>The magistrates will soon be looking out for a man fitting your description, a man with a wounded hand.”
>The man pauses, confusion darkening his face. “But I don’t-” he begins, but you don’t give him the chance to finish that sentence. Without breaking eye contact, you snatch up a tool from the counter – an awl, you think – and plunge it down into his resting palm
Damn Gratia is based

>>6183903
They're pretty much sanctioned to keep getting away with it as a matter of tradition.

>>6183904
Gratia's a a BAD bitch. Nice.

Thanks for running!

>>6183904
Thanks for running!

That was brutal. Gratia's more based than Bard.
No wonder Elle feels sorry for the silver bird if Gratia's interested in him. I'm leaning on it being a new character that we haven't met yet, but if it's someone we do already know, the only person who we know of that can reach the fourth layer and would realistically work for Moreau would be Cato. The main thing that throws that off would be how Kalthos said that he didn't look like he was searching for Gratia, but it can still go either way. Kalthos could simply be wrong or maybe that's the very reason why Gratia's curious about him and hasn't tried to kill him yet.

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“You’re saying we were drugged?” Sarah repeats, her eyes widening with both shock, and a hint of guilty fascination, “Wow…”

“Yes, Seraphina. Drugged,” you repeat, with infinite patience, “I’d like to think that you’ll take that as a lesson not to drink whatever random wine you’re given, but I’m not hopeful.”

“First of all, rude,” she tuts, “Second of all, I seem to recall you drinking just as much as I did.”

“If you will drag me to these tedious parties, is it any wonder that I feel the need to drink?”

“I enjoyed it, actually…” Alicia says quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. Her slender neck still bears the faint shadows of bruising where your hands closed around her throat, but you’ve both very deliberately avoided the subject. It’s better for everyone that way, even if it does mean that she can’t bring herself to look you in the eye. You’d like to think that that might have put an end to her childish infatuation, but you fear that it achieved the opposite.

An awkward silence descends over the table as you pour yourself another cup of herbal tea. “Yeah,” Sarah murmurs after a long pause, “I guess it WAS pretty fun, even with-”

“Miss Pale?” a stern voice interrupts. You turn, seeing one of the teachers standing a wary distance away. “There’s someone here to see you,” she continues, and you immediately know who she’s talking about.

Refusal is not an option.

-

She tries to hide it, but you can feel the waves of unease rolling off the teacher. She probably doesn’t even know why she’s so afraid, merely sensing that something deeply unpleasant is about to happen. You’re sure that it would put her mind at ease if you spoke a little, babbling some meaningless words as you walk, but you hold your silence. Her fear is none of your concern.

After what seems like an eternity, the teacher leads you to a secluded meeting room. Knocking once at the door, she opens it a crack and waves for you to enter. You hesitate for a moment, fighting back a rare flicker of trepidation, and then you enter. The tall, pallid man doesn’t turn at the sound of the door, his hard eyes fixed on the far corner of the room as if gazing into something only he can see. Even as you sit opposite him, the door clicking shut behind you, his gaze doesn’t waver.

“Hello father,” you begin, the word seeming to leave a cold weight in your mouth.

He says nothing for a moment, although his eyes finally – briefly – turn your way. “Gratia,” he says simply, “I have need of you.”

Of course those are the first words he says to you. You don’t reply, studying him as you wait to see if he’ll say anything more. His face is taut and hard, etched with scars old and new. You’ve always taken pride in your ability to read people, but his expression is blank, a perfect cipher. It reveals nothing.

[1/2]

>>6187476

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you,” you say at last, hating yourself for being the first to break the silence. Then you feel new words springing unbidden to your lips. “It’s too late,” you continue, letting the words spill out, “You’ve gone too far. Nobody can help you now.”

His reaction is muted – a tightening of his lips, a narrowing of the eyes – but compared with that initial blank mask of a face, it might as well be a cry of anguish. “You’re wrong,” he insists quietly, a cold defiance creeping into his voice, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?”

Anger flashes through his eyes, and this time he doesn’t try to hide it. “You don’t seem to understand the situation. I’m not asking for your permission,” he declares, pointing one gnarled finger at you, “I’m your father. I hold authority over you. The papers have already been signed and sealed – you’re leaving with me. Today.”

With that, the mask slips and reveals the raw desperation that lies at the core of his being. He might project strength and power, but deep down he is a man hunted, haunted.

“Maybe so. Maybe you can take me from this place, but that doesn’t mean I’ll cooperate,” you point out, “You’ve already taken everything from me. What else can you do to me?”

“Name your price,” he replies bluntly, as if you could be so easily bought.

“I want to see him.” No need to say who you mean. He knows.

“Done,” he lies. You can see that he has no intention of keeping his promise, but in the end the choice won’t be his to make. You can see the path ahead clearly now – a long path, stained with blood and tears, that will lead to your reunion, to the moment that your soul will be made one once more.

It’s just a shame that your father won’t be around to see it.

“Do we have a deal?” he asks, heedless to your triumphant thoughts.

It is then that you wonder if you’ve made a mistake. You’ve shown your hand too early, and lost what little leverage you once had. He knows that he’s got you, with no further persuasion required. A shame – he’s clearly full of secrets, and playing hard to get might have convinced him to part with a few.

“Do we have a deal?” your father repeats, a warning note in his voice now.

>Bide your time and play along. You’ll act the dutiful daughter for now
>Push for more information first. You hardly know what you’re agreeing to
>Be difficult. You’ll show him just how stubborn you can be
>Other

>>6187479
>Be difficult. You’ll show him just how stubborn you can be
Play the brat just to fuck with him more
But then
>Bide your time and play along. You’ll act the dutiful daughter for now

>>6187476
>You’d like to think that that might have put an end to her childish infatuation, but you fear that it achieved the opposite.
Hot.

>>6187479
>>6187481 +1

>>6187485
Funny how being a child of some goddess not only makes Isambard a chosen one but it also applies to Gratia, so just like Isambard having FOUR waifu choices (that we know of!), Gratia is also getting her love interest choices (including a yuri option!)

>>6187487
Bard has yaoi options, too. We just didn't go for them.

>>6187479
>Do you mind some company? Surely you need all the help you can get.
I'm wondering if meeting the dad will completely kill any interest of Alicia. As it stands Gratia might become some kind of vanishing muse.

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“I don’t know. This is a big decision, I’m going to need some time to think it over,” you decide, crossing your arms and twisting your face into a stubborn pout. It’s time to show the old tyrant how stubborn you can really be.

“You’ve had time enough. No more games,” he warns, scowling at you.

“But you’re asking me to leave my… my BELOVED school, and all my dear, DEAR friends!” you protest, your words dripping with so much insincerity that you almost choke on your own laughter. A vein pulses in your father’s forehead as his rage builds, and a distant, detached part of yourself wonders just how far he can be pushed before that rage explodes into action. “I have to study too, you know,” you continue, “We’re just about to learn, oh, what was it? Oh yes, proper dinner etiquette. That’s CLEARLY more important than whatever it is that you-”

“Gratia!” he snaps, bringing one fist crashing down onto the desk as his temper flares. The door opens a second later, your teacher peering in with wide, concerned eyes, but your father barks a curse at her and sends her scurrying away. Without wasting another word, he stands bolt upright and grabs you by the arm, dragging you out of the room. He makes it about halfway down the corridor before you wriggle loose, scowling darkly at him before silently falling into line behind him.

One of the more senior teachers – a portly, officious man – is waiting for you by the entrance. Wiping a thin sheen of sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief, he tentatively hails you both. “Ah, Master Pale!” he yelps, “If I might have a moment of your time-”

But your father marches straight past him, without even gracing the old man with a response.

-

A carriage is waiting for you outside, the cheapest carriage that borrowed money can buy. You knew that things were bad, of course, but you never realised that they were THIS bad. Your father says nothing as he hauls open the door and waves you inside, slumping heavily in the worn, patched seats and clenching his eyes shut. You sit opposite him, as far away from him as the cramped carriage will allow.

As the carriage rumbles into motion, he reaches into his deep pocket and pulls out a small, unlabelled bottle. The bitter smell of laudanum fills the carriage when he pulls the stopper free, gulping down a mouthful of the medicine. You say nothing, allowing your disapproving face to say all that is needed. Your father doesn’t notice, or pretends not to.

“You’re an oracle,” he says after a long pause, his voice softer and calmer with the potent analgesic coursing through his system.

“That’s absurd,” you counter, “If I was an oracle, I’d be sequestered away in the Choir learning dreary prayers and rituals. Clearly, I’ve been sequestered away in Coral House instead, learning dreary etiquette and history.”

[1]

>>6187498

“You’re smarter than that, Gratia. You know how to hide in plain sight,” your father replies, slowly shaking his head, “I’ll have need of that discretion too, as well as your guidance.”

“I’ll need to know what you’re up to, first,” you point out, “I can’t exactly guide you if I don’t know where you’re supposed to be going.”

His jaw clenches as he thinks. Clearly, he’s not going to tell you the full story – he’s just trying to figure out exactly which details to share and which to leave out. “Something bad is coming. Something terrible. But maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance to-” he pauses, “To do something about it. But not here. The answers I seek are hidden deep within the Demesne.”

“I can get inside the Demesne. I can get you inside too. But to reach the depths, we need to find certain items,” your father meets your gaze, his eyes now glassy and dead, “You will find them for me.”

The carriage seat creaks as you lean back. “That’s a lot of work for just the two of us,” you reply coyly, “Why not get Isambard? He could-”

“No! No,” he interrupts, “Right now, he’s… uninvolved. It’s better that he stays that way.”

Better for who, though?

-

Your journey takes you all the way to the capital, and all the unpleasantness that involves. Just from a glance at his face, you can tell that your father has no love for the city – disgust boils beneath his carefully composed mask of a face as you thread your way through the crowds. Night has long since fallen, but the city still throbs with an unclean vitality. His tension only eases as you enter the ancient quarter and the crowds thin out.

Diligently following his lead, you allow your father to guide you to what looks like an old, disused cemetery. Taking a small lantern from his pocket, the old man slowly starts to examine the various graves. The whole site is overgrown and abandoned, the few dates that are legible suggesting that the dead were interred here centuries ago. Many of the names have been obliterated, as if to hide some ancient shame.

“I’m sure you don’t need me to point this out, but this doesn’t seem to be the Demesne,” you remark, “Unless this is a secret entrance?”

“No. The secret entrance is elsewhere,” he replies in a perfect deadpan, “Beneath this city lies an immense network of catacombs. Don’t your history teachers teach you anything?”

“They tend to leave out the parts about graveyards and catacombs.”

He grunts in irritation. “The catacombs shelter all manner of degenerates – criminals, the poor, men with secrets to hide. We’re looking for some of the latter,” he explains, “They have something I need.”

“And I suppose they’ll have it over, so long as you ask them nicely?”

“Maybe,” he grunts again, opening his bag and taking out a particularly massive revolver, “Or maybe not.”

[2/3]

>>6187507

You watch cautiously as your father opens a worn paper box and lines up a row of bullets on a nearby grave. With a deliberate slowness, he examines each of the fat bullets, their lead tips scored, before loading them into his gun. You shudder to imagine the destruction a bullet like those might reap on soft, vulnerable flesh. You shudder even more at the look of quiet relish on your father’s face as he readies the weapon.

“I hope you’re not about to make me the accessory to some kind of crime,” you warn, but your father doesn’t answer. Taking another swig of laudanum, he holsters the revolver at his hip and returns to the search. After a short time of stumbling through the gloom, you finally arrive at an open mausoleum that beckons with a yawning set of steps.

With the lantern flame turned down low, your father leads you through the narrow tunnel. After what seems like an eternity of silent walking, you start to hear the sound of muffled chanting. As it grows louder, your father stops and gestures for you to stay still. He reaches into his pocket again, but instead of coming out with the laudanum bottle he holds out a sheathed dagger to you. Taking it, you peer down at the beautiful pattern, crashing waves, etched into the blade.

“For self defence,” he explains curtly.

>Thank you. I’ll make good use of it
>Aren’t you afraid I’ll stab you in the back with it?
>I’m not taking it. I won’t dirty my hands for you
>Other

>>6187519
>Aren’t you afraid I’ll stab you in the back with it?
>Thank you. I’ll make good use of it
Mainly because it'd be funnier to continue being a contrarian brat with Gideon as much as possible.

>>6187519
>Aren’t you afraid I’ll stab you in the back with it?

>>6187519
>Where did you get this?
Surprised he didn't pawn it. Maybe it has Proerties.
>Aren’t you afraid I’ll stab you in the back with it?

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You weigh up the dagger in your hand, shifting your grip on the unfamiliar weapon until it feels more natural. It’s a fine weapon, beautiful and keenly sharp, but just holding it makes you feel a vague sense of unease. You’ve heard it claimed that just choosing to pick up a weapon is a kind of death, the first step on a path that can only spiral downwards.

But then, that choice was already made for you a long time ago.

“Thank you,” you tell him with a mocking smile, “But aren’t you afraid that I’ll stab you in the back with it?”

“You won’t,” he replies bluntly, “When my death comes, I’ll look it in the eye. I’ll stare it down and make it fight to claim me.”

A delusion, but a comforting one. You’re not so cruel as to take that away from him.

“I’ll be sure to make good use of it,” you promise, buckling the dagger’s belt and sheath around your waist and carry on following your father through the catacombs.

-

Raising a finger to his lips in a gesture for silence, your father leads the way into the chamber beyond. Before you slip into the cover of a great stone pillar, you spot perhaps half a dozen men standing before a slab of white stone with their arms raised. Candles flicker around them, although the light they cast is somehow strange – a pure white light, in place of the usual yellow flame. They chant in some harsh, alien tongue, so devoted to their ritual that they don’t notice you.

You suppose it would only be polite to wait for them to finish before bothering them. That’s why you’re so surprised when your father marches out from behind the pillar and immediately opens fire on the exposed men. He fires his first three shots before the men are even able to turn around, each bullet striking home with explosive force. Panic immediately descends, the chanting devolving into a maddening chorus of screams audible even above the ringing of your ears.

Just before you duck back behind the stone pillar, you see a few of the panicking men fumbling out weapons of their own. More gunfire rings out, both the dull, throaty roar of your father’s gun and the shriller reports from the worshippers’ weapons. It’s hard to guess who’s winning the fight – you’re certainly not going to risk your neck to peer out from behind the pillar and check.

A sudden clatter of footsteps causes you to jolt around. One of the cultists, not realising that you’re already here, had approached to try and use the pillar for a hiding place. Instead, he bumped straight into you. His fear-maddened eyes meet yours for a split second before he starts to raise his cheap revolver. You don’t give him the chance, driving the dagger into his stomach with a short, swift motion. Hot blood spills out over your hand as the man collapses backwards, nearly ripping the dagger out of your hand.

It is then that you realise that the gunfire has stopped, an eerie near-silence replacing it.

[1]

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>>6187551

Idly shaking blood from your hand, you peer around the pillar to see your father striding through the chamber. He opens his revolver and dumps out the spent cartridges, casually loading fresh cartridges into the gun. Whenever he passes a fallen body he gives it a sharp kick, as if making sure that they’re all really dead.

“Care to tell me what that was all about?” you demand, gesturing all around you. The chamber is a slaughterhouse, blood and shredded viscera splattered all across the ancient stone. Just the smell of it is making you dizzy, nauseous, and you can hear… you’d swear you can hear the flapping of wings.

“What do you mean?” he replies casually, as if he had been taking a stroll through the woods rather than gunning down hapless cultists. A low groan interrupts your response, and you glance around to see the man you stabbed. Not quite dead yet, he has dragged himself partways towards the white stone slab he had been worshipping. Your father doesn’t hesitate, swiftly marching across and planting a heavy boot on the wounded cultist’s back. You grimace as he raises the revolver, but you don’t allow yourself the luxury of looking away as he pulls the trigger, blowing the wounded man’s head into so many bloody fragments.

Without a second thought, your father walks around the spreading pool of blood and starts to examine the white stone. Nodding with a grim satisfaction, he gestures for you to approach. You move carefully, lifting the hem of your long skirt to keep it from being befouled. Mounted to the stone pillar is a slab of older stone, carved to depict some kind of city set against a swirling vortex of stars.

“I need you to take a look at this. Study it closely,” your father orders, “It will provide guidance.”

Giving him a fleeting sneer, you look closely at the white stone slab. You don’t see anything particularly special about it at first, aside from the fantastical image it displays, but the longer you stare at it…

The longer you stare at it, the more it seems to move. The stars seem to twist and writhe, churning like a whirlpool that threatens to pull you in and swallow you whole. In the distant back of your mind, a shrill voice of panic starts to wonder if you’d be able to look away, even if you wanted to. That voice is soon drowned out by other voices, and again the flapping of wings. Louder and louder, until-

-

“Until what?” you ask, leaning forwards as Gratia’s tale reaches a pause.

She hesitates for a second, then shrugs. “I don’t know. Father told me that I fainted, although I gather that I gave him some kind of prophecy before I lost consciousness,” she answers, “He never told me what I said, no matter how many times I asked. That was one secret that he took to his grave.”

“But…” she adds as an afterthought, “I don’t think it was what he wanted to hear.”

[2]

>>6187562

Neither of you speaks for a long while as you consider Gratia’s story. It doesn’t surprise you, hearing that your father was capable of such brutality. No doubt he saw the cultists as an obstacle thrown in his path, something to be overcome in the more direct way possible. You see a dark reflection of your own exploration of the Demesne in his violent acts, both born out of the same desire to move forwards, to move deeper into the labyrinth.

“What happened after that?” you ask eventually, to break the silence if nothing else.

“We travelled. I don’t know much else about what he did during that time. He always kept me hidden away like a dirty secret – I’d have to wait in some cheap hotel while he visited “old friends” and pleaded for scraps from their table,” she offers a bitter smile, “Perhaps that’s why I was supposed to stay behind. His pride wouldn’t bear having me see him that way. But I knew what he was doing. I always knew.”

A pause.

“And then, after a while, he brought me here,” Gratia concludes, gesturing around her, “Although we didn’t use the main entrance. We-”

“You used the entrance at the estate, didn’t you?” you ask, the question coming unbidden from your lips.

“So you know about it too!” she remarks, her entire face brightening with delight, “How wonderful! That means we’ll never be too far apart. Whenever you wish, you’ll be able to come and be by my side!”

You fall silent as her words sink in. “What do you mean?” you ask, “You’re not… coming out with me?”

“Why would I?” Gratia asks in response, her eyes widening with an innocent confusion, “My place is here, in the Demesne. Father may have fallen, but I’ve inherited his mission. Something terrible is coming, and we must prepare ourselves for it. No, my place is here – in the Demesne.”

There’s something else at work here, something left unsaid. Could it be that after spending so long trapped within the Demesne, she’s afraid to return to the real world outside?

“You’ve got to come back with me. Even if it’s just for a little while,” you insist, “Alex is waiting back at the estate. You remember Alex, don’t you? He’s been keeping an eye on the place for me, and he’ll be delighted to see you. I can introduce you to everyone, and-”

“Brother. Dear brother,” she interrupts softly, putting a hand on your arm, “That’s not… that’s not my world now. It’s just as I said. My place is here.”

But you see a flicker of doubt in her eyes. A yearning, perhaps, for a different life.

>If that’s your decision, I’ll respect it. But remember, I’ll never be far away
>Please, come back to the estate with me. Even if it’s just for a short while, I insist
>Other

>>6187572
>Please, come back to the estate with me. Even if it’s just for a short while, I insist
This place fucking sucks

“Just come back to the estate with me,” you urge, reaching down and taking Gratia’s hand, “Please. Even if it’s just for a short while, I insist. I don’t… I don’t want to leave you here.”

“You could always stay here with me,” Gratia counters, although the bittersweet smile on her face takes the sting out of the suggestion. She falls silent, then, looking down at your hand and hers. She gives your hand a small squeeze, then slowly looks back up. “I suppose…” she begins, her voice growing tentative, “I suppose it might be fine. If that’s what you truly want.”

“It is. It really is,” you agree, nodding firmly, “I never should’ve left you here on your own for so long. Consider this my way of apologising.”

“Dear brother, you have nothing to apologise for,” she whispers, sinking forwards and wrapping her arms around you.

-

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” you say as Gratia leads you through the labyrinth, “Did you get my message?”

“What message?” she asks, glancing briefly around at you with confusion in her eyes.

“I asked Kalthos to pass on a message,” you explain, “You know Kalthos, don’t you? He’s here in the Demesne – old man, particularly vile looking?”

“I know him,” Gratia nods, “Although he never gave me any messages. I don’t… Oh. Hm. Wait.” She pauses, thinks for a moment. “Some time ago – I’m afraid I can’t say exactly how long it was – I came across some strange marks on the floor, like they’d been scrawled in charcoal. They were smudged, and looked somehow… unfinished,” she recalls, “If Master Kalthos had been interrupted while leaving his message, that might explain it.”

“Now that I think about it, I haven’t seen him in some time,” she adds with a shrug, “Oh well. I had no further use for him anyway.”

You nod slowly, but otherwise say nothing. While you wouldn’t exactly mourn the old fiend, you’d prefer it if he didn’t die just yet – partly because he may yet have useful information locked away within that ancient mind of his, and partly from an absurd fear of loneliness. You never realised it before, but you found the thought of his presence in the Demesne strangely comforting.

Now, if the Silver Bird has struck, he’ll have ripped one more thing away from you.

-

Gratia leads you past the sad remains of Kalthos’ message before taking you to the stairs, just so you can see it for yourself. The old man had warned you about his handwriting, but even that was underselling it. Looking at the faint charcoal marks, you can barely even tell that they were once letters. There’s an “E” in there somewhere, but that’s about all you can identify.

“Well, it all worked out in the end,” Gratia says, stepping over the remains of the message with an indifferent pace, “Shall we depart?”

[1]

>>6187584

You’d been worried about the mass of Denizens on the third level, but your fears are unfounded. The inhuman creatures are still there when you arrive at the top of the stairs, but whatever strange force had been animating them is long gone. They lie motionless, prostrated before the stairwell like a great carpet of bodies. Cautiously, carefully, you pick a path through them and try not to imagine them rising up in a sudden rush of violence. As you walk, you explain the strange encounter to Gratia.

“They knew something of great importance was about to happen,” she suggests, “Even these things, mindless though they are, are drawn to power. A moth understands little, but it is drawn to the flame regardless – even to the point of destruction.”

You just think of all the people drawn to the Demesne, and what lies at its depths.

-

Gratia’s pace slows as you approach the exit to the Demesne, allowing you to take the lead. Taking her hand, you carefully lead her out into the “real” world. As always, there’s no definite feeling of crossing from one world to the next. You might even miss it, if you weren’t paying attention. Gratia seems confused for a moment, glancing around her in surprise, but then the clatter of footsteps causes her eyes to widen in alarm.

“Halt!” the soldiers call out, storming forwards at the sight of the uninvited guest, “Identify yourself, or-”

“Captain Milgrim!” Elle snaps, her voice sharper and clearer than you’ve ever heard it before. The rebuke causes the soldiers to freeze in an instant, their bullish advance quickly turning into a meek retreat. You nod your thanks to Elle, who flashes you a quick smile before turning to regard Gratia. The air seems to grow very still, very cold, as the two girls lock eyes.

“You must be Gratia,” the oracle says, in her usual soft tones, “I’m so glad to see that you’re safe. I’m Elle, I’m a friend of Isambard’s.”

“Ah. Miss Legrasse. I’ve heard all about you,” Gratia replies, “You’re the one who keeps leading my brother into these terribly dangerous situations.”

Oh no.

“Oh, that’s...” Elle begins, hesitating before letting out a faltering little laugh, “That’s a good joke!”

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

>I’m going to take a pause here for today. I’ll be continuing this tomorrow, maybe with something fun – or “fun”.
>Thank you for reading today!

>>6187587
Thanks for running
So ready for """"""""""""fun"""""""""""""
I see Gratia knows Kalthos' trick for getting news from the outside world

>>6187587
Thank you for running! Excited to see how Gratia and Elle hit it of...

>>6187587
Thanks for running!

Can't wait to see what fun we'll get up to with a jealous Gratia.
Bard being a tsundere about Kalthos was also amusing.
On that note, Gratia's comment about Kalthos seems strange since he had said that she was avoiding him and outright ran away from him when they met.

>>6187648
Sociopath bitch twin sister at first going
>this weak oracle SKANK is trying to steal you from me, brother! I won't have it!
but then, because Isambard and Gratia are twins that metaphorically and symbolically but perhaps even literally share a soul, she will inevitably reach the point of
>okay fuck it Elle is way too cute, you're 100% right brother
>"I simply adore you, Elle, and so does my dear brother. From now on you belong to the two of us, understand?"

>>6187661
I wonder what would happen if we dragged Juno into the Demesne to meet her great-great-great-great-...-grandfather, and perhaps drag him back to the Tomoe mansion and the rest of his family? I bet the madman patriarch would be forever indebted to Isambard for that, but he might be a bit disgruntled once he finds out Isambard friendzoned his daughter instead of plowing the shit out of her. At least he might be glad Juno has actual friends, in as much as any Tomoe can have any real friends in their stupid rebellious societal saboteur autism?

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>>6187662

>>6187664
From what I remember, Janus had Juno's mother figure killed and was unconcerned about her safety overall, but I can see both him and Kalthos trying to get Bard to fuck Juno just because it'd be funny. Though I think Kalthos can't even leave assuming he's still alive, since the reason why he has been alive despite his age is because he's been living in the Demesne.
Juno winning the waifu wars wouldn't be the worst thing. Even ignoring the wincest part of it, Gratia's on a whole different level. I can't see Bard being able to fix her, but maybe that's what some anons are into.

>>6187683
Personally I am into Bard ending up with Elle at the end of these waifu wars, but maybe either fucking Gratia too... or Gratia is into Elle just as much as Bard is, and the sheer wincest sex energy is shifted from both of them towards focusing on Elle instead. As for Juno and Ariel, I have no idea what'll happen with them. I have no idea what'll happen with Daniel and Jan either.

>>6187687
I was Team Ariel, but it seems unlikely with current trends. I'd accept Gratia, Elle, or both, depending how things play out. I think Gratia is the bad end, though.

>>6187690
>spoiler
Was there ever going to be a "Good " end?

>>6187690
I am infinitely more curious how Gratia will feel about Ariel than Elle.

Elle's baggage is fairly by the books romantic adventure, but Ariel's basically thriving while living out of a friend's home.

>>6187699
But how will Gratia feel about Isambard being corrupted by the Teilhards while she was gone for so long?

>>6187700
>corrupted
>killed way more than Dan and is more bloodthirsty than Ariel
I think that might be the other way around

Incestfags in bodybags

>>6187702
>not that Pale anymore
>not that weak anymore
>not that edgy anymore
>not that friendless anymore
>not that shut-in anymore
>not that brooding anymore
>etc
The Teilhards have corrupted this boy. Gratia is going to be aghast when she sees the state of Bard standing next to all his bros and girls

>>6187664
>Isambard friendzoned his daughter
Pft, she’s best girl mate

There is plenty of time to plow her field

>>6187698
No, but if we do end up “with” Gratia we may as well scratch “Pale” off the estate name and replace it with Tomoe.

Hell, the two of them have probably caused more chaos than the Tomoe have in the last year.

>>6187992
Especially of you factor in Dear Old Dad, who brought a plague of extradimensional murder-birds down upon this nation... Though in fairness to Bard, some of his chaos was just exposing and resolving Tomoe plots early and with fewer casualties than otherwise intended.

File: Alex Seidel.jpg (345 KB, 1024x1024)

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“Gratia, my girl, is that really you? I thought…” Alex cries out, pulling Gratia into a warm embrace, “I thought I might never see you again! I’ll make sure your old room is cleared up and prepared for you. Would you like anything to eat? I won’t be preparing dinner for a few hours yet, but I can make-”

“That’s really not necessary, Master Seidel,” Gratia replies stiffly, delicately extracting himself from his arms. She backs off a pace, smoothing down her clothes before holding up her hands, “You really needn’t go to any extra trouble for me. In fact, you can just pretend that I’m not here. You’re busy enough, I’m sure, without me adding to your duties.”

Alex hesitates, falling silent as he studies Gratia with a strange wariness. It’s as if recognises her face, but not her voice and words. Maybe that’s true – the passing years have left their mark on you, on both of you. She gazes back without speaking, almost daring him to break the silence first.

“I think I might take a stroll into town, actually,” he decides after a moment, “I’ll pick up some supplies, and we can have a proper family dinner. I know you don’t want a fuss, but I do.”

“As you wish,” Gratia answers, bowing her head slightly as her eyes, just for a fleeting second, darken with a fleeting irritation.

“Ahem,” Elle says quietly as Alex retreats, “Gratia, this is our friend. Miss Ariel Teilhard.”

“Hey,” Ariel adds, raising her hand in a friendly wave.

“Hello. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” locking eyes with Ariel, Gratia offers her a coy smile, “I can see that you’ve been making yourself at home here. I hope you’re not trying to replace me.”

You wince. Elle winces. You’re pretty sure that Alex winces too, even though he’s out of earshot. “Uh, I’m not, ah… that’s not…” Ariel stammers, flailing to find some kind of response, “I don’t think I could-”

“Oh hush, I’m just teasing,” Gratia shakes her head, reaching across and flicking Ariel lightly on the forehead, “Even if you wanted to, and I’m sure that you don’t, you couldn’t take my place. Isambard and I share the same blood, the same soul. That connection is far deeper than you could ever understand.”

An awkward silence.

“I knew a Teilhard, actually, back at Coral House,” Gratia continues, her tone growing lighter, “Sarah Teilhard. Seraphina, actually, but she always hated that name. Do you know her?”

“We have a very large family, and I was always on the outskirts of it. I’m probably not the best person to ask,” Ariel answers, managing to recover some of her composure, “If Daniel was here, I bet he’d know her – or, at least, he’d know about her.”

Gratia just shrugs, dismissing the whole subject as if she was never really that interested in it to begin with.

[1/3]

>>6188030

“Oh, they never would’ve allowed that in the Choir!” Elle laughs, taking a small sip of her wine, “They didn’t even like us mingling with people outside, let alone allowing us to go dancing in the woods. If you don’t mind me asking, Gratia, how did you…”

“How did I avoid the Choir?” you sister asks with a teasing smile, “I’m not sure if I should tell you. How do I know that you’re not going to run off and tell on me?”

“Hah, I’m afraid that Isambard would never forgive me for that,” Elle replies, shaking her head, “Please tell me?”

Gratia holds her tongue for a moment, savouring the anticipation. “I simply lied,” she answers eventually, “I think someone from the Choir came to interview me… oh, three times? I never found it particularly difficult to hide my talents. I think it never occurred to them that someone might not WANT to be an oracle. Most girls, as I understand it, would jump at the chance.”

“No kidding,” Ariel remarks, “It’s a job for life – stable, high status, and everyone looks up to you. Great for your marriage prospects, right Elle?”

A dark blush spreads across Elle’s cheeks. “I don’t know about that,” she mumbles, staring down into her glass of wine as if blaming it for the direction the conversation has taken.

You’d been a little worried at first, thinking about how easily Gratia might adjust to being a part of your group. After a shaky start, it seems that your fears were unfounded. Once she let down her guard, it’s as if you’ve all known each other for years. Over an open bottle of wine, she told Elle and Ariel the same story she told you – or rather a version of it, exaggerating certain details and omitting others.

“But still, going back a little. Did the magistrates ever catch that guy?” Ariel asks, toying with her glass of wine, “I mean, did you get the chance to report him?”

“No, the opportunity never arose. Real life got in the way, unfortunately,” Gratia shrugs, “It doesn’t matter. HE doesn’t matter.”

“Maybe we could ask Juno about him,” Elle suggests, before hastily glancing back to Gratia, “Oh, I mean Miss Tomoe. I… we know her, a little. She’s helped us, on occasion.”

“A lofty oracle like you, collaborating with a Tomoe?” Gratia widens her eyes, the scent of scandal bringing a fascinated smirk to her face, “Maybe you’re not as innocent as you seem, Miss Legrasse.”

The muffled sound of the door interrupts the conversation before it can go any further, to your vague disappointment. You’re not quite sure where it was headed, but you would’ve liked the chance to find out.

[2/3]

>>6188031

Alex enters the room a moment later, burdened down with a few cloth bags of supplies. “Look what a mess you’ve made!” he complains, glancing across the open bottle of wine and half-empty glasses, “And to think, I’d been saving that bottle for dinner tonight.”

“Sorry, but it was an emergency,” you tell him, “I’m sure we’ve got plenty more stashed away.”

“Aye, that’s true. Your father might not have left much behind, but at least we kept the liquor collection,” the older man sighs, “Miss Legrasse, I could use a second pair of hands in the kitchen, if you don’t mind. And Ariel, you might as well clear up here.”

“Why me?” the pale young woman groans.

“If you’re going to stay here, rent free, you could at least help with the housework,” Alex scolds, although he smiles to soften the remark, “You could always help in the kitchen, of course.”

“No no, I’ll clean up here!” she quickly insists, “It’ll be cleaner than you’ve ever seen it before, mark my words!”

“That’s hardly much of an undertaking, it’s just a few glasses…” Alex grumbles, gesturing vaguely at the table.

“What would you like me to do, Master Seidel?” Gratia asks softly, without much enthusiasm, “I’m afraid I’m not much of a cook, and I was pulled from Coral House before I could finish learning my dinner etiquette. I might not be of much use to you.”

Which may be true, but it’s also a particularly graceful way of dodging any extra housework.

“Don’t worry about a thing. You’ve been through quite enough, I wouldn’t feel right with asking you to do even more hard work,” Alex tells her, “Just… relax.”

“I think I might take a walk around the estate. It’s been some time, after all,” she decides, “I imagine I won’t be very long. I’ll be finished by the time dinner is ready.”

“Sure. It must be strange, being back here after so long,” Alex pauses, “It’s easy to get lost in this place, you know. Even I need to watch my step. Isambard, maybe you-”

“That’s fine, dear brother,” Gratia interrupts, offering you a grateful smile as if you had been the one to offer, “I know the halls as if they were a part of my own body. I won’t lose my way.”

>Even if she doesn’t need a guide, you’ll still take a walk with Gratia
>Elle and Alex might need some extra help in the kitchen. You’ll volunteer
>You’ll help Ariel with clearing the table. Just to make sure she doesn’t break anything
>Other

>>6188032
>You’ll help Ariel with clearing the table. Just to make sure she doesn’t break anything
I value her thoughts on our dear sister, and on our next steps.

>>6188032
>Other
Show Gratia your fairly extensive collection of trinkets. Maybe her time in the Demense and away from society gives her a bit of insight into Calamity. Or talk about the artificial demense and how some kind of "disease" can infect people and turn them into...denizens?

>>6188032
>Even if she doesn’t need a guide, you’ll still take a walk with Gratia
We haven't seen her for years

>>6188049
+1

>>6188049
Alright, if we're doing it, I'll back >>6188041

>>6188032
Changing my vote accordingly.

>>6188032
> Even if she doesn’t need a guide, you’ll still take a walk with Gratia
Gotta tell her more about our future bride Juno

>>6188056
>Gotta tell her more about our future bride Elspeth
Fixed

>>6188056
>>6188062
>Gotta see which of our potential waifus she wants to go halvsies on
Fixed

“I’d like to show you something, actually,” you tell Gratia, “And… there’s something I’d like to talk with you about. A few things, actually. We’ve still got so much to catch up on.”

“We certainly do,” she agrees, her smile taking on an ambiguous note, “Then, dear brother, you’ve convinced me. This time, you can be the guide. Lead on.”

In no particular hurry, you start to walk through the estate with Gratia following close behind. It’s not long before the muffled sounds of the others preparing dinner fade into silence, and it feels as if you’re alone in the estate. If you closed your eyes, you might almost believe that everything that’s happened to you has been a bad dream – that you were never taken from your home and cast out into the world beyond.

But no matter how much you might wish it to be so, you can’t change the past.

-

Gratia raises an eyebrow as you arrive at your bedroom, but she says nothing as you open the door. The various trinkets and tokens that you’ve gathered since returning here are scattered about the room, each one drawing the eye with their promise of a secret power. Gratia allows her gaze to wander freely around the room before it settles on the polished silver breastplate. Crossing the room, she kneels down beside it and gently strokes the gleaming metal.

“There’s a part of him that never really left that place,” she whispers, tracing the heart pattern on the armour, “He always went back there, in his dreams.”

“Did he tell you what happened?” you ask, lingering by the doorway.

“No. I needed to find out from someone else,” Gratia answers slowly, “I said that we travelled for a time, do you recall? We visited the Silvera lands once. Father hid me away, as he always did, while he went on to the Demesne. I suppose it never occurred to him that I might slip out while he was gone. He’d mentioned an old friend in the area, but we didn’t pay him a visit. There was no point, he said.”

“Anders, wasn’t it?” you guess, “At the hospital.”

“Yes. I see you’ve been busy,” Gratia turns, giving you a satisfied smile, “All this time, we’ve been walking the same paths.”

“But there’s one place I’ve been that you haven’t,” you tease, picking up the family emblem and tossing it across to her, “Here.”

Gratia catches the trinket and studies it, the ancient image of a night owl perched atop a gear. “The Phalaris?” she murmurs, “That… makes sense. One time, I complained about the city that father and I were walking through. He said that it was better than “that damned mire”. He wouldn’t say anything more on the subject, but if it was the Phalaris…”

She lapses into silence for a moment, then shakes her head.

“There really was no line that he wouldn’t cross,” she sighs, “Tell me about it. Please.”

[1]

>>6188066
My nigga. I wonder how our arguing and bullshit in our posts echoes to Bard. MolochQM does include some of our post text in his thoughts or speech occasionally where fitting

>>6188080

Though it’s hard to put it into words, you slowly recount your expedition into the remains of House Phalaris – how the strange pocket seemed almost like an extension of the Demesne itself, even down to the puppets that populated it. “You’ve spent far more time in the Demesne than I have,” you admit, “How Yulia could do those things… does it make sense to you?”

“In the Demesne, I have heard whispers of secret things,” Gratia answers, choosing her words with immaculate care, “The world is… is far larger than men dare to imagine. I believe that Miss Phalaris travelled somewhere very far away, and brought something back with her. A power… a power capable of reshaping the world around her.”

You’ve been around Elle enough to know when she’s been afflicted by a prophecy, and this is no different. Gratia’s eyes glaze over, her voice lowering to a husky drawl as unearthly words spill from her lips.

“A man… devoured the sun,” she gasps, her body trembling as the words escape her, “And made from it… his crown.”

With each word, her convulsions grow harsher and harsher until you lunge forwards and wrap your arms around her in a protective embrace. Clinging tight to her, you wait until her shuddering begins to subside and her hands weakly brush against your back. Slowly, almost reluctantly, you let go of her and lean back.

“I’m sorry. Did that frighten you?” Gratia whispers, “It’s not normally that bad. I think… I feel as if I’ve said something I shouldn’t.”

You stare at her in silence, fumbling for the right words to say.

“Can we talk about something else?” she continues, brushing a few loose strands of hair away from her face, “I’d like to know about about the girl your oracle friend mentioned – our… absent friend.”

“Juno? She’s…” you hesitate, “She reminds me of you, a little. You’re both tough, strong willed. But she’s a difficult person to understand. I think she hates her father, but dutifully follows his commands. She’s always given her aid when I’ve needed it, but I can’t say why – some subtle way to undermine her father, perhaps, or just boredom.”

“Or perhaps she likes you,” Gratia suggests, her smile hardening slightly, “She might be thinking of you this very instant, pining away while you’re wining and dining the beautiful Miss Legrasse.”

“I’m only teasing,” she adds with a quick laugh, “I think I’d like to meet this Juno Tomoe, though.”

“I can send her a message,” you offer, “She might-”

“No, there’s no need for that,” Gratia interrupts, “We’ll meet in due time, I’m sure of that. Anyway, I’m sure the others must be worrying about us. We’d better get back.”

“Sure,” you agree, before repeating her own words back to her, “The “beautiful” Miss Legrasse?”

“Did I say that?” Gratia remarks, feigning innocence, “You’re a bad influence on me, dear brother.”

[2]

>>6188090

“Oh, there you are!” Ariel calls out, waving to you from the dinner table, “We were about to send out a search party!”

“Well, you know what I’m like,” you shoot back, “I stepped away from the table for a few moment, and got caught up in some wild adventure. Crazy how often that seems to happen. What’s for dinner?”

“Pork roast. Alex and Elle got yapping, so it’s more “roast” than “pork” at this point,” the slender girl jokes, “It’s fine though, just eat around the black bits.”

“It’s not burnt, it’s caramelised!” Elle shouts from the kitchen.

-

In spite of Ariel’s warnings, the meal is excellent – simple fare, roast pork with vegetables, but hearty and well-cooked. The taste of the meat seems to awaken something in you, a surging desire to bury your jaws in the joint of meat and feast as if your life depended on it. Pushing away the urge, you sneak a glance across to Gratia. She’s barely touched her food, a slight tremor running down her hand as she pushes the fork about the plate. Glancing up, she meets your eyes and a sense of understanding runs through you.

Then it’s all over, and you start taking dirty dishes through to the kitchen with numb hands. Ariel follows you with a stack of her own dishes, setting them down and grabbing your sleeve before you can leave the kitchen. She doesn’t say anything straight away, biting her bottom lip as if struggling to think of the right words to use.

“So…?” you prompt, “What’s this all about?”

“Hey, can’t I talk to my good buddy? We’ve not had much time to talk lately, have we?” Ariel answers quickly, “I mean, that’s understandable. You’ve been busy with… her.”

You peer back into the dining room. Alex and Elle are still talking away over the last remnants of their meal. Gratia sits in perfect silence, her gaze fixed on the blonde oracle.

“Can you blame we? I’m trying to make up for lost time,” you point out, hesitating a moment before adding, “What do you think?”

“Um,” Ariel pauses, “Can I be honest?”

“I’d hope that you were.”

“No, I mean like… really honest.”

“Does that mean I’m not going to like what you’re going to say?”

“I, um, I don’t know how to answer that one,” Ariel admits, “I mean, look, don’t you think she’s a bit… weird?”

You’re not sure how to answer that.

>Reserve judgement for now. You’ll hear her out
>It’s an outrageous thing to say, and you’re not afraid to say it
>You hate to admit it, but Ariel might actually be right
>Other

>>6188100
>Reserve judgement for now. You’ll hear her out

>>6188100
>Reserve judgement for now. You’ll hear her out
I'm weird too. We're all weird, really.

>>6188100
>"Yes, but aren't we all? Aren't I? Her weirdness is the same as my weirdness. We share a soul, after all."

>>6188100
>Reserve judgement for now. You’ll hear her out
The only reason why Bard turned out better was because of his adventures and Teilhardchads influencing him.

>>6188105
>Teilhardchads influencing him
Gratia never had anybody she cared about to be influenced by even at her boarding school. She remained a psycho bitch even now. How can we remedy this?

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The pause draws out, longer and longer. Out in the dining room, you can still hear Alex and Elle talking, although their voices are too muffled to make out any words. Weird. You repeat that word in your mind, repeating it so many times that it seems to lose all meaning. A concept like “weird” inherently implies the existence of “normal”, but what does that even mean?

“Uh, are you going to freak out?” Ariel asks quietly, lowering her voice, “You’re about to freak out, aren’t you?”

“No. Not yet,” you answer cautiously, your words seeming to come from some great distance away, “We’re all weird, aren’t we? If we were all healthy, well-adjusted individuals, none of us would be here right now.”

“I know. I mean, I guess you’re right. It’s just…” she hesitates, “It’s all this “dear brother” stuff. I’ve got brothers, you know I do, and there’s no chance I’d talk about any of them like that. Not even if you put a gun to my head.”

“It’s not the same,” you counter, “We’re twins. Her weirdness is my weirdness. We share the same soul, after all.”

Ariel looks away, her face growing conflicted. “You know that’s just folklore, right?” she mutters, “And anyway, you’re not… like her. Maybe you were, way back when, but not any more.”

A pang of irritation needles at you, but you push it aside for now and gesture for Ariel to continue.

“Look, we’ve both seen some shit, okay? I don’t think I’m being too controversial by suggesting that. The fallen Martense at the Iron Keep, that Siren monster at Albershot Lodge. Weird shit. Whatever they were, they always gave me the same bad feeling in my gut. I’m sorry – I mean like, really sorry – but she gives me that same feeling,” again, Ariel hesitates before cautiously meeting your eyes, “But you don’t. I feel… comfortable around you.”

Another long pause, broken only when Ariel clears her throat and turns away. She moves towards the kitchen door as if to return to the dining room, then glances back to you.

“I just don’t want to see you getting hurt,” she concludes, “You’ve already lost too much.”

-

You linger in the kitchen for a long while, pondering Ariel’s words. Perhaps she’s right. Perhaps you’re not the same person you were as a child. When you set out into the wider world, it changed you – maybe you let it change you. You might have wallowed in the dirt and filth of the outside world, but Gratia had always held herself above it, living within that pure world of your childhood. Even sharing the same soul, can you really still claim to understand each other?

You hope so, but hope is a poor foundation to build a life on.

Drawing in a deep breath, you turn to a window and study your face in the reflection. Taking a moment to adopt a suitably indifferent expression, you turn and return to the dining room.

[1]

>>6188143
Ariel best bro?

>>6188152
Indubitably. There's a reason I was team Ariel in the waifu wars for so long.

>>6188143

“Isambard! Alex was just telling us about your father,” Elle calls out, waving for you to take a seat before her smile falters a little, “Um, it’s a good story this time, I promise!”

“I’d say it’s more of a bittersweet one,” Alex corrects her, “Your father had just been given the King’s instructions, and he was getting ready for his expedition down south. The details were all still vague back then. He didn’t know what he’d be getting into, so he was still… excited, I suppose you’d say. He thought it would all be a big adventure, the kind that he had always been searching for. Something that would give his life meaning.”

“We all got together, everyone on the expedition, for a meal like this. A feast, really. I don’t know how he managed to scrape it all together – we were still recovering from the Lliogor migration, and hardship was rife. Even so, he made it happen,” he continues, allowing himself a weary smile, “Of course, it was a far wilder party than this little meal. One last round of festivities.”

You look across and meet Gratia’s gaze. Her face is set in a perfectly expressionless mask, but her eyes blaze with revulsion.

“I remember what he said, that night. The last thing he said to us before the serious drinking started,” Alex concludes, the smile slowly falling from his face, “He said that he would leave his mark on the world, even if he had to carve it on with his knife.”

These words are met by a long, pained silence. From the look on his face, you can tell that even Alex regrets having said anything.

“I don’t think that’s a very good story, actually,” Gratia says quietly, reaching for her glass and taking a sip of the dark red wine.

>It’s an early one, but I think I’m going to pause here for today. I’ll be continuing this next Saturday for sure, maybe Friday if I can get some time off
>Thank you for playing today!

>>6188180
Alex, my dude, there really are NO good stories involving Papa pale. Maybe if you go back to his childhood next time?

Thanks for running, QM!

>>6188180
Thanks for running!
Wish dad had been wrong a little more often

Dang. Sister dear is a lot more weird then I expected. Have to wait and see exactly how nutty she is, we probably shouldn't add kinslaying to our list of deeds. Anyway, thanks for running QM!

>>6188573
Really, she's less weird than I thought for someone who spent what seems to be months in the Demense.

Her dislike for the father was more personal than she's willing to admit, and she does know how to take care of people.

>>6188066
I hope none of the people posting this stuff have siblings.

>>6188687
As I understand it, that's usually the case: people without siblings can romanticize the idea because it's a dirty little secret sexy taboo to break with a hot chick that lives with them and loves them unconditionally. people with siblings know that sisters are a pain in the ass, not generally especially sexy, and they know firsthand the instinctive revulsion that one develops for sexual thought involving immediate family.

Me, I'm just meming.

File: NightOwl.gif (229 KB, 800x400)

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You first realise that something is terribly wrong when you wake with a crushing weight pressing down on your chest. Your limbs seem to be drained of all strength and feeling, while just prying open your eyelids takes a heroic effort. Even when you do manage to open your eyes, nothing changes – it’s as if you’ve been enveloped in a dense, amorphous darkness, as if the night itself had come alive to swallow you whole.

Over by your bedroom window, a direction you can tell more from memory than any actual visual clue, you can hear something scratching and scrabbling to get inside the room. As if in response to the blind groping, the weight on your chest begins to shift and writhe. The darkness around you doesn’t so much retreat as to become textured, just enough that you can see shapes within the inky mass.

What little you can see does little to help you understand. Would it mean anything to say that the weight pressing down upon you had a human shape? Except, a human shape would not have additional pairs of fluid, ephemeral arms that waved around you like tendrils of smoke. A human form would not have long, trailing hair at one instant, then a bristling mane of feathers at the next.

The shadows lift, if but a little, although even that small reprieve reveals far too much. A cry builds on your lips at the suggestion, the implication, of the shape’s face, but your mouth is covered before you can give voice to your fears. With a sinuous, boneless grace, the shape leans down into you and begins to speak, although the voice that you hear seems to come from all around you.

“Is this truly what makes you happy?” the voice seems to ask, “Is this truly the world that you desire?”

There’s no answer that you can give, but what the shape sees in your heart is answer enough.

-

You wake with a jolt, clawing at the tangled sheets ensnaring your limbs. Dream and reality blur together for those first few moments of waking, a distant echo of the weight you felt still aching in your chest even as you sit up and hastily pull on some clothes. A thin blade of moonlight creeps through your window, the light filling you with a strange sense of foreboding.

Tearing your gaze away from that silver light, you hasten from your bedroom and start running across the estate. That nameless feeling of danger lends haste to your aching limbs, and soon you arrive at your sister’s door. With only a brief moment of hesitation, you raise your fist and bang on the door. Even when you call her name, there’s no answer. Though it feels like some unforgivable act of trespass, you slowly open the door and peer inside.

The room is empty, the bed neat and unused. Even the room itself has the cold, lifeless feeling of a house left uninhabited for far too long.

[1/2]

>>6191982

You stare into the empty room for what seems like an eternity before closing the door and stepping back. Ariel’s room, you think, just a few doors down. If Gratia left, as she seems to have done, Ariel might have heard something. You’re already moving down the corridor as you think these thoughts, briskly rapping your knuckles against the door. Ariel mumbles something, her voice muffled by the door and sluggish with sleep.

“I’m coming in,” you announce, “It’s an emergency!”

“No, wait!” Ariel yelps, but it’s too late. You’re already opening it, your eyes meeting hers through the ajar door.

Ariel freezes in place, her hands paralysed in the act of buttoning up her hastily donned shirt. Your eyes are automatically drawn to her chest, but something isn’t right. Her chest is slender, with a complete lack of any feminine curves. Not even a young girl, yet to feel the first touches of womanhood, would be quite so unfortunate.

The frozen moment is broken as Ariel’s hand jerks out, reaching for a glass of water sitting on the bedside cabinet. You duck back, closing the door just in time to hear the glass shatter against the thick wood. Leaning back against the door, you spend what seems like a very long time thinking, or at least trying to think.

Plan B. If Gratia isn’t here, she must be returning to the Demesne. Obvious really, it’s a wonder that you didn’t think of that sooner. You start to head back to your bedroom to make your preparations to follow Gratia, only to pause at the sound of a door opening. Turning, you see Ariel standing in the hallway – her shirt buttoned all the way up to the neck, her jacket wrapped protectively around her shoulders.

“Listen,” she begins in a slow, faltering voice, “I can explain-”

“Gratia has gone. I think she’s gone to the Demesne,” you interrupt, “Did you hear anything?”

“She’s gone?” Elle asks, emerging from her own room.

Ariel glances between you and Elle as the oracle approaches, before steadily backing into her room. “Well, I can see you’ve got this covered,” she mumbles, “So I’ll just… leave you to it.”

“What was that about?” a strange look passes across Elle’s face, “No, never mind. We can figure that out later. Right now, we… what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to get her back,” you frown, “Obviously.”

“Isambard…” Elle hesitates, then realises that you’re already turning away, “What if she doesn’t want to come back?”

You stop.

“Go after her, if you want. Talk to her, make sure she’s okay. But if she doesn’t want to return with you…” she pauses again, “What then? Would you drag her back?”

>If that’s what I have to do in order to keep her safe, yes
>I won’t go that far. But I need to make sure this is what she wants
>If she wants to go, that’s her choice. Perhaps it’s better if I don’t follow. Give her some space
>Other

>>6191984
"I-I'm actually a man!"
"Sorry, can't hear you over my sister complex"
>I won’t go that far. But I need to make sure this is what she wants

>>6191984
>I won’t go that far. But I need to make sure this is what she wants
Oh wow Ariel actually was a boy
I thought we were just memeing

>>6191984
>I won’t go that far. But I need to make sure this is what she wants
Ariel really best boy

Arielbros, it's so over...
I'd still hit it.
I did kek at Bard instinctively staring at Ariel's chest but then not outright giving the reveal any further thoughts because he's too focused on Gratia.

>>6191984
>I won’t go that far. But I need to make sure this is what she wants

>>6191984
>>6191984
>>If she wants to go, that’s her choice. Perhaps it’s better if I don’t follow. Give her some space
I'm pretty sure she heard what she needed to hear. The issue is whether she herself is one of the vectors for the silver bird after spending so long with the father.

If Gratia is alive and passably sane, we don't REALLY have a reason to cling together so hard, especially not at the cost of disbanding the whole party. I wonder if there'll be a consequence to not handing her the ring immediately.

....and if Juno had a reason to avoid ever meeting her.

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You stare at Elle for a moment, then let out a disbelieving laugh. “I won’t go that far,” you assure her, “But I need to make sure this is what she really wants. I need to know that she’s going to be safe in there, and…”

That sentence ends unfinished, and will always remain so. The words that you almost said will remain sealed up within your heart forever – you need to know that she isn’t going to abandon you. Perhaps you don’t need to say the words aloud, perhaps they show easily enough on your face, for Elle’s expression softens.

“When I needed to go, you let me make that choice. You respected my choice,” she reminds you, “You’ll do the same for Gratia, won’t you?”

With a nod, you carry on back to your bedroom. Elle waits outside as you quickly buckle up your sword belt. The Demesne is hostile territory now, as far as you’re concerned, and you’ll treat it as such. Elle is silent as you leave, but she places a warm, steady hand on your shoulder. Drawing confidence from that calming gesture, you offer her a smile before heading off.

You’re almost at the front door when Elle calls your name again. Pausing and glancing back, you see her run down the stairs with a faintly glowing object in her hands – the shard of frozen moonlight from your quarters. She tosses it over, and you catch it out of the air before giving her a questioning look. “Just take it,” she urges, her smile betraying a flicker of pain.

-

“Just take it,” Elspeth Legrasse whispers as the door closes, “And I hope you can forgive me.”

-

Exploring the forest by night is a vastly different prospect to exploring it by day. You know the route to the Demesne well enough, but the darkness and a rapidly swelling rainstorm threatens to slow your movement to a crawl. Splashing through puddles and batting low branches out of your way, you fight your way through the outermost areas of the forest. The trees only grow darker and denser as you travel further in, filling your head with wild fantasies of burning the whole lot to the ground. Burn it all, and let the sins hidden deep within wither beneath the cleansing sunlight.

A sudden sense of danger causes you to slow your run to a cautious walk, glancing about the ancient forest surrounding you. The forest is alive with the sounds of movement, mostly leaves whispering in the rain but also something heavier, something more deliberate – the sound of footsteps, never that far behind you. Sometimes, when you glance around, you catch a gleam of gold peering out at you from the undergrowth. There’s a part of you that wants to follow those golden eyes to wherever they lead, but you bitterly swallow it back and focus on moving forwards.

Remember what you came here for. Remember why you’re here.

[1]

>>6192020
>“Just take it,” Elspeth Legrasse whispers as the door closes, “And I hope you can forgive me.”
not sure if we didn't have enough or had too many elle points

>>6192020

A few loose strands of silver hair are caught on the ragged edge of the old tree, waving like a banner from the jagged entrance. You reach out for them, allowing them to brush lightly against your fingers before you move deeper into the secret entrance. Down and down you march, following the white stone steps down until you emerge into a familiar, cavernous space. This could only be the third layer of the Demesne – you’ve seen it often enough, even if you had entered it through a different path.

Mercifully, you don’t see many Denizens lurking around, and the few that you do see are motionless save for the occasional shudder. Wasting no more time on them, you plunge forwards through the vast hollow until you arrive at the stairs down. The labyrinth awaits below, and this gives you pause. Gratia knows this place far better than you do. If she doesn’t want to be found…

With no better place to start, you set off for your father’s resting place. As if putting your fears to rest, Gratia is already waiting for you there. She glances around with a look that seems casual, indifferent, but you, only you, can see a deep sadness carefully hidden in her eyes.

“I thought if I just slipped quietly away in the night, you might not come after me,” she says softly, “Foolish really. I should’ve known better.”

“I was always going to come after you,” you assure her, “No matter how long it took. No matter how far I had to travel.”

She smiles, although her heart isn’t in it. “I tried my best, dear brother. I really did – for your sake, if nothing else. But I just can’t do it. Those people, that world… it’s your world, not mine,” she murmurs, gesturing for you to follow her as she sets off deeper into the labyrinth, “I don’t see what you see. When I look at the world out there, I see only ruin and decay. The future is not certain, but I fear… I fear that the worst is coming. Why grow attached to a world that will only be ripped away?”

“Because it isn’t lost yet,” you tell her. Perhaps you’re being naive. Perhaps you have the luxury of being naive. After all, you can’t see the things she sees.

Gratia hesitates, then smiles again. This time, the smile reaches her eyes. “Come with me,” she whispers, “There’s something we have to do.”

-

Gratia leads you into a small chamber, the white room utterly empty and unadorned. There, she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath before drawing her dagger. “The exit to the next level isn’t far away,” she announces, raising her voice so it echoes down the corridor behind you, “If you really want to stop us, this might be your last chance.”

You start to ask a question, only for Gratia to silence you with a gesture. You wait and listen instead, soon hearing the soft pad of footsteps approach, then the ring of metal.

The sound of a sword being drawn from its sheath.

[2/3]

>>6192031

With your own sword at the ready, you assume a guarded stance as the black-garbed figure emerges from around the corner. He casts a sinister silhouette, hooded and cloaked with black feathers, with a silver helmet that tapers to a graceful point like a bird’s beak. Looking at the assassin now, you suddenly see where Elle and Juno got the name.

The Silver Bird pauses, the blank mask turning between you and Gratia as if he hadn’t been expecting both of you to be here. “Stand aside,” he orders, his voice muffled and distorted by the silver mask he wears, “I have no quarrel with you, Master Pale.”

“Only with my father and my sister?” you spit, “You may not have any quarrel with me, but I definitely have quarrel with YOU.”

“Your father had to die. His sins would allow nothing else,” the Silver Bird counters, pointing his sword towards Gratia, “That woman must die too. It… gives me no pleasure to kill a woman, but I must put an end to this. I must put an end to all of this. She is not-”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gratia interrupts, her voice dropping to a low, vicious hiss, “You blinkered, dogmatic WORM.”

A slight hint of motion as the Silver Bird shifts his weight is the only warning you get, buying you just enough time to bring up your sword to guard as he lunges forwards towards Gratia. Sparks fly as your blades clash together, locking up for a split second before he draws back and attacks again. You meet each blow that he throws at you, dimly aware of Gratia circling around behind the knight. The dagger gleams in her hand, her eyes almost as cold and sharp as the blade itself.

>Try to disarm the Silver Bird and take him alive. You have much to discuss
>Try to wear down the Silver Bird and strike a killing blow. No mercy for assassins
>Try to keep the Silver Bird distracted. Gratia might be able to land a decisive blow
>Other

>>6192040
we HAVE a gun, right?

And also the shard of moonlight to reveal Gratia's true form

>>6192040
>Try to disarm the Silver Bird and take him alive. You have much to discuss
Back when we met Anders at that asylum, Elle did say to spare the Silver Bird.
I'm still leaning on it being someone we don't know, but if it turns out to really be Cato, he's pretty forgiving considering we had shot his uncle.

>>6192040
>Can the two of you sit still for FIVE SECONDS-
>Shine the moonlight at Gratia

I wonder if invoking the name Strix would cause one or both of them to react.

>>6192040
>Try to disarm the Silver Bird and take him alive. You have much to discuss

>>6192052
+1
And then
>Try to disarm the Silver Bird and take him alive. You have much to discuss

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The Silver Bird is good, perhaps one of the most capable fighters you’ve ever crossed blades with. His attacks come quickly, each one precise and measured – never leaving an opening for you to exploit, never committing too much to the attack. All you can do is meet his blows with your own, warding off his blows at best as you can. More than once, you’re certain that you let your guard slip for a fraction of a second, but he never takes advantage.

You wish he’d slow down for a moment, to give you a moment to think if nothing else. It feels as if there’s something you’re missing, some idea flitting just within your reach if only you had a chance to calm down and think clearly.

Pain blossoms as the Bird’s sword scratches a shallow cut down your forearm. You grunt, biting back the pain and tightening your grip on the sword. It’s hardly a fatal wound, but the first drop of blood has been drawn. The sight of the blood causes the Silver Bird to falter, and for the first time in the fight the momentum swings your way.

“Just… stand still!” you snarl, pushing the knight back a few paces with your attack. Gratia steps forwards and jabs forwards with the dagger, her swift blow just barely stopping short as the Bird catches the blade in his open hand. For a moment, you almost freeze up completely. You’ve seen that trick before.

Taking advantage of the Silver Bird’s distraction, you bring your sword down heavily on his. The blow catches him from an awkward angle, twisting his wrist and sending the sword spilling to the ground. He reaches for it, only to sprawl backwards as you kick him firmly in the chest. You reach for your revolver as he falls, only to find the holster empty. In your haste to leave, you must’ve left the gun on your desk. You might not have the gun, but your hand bumps up against a weight in your pocket as you fumble at your side. You’re not sure what terrible instinct drives your hand, but you bring the shard of frozen moonlight out from your pocket and hold it aloft.

For what seems like an eternity, nobody moves. Nobody says a word. Then, finally, the silence is broken by a low, mournful sigh.

“Dear brother,” Gratia murmurs, her shadow writhing and contorting on the white stone wall behind her, “I really do wish you hadn’t done that.”

-

You stare at the twisting, writhing shadow for a long time, desperately hoping that what you’re seeing isn’t real. The Silver Bird, sensing your distraction, lunges for his fallen sword only for his body to spasm and grow rigid. A low moan of pain escapes him, but you barely notice the sound. Right now, in this moment, he might as well not exist.

“Brother? Isambard?” Gratia asks mildly, “Look at me, please. Not the shadow. Not the wall behind me. Look at me.”

Then, as if as an afterthought.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

[1]