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Nov 12, 2009 9:34:29 GMT -5
Post by ch00beh on Nov 12, 2009 9:34:29 GMT -5
"Enchanted? So the rumors were true," Charlie whispered to Julia.
"Well, we haven't heard of any actual artifacts in here. We just know that a magic-user has been around. We don't even know if the enchantments were done by a real magic-user or a fake," Julia replied.
"Probably. Still, there's clear places where we shouldn't go, so I'm betting what we're looking for is in there."
"Let's not chance trying to get them. Play it safe and just do reconnaissance for now. Don't want to end up as a pile of ashes, you know?"
Charlie chuckled. "True enough. So we just finish the- what the hell?"
For the second time in five minutes, Charlie's hands had instinctively reached for his belt and unbuttoned the strap holding his pistol in place. Julia quickly placed her hand over his.
"Don't do anything rash," Julia said sternly.
"How is everyone taking this in stride!"
"If sh– he wanted to kill us, he would've done it already."
"Or the hearty dinner he's referring to is us. Look at his teeth!" Charlie said the last part much quieter than he had been talking.
"Careful, there's a mind reader here." Julia nodded her head towards the respective gentleman. "Remember your anti-psychic training. And calm down. I'm as frightened as you are, but freaking out won't help us. Also it looks unprofessional."
Charlie sighed and closed his eyes. He rebuttoned his holster strap and took a seat, rubbing his temples as he did so.
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SV
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Dec 23, 2009 1:20:55 GMT -5
Post by SV on Dec 23, 2009 1:20:55 GMT -5
Rhys pulled out the chair nearest him, beside the flamboyant man whose name he recalled to be Nopcsa. Across the table from him sat Julia and Charlie. He studied the man obliquely, hoping to appear as though he were studying the peculiar wall décor behind him. His first impression of him was that he was as much a body guard to the pretty Miss Romanesco as he was a business associate. Rhys couldn't help but ponder what brought them there.
Or what brought any of them here, for that matter. Surveying the table as he waited to be served, it appeared that he was the only one who had no idea about any sort of protection of the property. At the same time, it also seemed that no one was sure exactly what it was they were supposed to protect.
And Mr. Giguire...Strange entrance aside, something else in the master of the estate's bearing set him immediately on guard. The whole of the events of the past little while had left him in a state of mild, dazed shock.
At any rate, he would feel ridiculous asking any questions, and so he sat, waiting to -- hopefully -- learn more over the course of the meal.
OOC: Sleep-deprived post is sub-par and deprived of sleep. =S
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Jan 26, 2010 2:46:01 GMT -5
Post by Tout-Perd on Jan 26, 2010 2:46:01 GMT -5
“Aha! Mister Brogue, I like your style!” Giguere slammed his palm down on the table with a sound like a gunshot, the sturdy surface shuddering. Achenes frowned, and sat back, the tablecloth sliding towards her as she moved.
“Naturally, I have always felt the same. A warm, wholesome meal is the best remedy for one's troubles, whatever they may be,” He stood up, pushing out his seat slowly.
“Obesity?” Nopcsa answered with a juvenile smirk.
“A layer of fat is just the body's way of showing a life well lead, in my opinion,” Orville stepped around the side of the table, straightening the cloth as he went.
“Is that what life is to you? A chance to indulge in hedonism until you run out of it?” Achenes had taken to leaning on the armrest of her chair, one sleeve-clad hand under her chin.
“Not just hedonism. Hedonism could be said to be appreciation of the lesser things in life, while culture is an appreciation of the greater. Naturally, I indulge in both to the fullest degree that my inheritance has allowed,” Orville arrived at his china cabinet, and began scanning it, looking for the appropriate means for serving his guests.
“Reveling in such things is wasting money that could go to the poor and needy.”
“If it wasn't for the hedonistic money wasters, whatever would happen to all of the caviar farmers of the world?” Nopcsa winced as the redhead's gaze came to bear on him.
“Caviar? Feh, that's nothing,” Orville paused, staring at a set of nineteen plates and twenty one mismatched cups. He put a finger to his chin in thought, and then shook his head dismissively, “That's a 'delicacy' that people have when they want to feel like they're rich. A true delicacy is something that is genuinely rare, something that only you on those you decide to share it with would ever get to experience.”
“So, you mean like when William Buckland ate the heart of King Louis the Fourteenth?” Nopcsa chimed in, his grin resuming once more.
“Essentially, like that, yes,” Orville closed the door to his china cabinet hastily, the glass rattling once more. He knelt down, opening a lower compartment.
“Disgusting!” Achenes had not paused in shifting around her seat, now slumped against the back.
“Disgusting? Maybe. But it's the event, the memory. That man was one of incalculably few who've ever tasted such a thing. That makes it worth more than all the caviar in the world, in my eyes,” Orville stood up, producing seven wine glasses. He walked behind the side of the table nearest him, setting one in front of each of the guards.
“Pass these across the table, please,” He handed two to Terrian, set the last towards the head of the table, and then went back for plates.
“What do you have in the way of beverages?” Nopcsa elbowed Terrian and threw a covert wink his way.
“Oh, not too much of interest to our group here. But I do have something that is of enough significance to warrant its sharing...” Orville finished passing out the plates, and went over to the wall. He slid a picture of a soaring dragon aside, revealing a small nook in the wall. He tapped three times on the metal walls inside the cubbyhole, and a loud puffing noise followed.
“Great vintage here. A traditional homemade wine from Shin-Ra, circa Nineteen Twenty Three. Almost a century before they opened trade, if I'm not mistaken,” He drew a sparkling wine bottle from the wall and replaced the picture. He took a firm hold of the cork, and plucked it from the bottle's neck.
“Here, allow me...” He poured a measure into each glass within reach, and then went back to his seat. The wine was white, sitting smoothly in each glass. A few blue sparks danced across the surface of the drink, flickering brilliantly.
“They say that the mages of that nation use magic to improve the quality of the wine. A rather clever use of their skills, if I do say so myself.”
“Excellent. But what's for dinner?” Nopcsa rapped on his plate with his knuckles.
“Whatever you want. Simply hold the plate, and voice your wish for a food item. Provided the enchantment on those plates holds, and nobody has too strong of an accent, you should get what you requested.”
“Nifty,” Nopcsa put his fingers on either side of the plate, feeling the cool china on his fingertips, “Well done steak, pan-seared with garlic, and sweet corn on the cob. Side of mashed potatoes, if you will...”
The room was filled with the scent of cooked meat and freshly boiled corn as the items appeared upon the mindreader's plate.
“Very nifty indeed.”
OOC: Next round: PLOT.
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Jan 26, 2010 13:14:29 GMT -5
Post by Beelzebibble on Jan 26, 2010 13:14:29 GMT -5
Terrian took in Giguere's words without speaking. So as to avoid making too much eye contact, he studied the fibers of the blonde gentleman's mustache. There was a familiar stirring up of Terrian's senses in reaction to Giguere. Envy... A man stood before him who'd achieved exactly what Terrian wanted: enough money to live however he wanted and without the least concern for the opinions of others. Here was the future Terrian had tried over and over to usher in, every time he'd made an attempt to duplicate a bill in his hand.
Then again (Terrian switched his crossed legs from one to the other), was this really how he wanted to live? Dressing in a red suit in a mansion full of dragon portraits and china, philosophizing about the nature of delicacies and hedonism? If he had the money to spend, would this be how he spent it? Or --
There was a nudging at his arm, from where Nopcsa sat. Giguere was holding out a pair of wine glasses to Terrian. He accepted them with a quick "Sure," nodded in thanks to Nopcsa, and set the glasses down in front of the farthest two, the armed man and his associate. The woman at least met his eyes when he gave her her glass, although he couldn't make anything out of her expression. The man didn't give him a glance.
After receiving his plate, Terrian watched Nopcsa's dinner materialize. "Oh cool," he said softly. He looked down at his own plate, which he was holding on either side. "All right, how about... chicken? Some roasted chicken, please."
Nothing happened. Terrian couldn't help feeling that the plate was expecting a more elaborate request. "And... some steamed green beans and a baked potato? That should--" But the complete meal had already appeared. The chicken breast was still sizzling. Terrian stole another glance at Nopcsa to make sure he didn't look green in the face before getting started. He was, in fact, astonishingly hungry.
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SV
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Feb 14, 2010 17:05:48 GMT -5
Post by SV on Feb 14, 2010 17:05:48 GMT -5
Rhys got a small chuckle out of the man named Terrian and his enchanted plate shenanigans. He himself was focused mostly on the lasagna and crisp salad on his own plate. It was quite possibly the best lasagna he had ever tasted -- but really, what had he expected? Giguere hardly seemed like the type to settle for magical plates that spawned lousy food. The wine was likewise spectacular, pairing well with his pasta despite it being white; it seemed to effervesce as he sipped it, a sensation that he accredited to the odd blue sparks.
Highly satisfied with the meal, Rhys decided it was time to confront his next-biggest concern: What were all these people doing here and what exactly needed guarding? He was here as a delivery boy, nothing more. That some five other people had shown up coincidently at the same time was suspicious at best.
The table was quiet, save for the clatter of silverware as the dinner guests ate. Rhys thought it over for a moment and decided that he absolutely did not want to pose the question to the whole table out of fear of sounding utterly ignorant.
Beside him, Nopcsa chewed his steak placidly. Rhys considered for a moment. In the short time that he had known him (for lack of a better term), he decided that he liked the flamboyant mind-reader well enough. And Nopcsa and Terrian appeared to be nothing if not approachable.
He half-turned his head to them. "So," he began conversationally, his voice the kind of quiet that suggested discreetness, "what exactly is going on here?"
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Feb 16, 2010 8:59:08 GMT -5
Post by Tout-Perd on Feb 16, 2010 8:59:08 GMT -5
"Ah, Rhys Whitticker. I suppose that package you delivered would be something of ours. The Fascere Order, I mean," Nopcsa smiled slyly, and slipped another piece of steak into his mouth. He chewed it slowly as Rhys waited for a more direct answer.
"Basically, our boss works-" Nopcsa's tone suddenly hushed. He glanced across the table at Julia, and then his eyes flicked back to Rhys, "Well, our whole company works in the production, acquisition, and distribution of arcane products for the end consumer. Giguere happens to be one of our better customers."
"My guess on what you're doing here? Well, I'd say that our boss happened to hear that you were some manner of Power, and pulled a few strings to get you here. Really, makes sense. If you can do anything more than 'flood the other guy in socks' or 'piss the other guy off' in a fight, you're much better off than us two," Nopcsa went to put an arm around Terrian, cocked his head, and then pulled away.
"I wouldn't know what our going rate would be for a night of babysitting this guy and his fortune. But I'll see about twisting my boss's arm into giving you a good rate-" Nopcsa slipped another piece of meat into his mouth.
"Heck, if that doesn't work, I'll give you a cut of my pay. It's worth it, if it means having somebody who can fight on our side here."
"Hey, I can fight. Probably better than lanky over there, too," Achenes piped up. She had been shoveling brown rice from her plate into her mouth until that moment, using a pair of battered looking chopsticks produced from somewhere on her person.
"There's a difference between being able to control shadows at will and being able to hit things really hard," Nopcsa shot back, talking over Terrian.
"I'd rather count on somebody reliable and weak than somebody strong that a bunch of cheats and conmen brought in for the job," Achenes took another bite of her rice, and started chewing thoroughly.
"Why not have both, as I've always said?" Giguere spoke, sawing away at the leg of lamb in front of him. He hadn't yet started eating, despite his aparent enthusiasm earlier.
"That's always been part of my way in life. Be it dinner, artwork, friends, business associates, women..." He took his first bite of his dinner, and paused. His eyes drifted shut for a moment.
"You'd be surprised how often the right choice is 'A and B'," he concluded, slowly opening his eyes.
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Feb 18, 2010 16:48:20 GMT -5
Post by ch00beh on Feb 18, 2010 16:48:20 GMT -5
"Alright. Magic plates. I think it's safe to assume we're in the right place." Charlie mumbled to Julia. He reached for his plate and lifted it to make sure nothing was underneath.
"Yes. Go eat. It's rude to look a gift horse in the mouth," Julia replied. She may have been showing confidence, but she was only doing it to reassure her companion. Inside, she was as confused and wary as he was. "Grilled chicken caeser salad."
The salad appeared on her plate as requested. Julia smiled at Charlie before picking up her fork. She took a small bite first, slowly chewing it. It tasted... fresh. She smiled at Charlie once again.
"Well, alright. Guess these work as advertised," Charlie said, still subtly playing with his plate. "No one's gotten a boiled heart or an-"
Julia couldn't help but chuckle as he stopped midsentence due to a boiled heart, still steaming, appeared on his plate. The man pushed the plate away and buried his face in his hands. "Oh I should've expected this."
Julia patted him on the back and nudged her salad closer to him before glancing up at the others. The mindreader's body language caught her attention. She knew mindreaders were almost always nonchalant around people; they knew everyone's thoughts, so why worry about danger? That was the issue; he was almost forcing some of his casual interactions. Add to that the occasional quick, furtive glances and somewhat hushed tones. He was cautious. Of her, specifically.
Julia focused on her salad. It would be embarrassing to get caught thinking of someone.
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Mar 5, 2010 12:01:04 GMT -5
Post by Beelzebibble on Mar 5, 2010 12:01:04 GMT -5
Terrian looked up from his potato. Giguere's words had caught his attention again. This was a man who just got more and more interesting with every syllable he ushered forth from his flytrap. The syllables "A and B", especially, these were some very good syllables. Really it was as if Giguere's philosophy on life was tailor-made to be everything that Terrian wanted. He got down another bite of chicken and annnounced, "You and I--"
He realized he was already nabbing some green beans so he went ahead with those before continuing. "You and I have a rapport that I think we need to acknowledge before its obvious but unmentioned existence just gets awkward."
A and B. The ideal combination of A or otherwise and B or otherwise. This policy had done wonders for Terrian in his life so far. Faced with two courses of action, why shouldn't he exercise his natural prerogative to do both at once? Cheating maybe, if you wanted to call it that, but who was Terrian to decide where the Power genes cropped up and where they didn't? He'd been favored with a lucky draw, so what was the problem with taking advantage of that?
Yeah, said the old voice in his head. Real paragon of balance and neutrality there, chief. Almost makes you wonder why you didn't go ahead and shoot everyone back there in the field. Why pick a side? Just off Garth and Natalie, isn't that the theory?
Terrian's gaze darkened even as his smile grew cheerier. That time had been different. It'd had to be A or B. He couldn't have done both.
And your pick was exactly the masterfully-thought-out decision we would expect. There totally weren't any consequences either. Yessir when the chips are down and there's no soft option at hand, Terrian Brogue really does know how to
Terrian chewed his next bite of chicken so loudly that he could not even hear himself think.
OOC: You can't tell I haven't written Terrian in a while, can you?
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Mar 5, 2010 13:07:57 GMT -5
Post by ch00beh on Mar 5, 2010 13:07:57 GMT -5
OOC: Who is Terrian?
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SV
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Mar 8, 2010 14:46:20 GMT -5
Post by SV on Mar 8, 2010 14:46:20 GMT -5
OOC: He's the one who flies and controls fire, right?
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Sept 2, 2010 22:34:34 GMT -5
Post by Tout-Perd on Sept 2, 2010 22:34:34 GMT -5
OOC: Apologies for the delays, guys. “Oh, most unfortunate, Mr. Andrews!” Giguere slid free of his seating with a sinuous motion, and stepped over to the agent. With a genteel flourish, his removed the plate from before Charlie. “Of course, the heart is one of the better cuts in an animal. It toils away every moment of the creature’s life, pushing blood so that the rest of the body may partake in life. It naturally is very lean, having known naught but travail for all of its existence,” He slipped the organ onto his plate with a wet smack. “In its repose, it is sweeter than all of its brethren,” Orville sat down once more, and then cocked his head slightly, “Of course, I’m curious, Mr. Andrews… Were you thinking of the heart of a pig, or a human heart?” “Human. So totally human. Like, more human than human even,” Nopcsa inserted himself into the conversation, smirking across the table at the slightly nauseous Foundation member. “Thank you, Nopcsa. The similarities are quite enough that it’s impossible to distinguish between the two without taking a taste, assuming they’ve been properly prepared,” With a faint smile, he began slicing into the heart with gusto. “Dude, what the hell?” It was Achenes turn to stand up from her seat, apparently. Had somebody been clever with a boombox, it would have appeared to be an especially luxurious game of Musical Chairs. “That’s a guy’s heart! You’re eating a freakin’… A freakin’ HEART! That’s cannibalism!” “Two key points disprove your argument, Ms. Achenes. First of all, these plates are imbued with creative magic, and not summoning magic. They are essentially making a replica of a heart for me to eat. And, secondly, if you’ve noted my appearance and my predilections, I’m not exactly what one would call a human in the first place,” Giguere fondly stroked the head of a wyvern-shaped candleholder. “What are you, then?” Achenes seemed to have more questions than that, but the verbal slap had left her without much footing. “Oh, just a bit of something so much more infinitely grand than the apes we see staggering through the streets daily. Unfortunately, I am mostly human, but that twelve point five percent that isn’t…” He smiled as if enraptured, and looked towards the ceiling, “Oh, that little portion of me is worth more than everything else I have in this world.” “Apes? So you’re saying that anybody whose great grandma didn’t boink Smaug should be in the zoo?” Nopcsa didn’t flavor his comment with much intonation, though there still were traces of mischief to be found. “I’d never say such a thing as that, not in the least,” Giguere took his first bite of the heart, and paused to chew it thoughtfully, “I’d refer to the common rabble that you see wandering the byways of America, and indeed, the world over, as apes. No foresight, no appreciation for culture, petty and immature even in their attempts at hedonism. That’s a waste.” “As for the present company, though, the simple fact that you’re here today shows you’ve got connections and talents far beyond the hazy aspirations and bleakly polished skills of the hoi polloi. You’re an upper crust of humanity, individuals that even my ancestors would consider worth associating with.” “It’s times like this where I start wondering why the hell I’m even here. You’ve got all of this power, all of this potential to do something, and you just-“ Achenes’ voice was rough. She was speaking from her chest, the words echoing slightly in the room. “Sit on it like a dragon with an egg,” Nopcsa concluded. “Indeed, that is what I do. Do not begrudge me the nature of my bloodline, Achenes, and I’ll try not to be too perturbed by your stereotypical Irish temper,” Giguere took a sip of his wine, and met her blazing eyes with a powerful calm, “Besides, what you’re doing is bringing me out of this habit of mine, to a degree. By accepting pay for protecting me for one evening, you get a portion of my wealth. And then you may distribute it as you see fit, aiding the rise of more people from this bleak ocean known as humanity.” “Mayhaps, even, I could give you one of these plates. Think of how much that would better the lives in a third world village,” Giguere’s smugness was almost palpable. Achenes sat down before her employer could hurl his weight around any more. “Speaking of which, Charlie, it’d be unwise for me to leave you unfed. You are, after all, one of the people charged with the protection of my life and estate. An empty stomach could be the difference between success and failure. Do try your wine, I’ll see to providing something for you,” The host swept the lingering juices from the dish with a napkin, and then laid it on the table once more. “It seems that our comrade isn’t the most adventurous among us. If you could, provide him with something simple and certain not to mortify him. Chicken fingers and French fries sounds like a good enough fit.” The plate gleamed for an instant, apparently cleansing itself more thoroughly, and then was filled with the meal demanded of it. Large slices of white meat, perfectly breaded, rested on a bed of crisp fries. A barbecue sauce, evidently made from scratch and of a southern recipe, was drizzled in an elaborate pattern over the dinner. The plate passed from hand to hand until it reached its intended consumer. “Now, what rapport do you speak of, Mr. Brogue?” Giguere leaned forwards, his golden eyes attempting to meet Terrian’s evasive gaze. “He tried some stuff in college. Experimented with a hydra once, or something like that,” Nopcsa didn’t look up from the corn, intently gnawing away at it, "You can imagine how that would become awkward." OOC: HALF YEAR REVIVAL, HO!
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Sept 6, 2010 22:43:38 GMT -5
Post by Beelzebibble on Sept 6, 2010 22:43:38 GMT -5
Terrian stared down at his half-eaten plate of food. "So awkward," he agreed. "The most awkward." He looked around at the others: Mr. Andrews, accepting the plate of chicken with obvious reluctance; Ms. Romanesco, keeping her gaze intently on her salad; Ms. Achenes, glaring at a painting of a dragon conveniently beyond Orville Giguere's head; Mr. Whitticker, pallidly tapping a finger on his empty plate. Oh, and everyone's favorite friend. The star of the evening. Terrian rested his forearms on the table, leaned forward, and gave Nopcsa a look that would have said quite plainly even if he wasn't a mindreader, Fock you and, equally, fuck Auguste Tylor. In fact this was such a specific and nuanced facial expression that even a non-mindreader could have followed it further into this translation: Tell him I'll stick with shirt duty next time.But the act of leaning forward had stirred up something within him that was better off staying down. Terrian took in a heavy breath. Then he opened his mouth, closed it again, and next managed: "Mr. Giguere, I'm afraid I must have missed the half bath on the way in. Could I...?" He swallowed and waggled a hand in an effort to finish the question. OOC: Bigger post if Terrian gets permission from Giguere to go.
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Sept 6, 2010 23:16:31 GMT -5
Post by Tout-Perd on Sept 6, 2010 23:16:31 GMT -5
"Oh, of course, Terrian! In fact, feel free to disperse as many of your duplicates as you’d like, provided they stay on the property,” Giguere worked his lips for a moment, pulling the last dangling shreds of a tendony-bit into his mouth, “I just don’t want you making a beeline for somewhere far enough away that you can’t do your duty. No, that wouldn’t do in the least.” “Don’t worry. Breach of contract is handled very seriously by The Order… And besides, his ‘duty’ is exactly what Terrian is going to do, regardless of distance.” There was Nopcsa again. Ever helpful. He was gaily resting his chin on his hand, his meal finished. He gave a half wave, wiggling his fingers, and then winked. OOC: Kinda makes all those comments about "A hearty dinner" on the first page seem a bit different in retrospect, eh?
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Sept 7, 2010 19:59:44 GMT -5
Post by Beelzebibble on Sept 7, 2010 19:59:44 GMT -5
Terrian smiled tightly, stood up, and passed out of the room and back into the hallway. Obviously Giguere had excused him without actually letting him know where the bathroom was. Only natural. Terrian hadn't wanted to open his mouth again to ask, though. He sidestepped a statue of a rampaging dragon and slid open a panel with one stiff hand. Wrong. Closet. He pressed on. The half bath was at the other end of the hall, beneath the staircase. Tiny, but not too shabby. Done up in marble. Dim incandescent lighting. Terrian closed the door, locked it, dialed the ventilation all the way up, stuffed a hand towel into the crack under the door, turned around, lifted the toilet seat, and threw up neatly into the bowl.
After, he flushed, mopped up with a few damp paper towels, turned around, and sat fully clad on the toilet seat, bent double. With his elbows on his knees, he stared through the diamond shape made by his calves and forearms onto the tiled floor. Then he jerked one foot slightly in pain. A duplicate mentally apologized for tripping.
Why his power should have been engineered so that everyone had their off days all at once escaped Terrian.
He was going through a rough enough day as it was without anyone else's help.
He reached over to the sink, turned on the cold water, and cupped a hand to catch some, but sloshing it down his throat didn't do much to scrub out the foul aftertaste. He thought about Giguere slicing into the heart and almost felt round two coming on. He decided to think about something else. Perhaps how fucked-up the Fascere Order was.
"Very," he affirmed aloud to no one.
Though he wasn't the only one in the bathroom for long. In another moment a duplicate stood up off the toilet seat, picked up the hand towel, replaced it on the rack, and opened the door. Three more duplicates followed him out into the hallway. They all looked exactly like a train and a mountain who'd decided to work out their problems through violence.
Terrian didn't really say anything to them. There wasn't any need. They knew what they were doing. The first duplicate headed unsteadily back down the hall toward the dining room. The other three duplicates split ways and made themselves scarce.
The last one of them was kind enough to close the door again for Terrian's benefit before he left.
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Sept 9, 2010 11:50:29 GMT -5
Post by ch00beh on Sept 9, 2010 11:50:29 GMT -5
Charlie reluctantly took the plate of chicken fingers. He stared at it for a moment before venturing a poke with his fork. It didn't squirt blood everywhere. That was a start. Hesitantly, he skewered the smallest piece and raised it to his mouth, regarding it for a moment before taking a bite.
"Ok, ok, this is pretty good," he said in between chews. "Fanciest chicken fingers I've ever had, in fact."
If Julia could play the nonchalant game, so could he. Everything had been going so ridiculously throughout the night that he was beginning to think it was all just some fucked up dream. He looked down at his watch, took another bite of chicken, then looked back at his watch to make sure the time was right. Damn. Not a dream. Either that or his subconscious was working really hard to keep this elaborate prank going.
Oh well. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, right?
He took the last bit of chicken from his fork with one big bite then glanced over at the woman responsible for reminding him of that quote. Unlike earlier, she didn't seem as collected as before. Her eyes weren't widened, but they were slightly dilated and glazed over, like she was no longer paying attention. Her breathing was slightly deeper than before.
"Hey Doc." Charlie whispered.
The doctor poked at a piece of lettuce.
"Julia." He nudged her.
"He just ate a heart," she said, barely audible even to her partner.
Right. Dragon man. Charlie had almost successfully used the chicken nuggets to stop that memory from forming properly.
"A heart..." she said again, even quieter than before.
With the least amount of ceremony possible, Charlie forked another piece of chicken and held it in front of Julia's face.
"I. Um. Wh– thank you," the woman said, her composure quickly going back to what could be considered "normal" at this time. She plucked the piece of chicken off the fork and took a bite.
Right. Just keep pretending it's a dream. Chicken fingers that are so good they can snap someone out of shock don't actually exist in real life.
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Dec 19, 2011 0:53:12 GMT -5
Post by Ninety on Dec 19, 2011 0:53:12 GMT -5
Washington, D.C.
There was a man on the cusp of middle-age standing in front of a young and beautiful redhead who was sitting at a desk with only a few very important purposes. It needed to hold a phone, a laptop, a notepad, and some pens while simultaneously keeping her long legs and fully automatic pistol out of view. The man waited quietly while the secretary checked his identification against company records. The shaved head on her computer screen matched the one on top of the gray three piece suit in the room with her. Tattoos crept above the collar of his shirt and out of his sleeves.
"Welcome to Joyeuse Anti-Insurgency Services, Mr. Hadley. Have a seat and Mr. Mistric will be right with you."
Before he could turn around to sit, a voice called out through the door at the other end of the room.
"Come on in, Mr. Hadley. Shut the door behind you."
David Hadley did as he was told. There was a click as the latch fell back in its seat but the sound died quickly in the vastness of the room. Instead there was only the droning of track lighting on top of industrial air-conditioning, as well as the scratching of a pencil on paper. The berber carpet swallowed his footsteps as he made his way to the desk in the corner of the room. The quietness of the room was of such weight and resolution that it was impossible to ignore. You would either find it calming or maddening. David liked it. There were a great many chaotic elements in his life and a solid silence was always welcome. He stood wordless in front of the desk with his arms in front of him, one hand grasping the other's wrist, and enjoyed the momentary monotony while he waited for the man he'd come to see to finish whatever it was he was doing.
After a few minutes, William Mistric put the pencil down and leaned back in his chair. He massaged the knuckles of his pen-hand and exhaled a puff of relief.
"Thank you for waiting, Mr. Hadley. I meant to have this done by the time you got here but I just received an update to the assignment a short while ago and then you showed up early."
"I don't like to be late."
"Good man." Mistric slipped off his glasses and set them on the desk then leaned forward to address David. "Are you familiar with a Mr. Orville Giguere?"
"I have heard the name, sir. Not much more."
"That seems to be the case with most people." Mistric put his glasses back on and picked up a photograph on his desk. After looking at it for a moment he handed it over to David.
"That's his mansion. That's where your assignment is."
"What is the assignment, sir?"
"Giguere is set to receive a package of some great importance, the nature of which remains unknown to us. The client claims that they are the rightful owners of the package and that Giguere arranged for it to be stolen from them. They want it back. Whether or not they're telling the truth is irrelevant; their money is real and they're giving it to us so that we might retrieve the package for them."
"Expendables?"
"Should be kept to a minimum. Let me be clear that Giguere is not a target here. The client merely wants the package. What little is known of Giguere, his wealth is a certainty; I don't want to cut off a potential client. I expect him to be under guard at all times and there may be other players gunning for the package so watch yourself, Hadley." He gave David the papers he'd been writing on earlier. "That's a list of likely… entities you might come across. We did a little digging and found that Giguere had been reaching out to gifted individuals through various channels, presumably for guard duty. That's got the top suspects and a little background on them and their notabilities."
"Yes, sir. Anything else?"
"No, that will be all. Here's the dossier." Mistric picked up a thick manila envelope and passed it over to David who dropped in the papers along with the photograph he'd been handed earlier. "Plane ticket to Salt Lake, a couple of maps, aerial photos, a blueprint of questionable certainty, and various other information you might find useful. Jessica will give you your advance and authorize your credit line on the way out."
"Thank you, sir."
Salt Lake City
He'd scaled the wall surrounding the grounds and landed in the midst of a garden near the mansion. David could see lights on in a few areas of the estate but he was in darkness for the time being. Carefully, he made his way to the house and sat against the wall, out of sight.
Time for some reconnaissance.
He looked down at his hand, specifically, the tattoo of a black widow spider on his left hand. The ink trembled and then his skin stretched and peeled as leg after leg crept into the night air. In a few seconds the spider broke free completely and there was only clean flesh where the tattoo had been. David placed his hand on the wall and the spider hurried towards a cracked window on the second floor.
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EMET
Mar 15, 2012 15:34:02 GMT -5
Post by Beelzebibble on Mar 15, 2012 15:34:02 GMT -5
OOC: Late birthday present for Lee. Also I am well aware that the size of this post and the time it spent in the chute means I have essentially become Lee. Also Ninety owes me a barista now. The duplicate Brogue gently unlaced one black dress shoe, noting as he did so that both were looking pretty lackluster; he’d apparently trod in one too many salt lakes on the way to the mansion. He slid the shoe off his foot, straightened up, and threw it across the long, steeply downward-sloping hall ahead. The shoe landed on the velvety red carpet at the corner where the hall veered right. Brogue watched carefully, but the shoe had already passed the first test, which was that it had not dissolved into a fine mist at any point on its trajectory. Test number two demonstrated that the arrival of the shoe did not cause a pair of identical little girls in blue dresses to round the corner and face him. That was enough empirical experimentation to go on for the moment. It seemed the hallway was safe. Brogue moved forward slowly, exerting care to keep his balance on the heavily inclined floor, but he didn’t take into account how soon the ceiling would drop down into a low slope so he banged his head, obviously. Now it could well be said that concern for one’s life meant something different to a duplicate than to the progenitor. If this Brogue accidentally toed a magic booby trap or ran into a murderous ghost or some such, well, in all dispassionate honesty that wouldn’t exactly be the end of things. Terrian Brogue the collective would go right on his merry way. So there shouldn’t have been any excuse for the duplicate to feel the tension – no, let’s be frank, the raw fear – that was creeping in from all sides as he himself crept through the corridors of the mansion. It wasn’t the existential concerns of death that threatened him. Then, what? Maybe the knowledge that there was no precedent yet for a duplicate of Terrian Brogue dying; thus no way to foresee the physiological effect this would have on the progenitor. Would a part of him perish along with the dupe? What might “a part of him” even mean? This specific duplicate would’ve preferred not to be the first to help Terrian find out. Or perhaps it was something else? Perhaps the simple fact that he was already busily imagining what the thing might look like, the ghost or demon or whatever might cross his path within this mansion. Perhaps the sheer animal fact that he did not want to encounter this fiend and look upon its face. Nothing more than one plain atavistic understanding: This Brogue did not wish to die. When he reached the fallen shoe, he spent a prudent moment peering around the corner while showing the least of his face that he could manage. The empty hallway banked right and continued down; surely he was well below ground at this point. At the bottom of this slope stood a pair of unusually wide doors, both open. Brogue grappled with a sudden urge to turn back before remembering that the basement was supposed to be “locked” in addition to its magical protections. Anyway, there didn’t seem to be anything through the doors but a free-standing iron staircase that led back upward. Even so, Brogue scooped up the shoe and tossed it again before proceeding. It cleared the doors and landed safely, though this time with an audible clatter that resounded back to where Brogue stood: the velvet carpeting had given out, and the shoe had landed on a harder surface, possibly stone. He moved steadily down the hall to retrieve it, noticing as he began his descent that the framed pictures all the way down the wall on his left were of the same size and shape. Hitherto the hallway had been decorated with yet more paintings and drawings of dragons (whose mystical appeal had long since worn tiresome for this duplicate), and this menagerie continued down the wall on the right, interspersed with three small closed doors; but the hangings on the left were obviously part of a cohesive set, about a dozen altogether. In fact they weren’t illustrations at all, but a series of black-and-white photographs. The first few depicted a middle-aged Asian man sitting at a small desk, situated inexplicably in the center of an otherwise bare room. In the first picture his expression was calm, placid, not to say unreadable, but by the fourth his brow had furrowed and the corners of his mouth had pulled back in an expression of grim unease. In the fifth photograph he’d lifted a wrinkled hand to his mouth and was apparently coughing into it. Next he was buckled over in his chair, both elbows on the desk, covering his face. In the seventh photograph, his blurry form lurched up from the chair and out of frame, knocking the chair to the floor, where it lay in the eighth photograph. The next was identical, with the man nowhere to be found, until the tenth revealed an arm reaching into the frame for the desk. Brogue squinted at the strange dark patch visible on the man’s forearm. A shadow? No, it wasn’t uniform in color, there were glints of light here and there on its surface. Not blood… his arm didn’t appear wounded… The angle was different in the eleventh photograph: the camera, which must have stood on a tripod, had clearly been pushed aside. The man was still out of frame, although a splintered shape on the floor in the corner soon proved to be the upended desk. The next print was identical. Then, in the following photograph, the man loomed into view once again, hunched asymmetrically to favor his left side, and Brogue came close to voicing a cry of revulsion. The dark splotches now covered what was visible of his skin, giving him a vaguely bovine appearance that was halfway to comic, but Brogue could now see that this was not purely a change of color: the harsh light overhead cast a fine honeycomb pattern on what could only be scales. But the face was worse – somehow much worse, even though the change there took Brogue longer to notice. The man’s face, from the eyes down, was growing longer. His nose and jawline jutted forth grotesquely from his cheeks as though he were being sucked into a vacuum. His wide mouth gaped to reveal two rows of inhumanly sharp teeth. When Brogue managed to tear his eyes away from this image to glance further down the wall, it was to look upon only stone. He’d reached the end of the corridor. Still not entirely trusting the shoe experiment, Brogue stripped off his jacket and, after a quick glance behind him up the hallway, waved the jacket like a matador’s cape across the doorway. He couldn’t help but half-expect the black shape to burst aflame in the middle of its batlike flapping. But after a moment he lowered the jacket, then slid it back over his shoulders. He raised his unshod foot and slowly, gently, toed the divide between the crimson carpet and the stone. Then he decided he was being an idiot and that this was not the basement proper. He stepped forward. Nothing happened. Brogue reached down to retrieve the shoe from the densely tiled floor, then looked up at the extent of this cylindrical stairwell. Strange: he hadn’t remembered seeing so many floors on the outside. Obviously he was below ground, but surely not that far below ground… It looked as though there were seven or eight flights’ worth of iron stairs leading upward, not spiraling but rather zigzagging directly from floor to floor. And then Brogue really thought he must be seeing it wrong, because some of the stairways looked completely redundant, leading between pairs of nonadjacent floors and skipping the one in between, while other stairways linked the three floors one-to-one. While gazing up, at least, from the bottom, the jumble of crisscrossing stairways gave an uncomfortable impression of Escher. Here at the lowest floor, opposite the hallway, stood a tall, thin, dark door that was carved several feet back into the stone and fitted with an ornate brass knob. The basement proper, no doubt. He gave this a wide berth. Brogue made to sit on the staircase and put his shoe back on, but thought better of it after comparing the iron grate steps to a smooth stone bench at one side, curved to fit the contour of the wall. He opted for the bench, cleverly managing not to strike his skull a second time on the light fixture overhead. (Modern, yet in the shape of a torch, it jutted out from the wall and cast a dusky incandescent glow from behind a thick glass shell. Similar “torches” lined the walls going all the way up the stairwell.) As Brogue tied the wingtip’s laces, he inspected the tiles on the floor, which came in two groups of colors: shades of vermillion, beige and gold, and of grey and black. Though there was a noticeable channel of grey and black tiles running along the diameter of the circle, the dispersion of colors seemed otherwise to be random, with carelessly placed streaks of dark tiles all over the “background” of the brighter hues. It wasn’t until Brogue stood up from the bench and started toward the staircase that he noticed a face in the floor. He stopped short, though more out of surprise than horror. After the sequence of photographs in the corridor, this apparition was less unnerving… though still more than a little off-putting, he had to admit. The face was thinly etched out of dark tiles against the bright oranges and tans. Two short, jagged rows of dark tiles suggested eyes shut tight, and there was the appearance of a hollow in place of the nose. The mouth, a lopsided oval of dark tiles enclosing bright ones, wound back and forth toward the wall for nearly twice the length of the rest of the face. It was hard not to mentally supply the scream of anguish that might have issued from that almost ghostly mouth. He couldn’t believe this was an accident of arrangement. As he looked around the perimeter of the circle, he was sure he saw other faces with similar expressions, some with wide rings of dark tiles to suggest open, staring eyes, others that might have had no eyes at all. By now his feeling of healthy, transient surprise had overstayed its welcome and progressed into an abiding dread. He glanced up the stairwell with a sharp breath, but nothing rotted and shriveled was lurching down the steps above to greet him. Even so Brogue had a pretty strong idea that it was time to get out of here. He compared options, and decided that the speed of the stairwell outweighed the familiarity of the hallway, given that what was familiar in the hallway he had no wish to look at a second time. Brogue laid a hand on the iron railing before it occurred to him to worry that the metal might react with defensive enchantments and melt his flesh off. Fortunately nothing of the sort happened so that was all right then. He made it up to the first landing without all the stairs constricting to grind him into a blood-soaked sheet of skin so he really felt he was more or less in the clear at this point. Then he looked down once again onto the mosaic at the bottom of the stairwell. He could no longer see the faces. No matter where he looked on the mosaic, he couldn’t discern a single one of what had been at least half a dozen expressions down below. It couldn’t be that the tiles had changed color, because that was extremely stupid, and anyway the long channel of dark tiles cutting most of the way across the diameter looked the same as before. He had simply “unseen” the faces. Which struck the duplicate as pretty stupid and implausible in its own right until he realized that they had never been there to begin with. How could they have? Obviously the design was supposed to be crows! He could see them all over the floor, dark shapes with zigzagging wings outstretched in all increments of flight. Loosed feathers of black and grey ( remiges and rectrices, he thought suddenly) danced everywhere in the orange and golden sky. By a neat trick, from the angle where Brogue stood just outside the door to re-enter the first floor, several of the birds appeared to be “perched” on the railing of the staircase leading up from below. They were pulling something indistinct between their beaks. Brogue moved to open the door, then decided that it was his duty in the name of intelligence-gathering to take another look at the mosaic from higher up. He ascended a very steep stairway off to one side that took him directly up to the third floor. All the while he kept his eyes on the floor, but it wasn’t until he could lean over the railing on the third landing that some mental click shifted his focus and he saw the new image. The mosaic showed a sea of hands outstretched, clawing and fumbling in all directions. Some were clenched into fists; others pointed. Many of them were holding things, although the duplicate had to strain to figure out what the crudely-shaped objects were supposed to be: a flail here, a cross there, and over there… only when Brogue noticed that hand’s curved totem was tearing into the flesh of another nearby hand did he realize with a wince that it was meant to be a sickle. He moved up a shallow stairway which threatened to quiver slightly under his tread to the fourth landing, and was faced with a new image: the fingers and limbs had become branches and coalesced into a pattern of interlocking trees pointing inward, nearly all of them barren, with only a few scant leaves here and there and a single empty nest which rested askew near the stone bench. Up directly to the sixth floor, on a stairway that twisted unnecessarily around the stairs connecting the fourth and fifth, and now the branches had become dark tendrils of lightning that pelted down from great fiery clouds around the circumference of the floor toward the center. On to the seventh floor, where all the streaks of black and grey tiles across the mosaic seemed to find harmony with each other, and to connect into a broken but unmistakable cobweb. But that long dark shape which had always remained at the middle of the circle looked nothing like a spider. As he squinted down at it from this distance, Brogue supposed it might be a centipede or some other thing that crept in segments. Suspended there in string, it could do nothing but wait for the cobweb’s unseen proprietor to return. From the seventh floor to the eighth and highest, the narrow stairway had no railing. There was also no door leading off the eighth landing back into the rest of the house, making this final ascent, apparently, quite useless in addition to potentially dangerous. But Brogue knew full well he had to see. So he took hold of the steps ahead with both hands, uncomfortably aware that to fall would likely mean snapping his spine in half on one of the railings below, and crawled more than walked up the last stairway. Though much of the mosaic had now been obscured by the staircases leading up from below, Brogue could, by circling the top platform and craning his neck, take the image in from a variety of angles. The black and grey lines didn’t appear to form a cobweb anymore, that much was plain… and then he caught a glimpse of what had prior been the centipede, and he stopped short. It was the long, slitted pupil of an enormous eye, staring up from the bottom of the stairwell with raw animal malice. The eyeball was colored golden and red, and all the darker tiles streaked around the circle were veins, crisscrossing and interlacing from every side toward the middle. At first the utterly inhuman shape of the pupil suggested a panther or other great cat, but then Brogue thought of snakes, and after that it wasn’t difficult to imagine what creature’s eyeball was truly depicted here. Brogue stepped back involuntarily and came up against something angular. It was a small, antique-looking two-shelf bookcase that only came up to his waist. He’d been so taken with the mosaic as not to notice it. He got down on one knee to examine the books with a puzzled frown. Why keep them up here? There was no chair and no reading lamp (nor a skylight overhead, not that it would’ve helped at this hour). Worse, the duplicate realized, to bring any reading material up or down the stairs would require one to be on one’s feet, since these books were no pocket paperbacks. Altogether this must have been the most inconvenient place in the entire mansion for storage of any kind, let alone of literature. So of course Brogue slid the heftiest volume out from the lower shelf, sat with his back against the stone wall and his shoes just dangling out beyond the edge of the platform, and, by the muted light of the torch-like fixtures around and below, began to read.
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SV
Friendliest Member of ALL TIME
The Friendliest Member Of ALL TIME
Posts: 2,250
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EMET
Jan 5, 2014 17:13:43 GMT -5
Post by SV on Jan 5, 2014 17:13:43 GMT -5
As Terrian rejoined them at the table, Rhys cleared his throat. "Your package, then?" he asked, glancing uneasily in Giguere's direction. OOC: Godawful short post but it gets us going again. The package is (I'm assuming) still with Rhys's things in the room he's occupying for the night. Should Giguere dismiss him, he can go attempt to retrieve it/wild shenanigans can start happening/something god let's make this rp do.
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EMET
Feb 13, 2014 13:10:37 GMT -5
Post by Tout-Perd on Feb 13, 2014 13:10:37 GMT -5
"Oh, I'd be delighted, Mr. Whitticker," Giguere crooned, pausing to sip lightly from his wine. He gave a flowery gesture with his free hand, indicating the doorway, "By all means! It is, after all, the reason that we've been gathered here tonight."
He set his glass down, and steepled his fingers.
"It's hard to resist the urge to make jokes about Whitticker getting paid good money to handle Giguere's package, but I'll digress, lest the Lollipop Guild decides to start pummeling me again," Nopcsa whispered to the flustered Brogue who'd resumed Terrian's seat.
"I don't get why you keep acting like this is a party," Achenes huffed from her end of the table, crossing her arms over her meager chest, "We're getting paid to be here. We should be acting like professionals, not friends."
She nodded across the table towards Julia, who was vacantly chewing on chicken fingers while trying not to meet anybody's gaze.
"Romanesco here has the right idea. You keep your game face on, and do things right. Those assclowns in white are too busy gladhanding and palling around to even think of the possible dangers you could be in."
"I'll have you know I graduated with high honors from the most prestigious Assclown University in the Country!" Nopcsa proclaimed, standing up and slamming his palms on the table for emphasis.
Achenes arched an eyebrow.
"Well, okay, actually, I flunked out. So I'm not sure what that exactly says about my present level of assclownitude," The mindreader murmured with a smirk, and sat back down.
Giguere's mustache was twitching like the wings of a butterfly, fresh out of its chrysalis.
He raised his glass again in a toast.
"To assclowns!"
Nopcsa merrily joined in, "To all of us, then!"
The two took hearty swigs through stifled laughter. Giguere broke off his draught, and came up for air.
"Achenes, dear girl, you have to understand. Everything in life is ultimately about pleasure, be it in the present, or leaving a legacy so audacious that scholars will smirk while telling your story a hundred years from now. If offering my would be assassin a plate and a glass of wine when he bursts into the room to shoot me nets me a bullet in the chest, than so be it! The tale is worth the suffering, and the exaltation worth the oblivion! I shall live forever in the tales of he and his brute colleagues, and eventually at the world at large. If I'm called a fool, than so let me so be called by the entire world! The only thing to fear is dreariness, not death."
His bravado faded slightly as he settled down in his seat.
"Besides, we've got a mindreader here. He'd already know it if anything foul was afoot, right?"
"If it has a brain, I've got it tracked," Nopcsa offered gamely, tapping his temple with his forefinger. Though the motion was too small for Giguere to notice, his eyes darted cagily to Julia. Except for her...
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Post by Tout-Perd on Nov 25, 2015 11:13:23 GMT -5
After an inordinately long pause, Giguere spoke again, swirling the wine in his glass.
“I was informed that I will die tonight-“
He was cut off by Nopcsa choking on the sherbet that he’d conjured up for dessert.
“Wait, by who? That’s the kind of info that you should probably include in the mission briefing,” Nopcsa spat.
“Maydell Shouse. Perhaps you heard of her? Direct heir to the Oracular traditions of Delphi, a lineage that goes back over three millennia. A personal friend of mine, as all of the most influential people tend to be.”
“Shouse said you were going to croak?” Nopcsa pushed out his chair, and stood up, “Well, shit, that’s the ballgame. I’m going to have to tell Auguste that this was a fool’s errand, right from the start. ‘Terrian’, we should get going.”
The Brogue interrupted the befuddled look he was giving Giguere, in order to share his baffled expression with Nopcsa.
“You haven’t heard of Maydell Shouse? Of course not,” Nopcsa put his hands on the arm of Terrian’s chair, and leaned in, his voice a harsh whisper.
“Maydell Shouse is the world’s foremost seer and as Giguere says, a literal Oracle. Her visions always, always come to pass. Always. When that yahoo Valon blew headquarters to bits? She was the one who told us it was going to happen,” Nopcsa stood up, straightened his shirt, and sighed, “My apologies, Mister Giguere, it has been a pleasure, and I mean no offense by this, but your ass is grass.”
“Not necessarily,” Giguere held up his index finger, the gesture emphasizing how clawlike his fingernails actually were, “There was an escape clause.”
Nopcsa turned warily, and slowly approached the table again.
“This isn’t going to be one of those ‘trade one of our lives for your own’ deals, is it?” Achenes began cracking her knuckles, “Because if that’s the case, count me out.”
“Oh, nothing of the sort!” Giguere laughed dismissively. The martial artist could have swore she caught him mouthing the word, “Hopefully” under his mustache.
“What I’d been told is that I will die tonight, unless I hired the specific individuals that I have here. As long as all of you are on the premises, my survival is guaranteed,” Giguere leaned back in his seat, and smiled smugly, “And yes, Nopcsa, that prophecy also comes with a Maydell Shouse guarantee. There is nothing for me to worry about, because as long as we’re all here, fate itself serves as my shield. Not to indulge in the sin of hubris-“
Giguere shook his head.
“Who am I kidding? I’ve never shied away from any indulgence before. For tonight, I may as well be immortal!”
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Post by Beelzebibble on Nov 27, 2015 12:33:22 GMT -5
The duplicate, who at the moment felt rather hungrier than the original, managed a smile as he forked off a chunk of hot-fudge brownie. It was probably the only time in the multifarious history of Terrian Brogue that that smile hadn't come automatically at the sight of dessert. He gestured at Giguere with the fork after raising it to his mouth. "I'm completely with you on the staying alive thing," he said. "One hundred percent. So is this when you point us to the fortified concrete bunker slash rec room where we'll all be spending the night? Foosball? Blu-rays? One big wall that's just crossbows and water bottles? Where's your favorite room in the house for not dying?" But to Terrian, he thought: Apparently giguere is supposed to die tonight. We're here to prevent that.
The response was quick. What?? More please. An oracle told him so. But as long as we're all here he's safe. Die from what? He didn't say.Then get him to say, jesus, he likes the sound of his voice this is Not Hard. I'll check back.
* * * Terrian stood in front of the sink, gazing into the mirror. The color hadn't yet returned to his cheeks. He took a slow and heavy breath. He was considering, if it mattered, how long to stay here. Over the objections of his stomach, he regretted leaving the dining room and starting up this thoughtless scouting task. Of the other three duplicates, two had already reported nothing wrong. But the last one had sent back something different. Entry 210 THE RAVEN’S SECOND BIRTH
And no other response. Terrian couldn't say why this unnerved him, other than the fact that his nerves weren't putting up their best defenses tonight. For all that "best" meant in his case. Behind him, in the mirror, beyond the window of frosted glass in the half-bath's mahogany door, he caught a flicker of movement. Or, no, obviously he hadn't. Terrian sat back down on the closed toilet, as well out of sight of the window as he could manage. If the order of business was not-dying, a task Terrian was as much for as his proxy in the dining room, this half-bath didn't present the most promising hiding place. Could he bring himself to turn the light out? Or wasn't it already dimmer than when he'd come in? * * * For the duplicate at the top of the stairs it was an unthinkable windfall. Entry 210 THE RAVEN’S SECOND BIRTH Entry 211 A CHORUS OF CARVED HEARTS Entry 212 THE MELTING REVERIE Entry 213 THE SINS MORTIFEROUS Entry 214 THE SICKLE’S TRUE SANCTUARY Entry 215 VOLTE-FACE OF THE HOURS Entry 214 THE CRIMSON INDUCTION Entry 215 THE ALTAR OF RIME Entry 216 THE LUSTRE WITHOUT DEATH Entry 217 THE MIRACLE OF THE SEVERED FACE Entry 218 A SHADOW UNCAST Entry 219 THE LAST CHILD ON THE MOOR Entry 220 THE PROFANE CHASTENING Entry 221 THE VISITOR AT THE FALLING SUN
The table of contents went on for pages. Each title beckoned with a promise beyond his imagining, and though their invitation gave him dread as much as awe, still he felt compelled to read on. The failure to share this book would be evil. These words should resound from the mind of his progenitor to all his issue; let them all know, and strew, and recombine, sharing and recreating this knowledge a thousand ways. Let them write the book over and over. Only let them take care to write the entries in order. In this volume the entries were disorganized, and given no page numbers, as if this, too, had been written out of memory, bouncing from one subject to the next. What reasoning dictated their order in the table of contents? Was there a pattern to finding them within the book? Where was that one? Would he have to trawl page by page, cover to cover, to find it? The eye in the mosaic glowed up from the distant floor below. I hate writing. I tried weighting the styles differently between the dining room duplicate, who's still basically regular Terrian; the staircase duplicate, who's dipped his toe in something pretty serious; and the original Terrian, in between them. Unfortunately, I hate writing, so it didn't work very well.
But who cares?! EMET FUN CORNER
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