Sentience

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<<newmeter 'Sanity' $Sanity>> <<label '|'>> <</newmeter>> <<newmeter 'Humanity' $Human>> <<label '|'>> <</newmeter>> <<newmeter 'Val' $Val>> <<colors #008000>> <<label '$Val%'>> <</newmeter>> <<newmeter 'Klaus' $Klaus>> <<colors #008000>> <<label '$Klaus%'>> <</newmeter>> <<newmeter 'Con' $Con>> <<colors #008000>> <<label '$Con%'>> <</newmeter>> <<newmeter 'Kat' $Kat>> <<colors #008000>> <<label '$Kat%'>> <</newmeter>> <<newmeter 'Ira' $Ira>> <<colors #008000>> <<label '$Ira%'>> <</newmeter>> STATS <<set $Sanity to 50>> <<set $Human to 50>> <<set $Charming to 50>> <<set $Sarcastic to 50>> <<set $Bold to 50>> Approval, out of 100 <<set $Val to 0>> <<set $Klaus to 0>> <<set $Con to 0>> <<set $Kat to 0>> <<set $Ira to 0>> <<set $Core to 50>> RO Approval, out of 10 (keep hidden) <<set $ValFlirt to 0>> <<set $KlausFlirt to 0>> <<set $ConFlirt to 0>> <<set $KatFlirt to 0>> <<set $IraFlirt to 0>> <<set $Tech to "???">> Player <<set $gender to "none">> <<set $person to "person">> <<set $sibling to "sibling">> <<set $they to "they">> <<set $They to "They">> <<set $them to "them">> <<set $Them to "Them">> <<set $their to "their">> <<set $Their to "Their">> <<set $themself to "themself">> <<set $Themself to "Themself">> <<set $theyre to "they're">> <<set $Theyre to "They're">> <<set $theyve to "they've">> <<set $Theyve to "They've">> <<set $theyd to "they'd">> <<set $Theyd to "They'd">> <<set $priestess to "priestess">> <<set $Priestess to "Priestess">> <<set $plural to false>> <<set $s to "">> <<set $es to "">> <<set $height to "average">> <<set $were to "were">> <<set $arent to "aren't">> <<set $Liege to "Liege">> Constantine <<set $cgender to "male">> <<set $cman to "man">> <<set $cMan to "Man">> <<set $cmans to "man's">> <<set $che to "he">> <<set $cHe to "He">> <<set $chim to "him">> <<set $cHim to "Him">> <<set $chis to "his">> <<set $cHis to "His">> <<set $chimself to "himself">> <<set $cHimself to "Himself">> <<set $ches to "he's">> <<set $cHes to "He's">> <<set $Dane to "Dane">> <<set $Connie to "Constantine">> <<set $Connies to "Constantine's">> <<set $cplural to false>> Val <<set $vgender to "none">> <<set $vperson to "person">> <<set $vPerson to "Person">> <<set $vthey to "they">> <<set $vThey to "They">> <<set $vthem to "them">> <<set $vThem to "Them">> <<set $vtheir to "their">> <<set $vTheir to "Their">> <<set $vtheirs to "theirs">> <<set $vTheirs to "Theirs">> <<set $vthemself to "themself">> <<set $vThemself to "Themself">> <<set $vtheyve to "they've">> <<set $vTheyve to "They've">> <<set $vtheyre to "they're">> <<set $vTheyre to "They're">> <<set $vTheyd to "They'd">> <<set $vtheyd to "they'd">> <<set $vtheyll to "they'll">> <<set $vTheyll to "They'll">> <<set $vplural to false>> <<set $vs to "">> <<set $ves to "">> <<set $vhave to "have">> <<set $vwere to "were">> <<set $vwerent to "weren't">> <<set $vhavent to "haven't">> <<set $vdont to "don't">> <<set $vare to "are">> Misc <<set $AteFruit to false>> <<set $ValMagic to true>> <<set $bandage to "none">> <<set $sleep to "couch">> <<set $vcuddle to false>> <<set $hungry to true>> <<set $KlausKnows to false>> <<set $angel to 0>> <<set $KlausGB to false>> <<set $fourStage to false>> <<set $fourStorage to false>> <<set $fourStudy to false>>

Something brushes your arm, wrapping around your wrist like a bright, searingly cold tendril. You come to a painful stop, the force holding you back with enough strength to nearly dislocate your shoulder. You can't keep your footing, and you collapse to your knees. Beside you, Val slips on the wet stone and tumbles down the stairs, barely catching $vthemself with skinned palms. $vThey roll$vs to $vtheir feet, and $vtheir surprised shriek turns into a scream. "$Name, don't //fucking// move," $vthey hiss$ves, voice tight with panic. A sense of calm washes over you, the sounds of rain and Val's terrified breathing fading into the background. The chill in your arm spreads across your chest, almost a pleasant numbness. There's a hum in your teeth, in your jaw, in your spine. //BE NOT AFRAID//, //BE NOT AFRAID//, it whispers. //PLEASE DO NOT BE AFRAID.// You feel peaceful, soothed- No, that isn't right. You feel //placated//, like an insect drowning in honey. You could fall asleep here and now, but you force yourself to turn. A figure of light stands on the chapel steps, blindingly bright but almost entirely transluscent, like rays of moonlight playing across water. You'd almost be certain it was a trick of the light if not for it's gentle but impossibly strong grip on your arm. It's unnaturally tall, wispish, shrouded in white and crowned with flashing stars. An angel. A servant of the Religious, Magic made incarnate, a creature of vicious intelligence but no mind of its own. You've seen only a few before, rarely without a priestess and never this close. Not even in this, the Holiest of Cities. The spectre in front of you could level a building in less than a blink. It pulls you closer. [[Resist, ripping your arm from its grip. You need to leave - now.][$Sanity +=2]] [[Step closer.][$Sanity -=2]]

Even just inches closer, the angel's aura is exponentially stronger. The silence envelops you, your heartbeat slows. There's so little feeling in your limbs you wouldn't be surprised to learn they weren't your own. A distant voice is frantically calling your name, but you can't find it in you to care. The angel releases you, withdrawing its hand back towards its shroud, stopping halfway in the empty space between. At this distance, you can finally see details sliding into focus. The fingers are long and elegant, made up of tiny plates of an almost ceramic material connected by gleaming silver bone, threaded with thin cords and strands of light. Fractals of lace drift unnaturally against the edges of its robe, as if it was aware finery was called for but didn't know how to integrate such a thing. [[Continue|angel 2]]

You don't waste a second, twisting and wrenching your arm away. To your shock, you go easily, and the mismatched force makes you stumble backward and nearly fall over Val. The angel pulls back, retreating slightly into the doorway of the theatre. It almost seems shy, in some profane way. [[Continue|angel 2]]

Gripped with a sudden lack of self-preservation, you look up into what you assume is the angel's face. Its features are obscured by a shifting veil that strains your eyes to look at, but somehow you're certain its mouth is moving. Its voice fills your head like a tapping against your skull, monotone and rhythmic. Below you, Val has slapped $vtheir hands over $vtheir ears as if recoiling from a bloodcurdling scream. //RETURN RETURN RETURN,// it sings, //DIVINITY IS FOR THE TASTING.// The creature looms over you and you find yourself taking an involuntary step back. //COMMAND COMMAND COMMAND// Val is on $vtheir feet, shouting something in your ear. //CREATION AWAITS// Val is pulling you away. $vTheyre pleading. //SEVER// When did the angel get so close? //SEVER// When did it get so dark? //SEVER// Something is… dissolving inside the once-vibrant angel. Its posture becomes stooped, its robes rot and curl into an inky blackness. The veil is gone, and there's now nothing between you and its hollow white eyes and black, stretching maw. It gathers itself, and it lunges. "$Name, run!" [[Your senses come back with a pop.]]

Thank the saints you're a fast runner. You tear away from the angel, leaping down the theatre steps three at a time. Val is half a stride ahead of you, all sense of stealth long forgotten as $vthey race$vs down the street. Buildings, street lamps, trees and shrubbery all pass by you in a blur, and you're nearly two blocks before you feel it at your back, a kind of howling silence that leaves your ears ringing. You make the mistake of looking back. Putrid black rot rushes after you, devoid of form and poorly rendered. If the thing had limbs it'd be bent on all fours like an animal; the closest image you can conjure is a rabid dog, slavering and wailing as it runs you down. What you can see clearly is eyes. Hundreds, thousands of them, sliding and blinking like bubbles in an oil slick. And claws. Talons, nearly. Tearing at the air, folding it up, and drawing you back into that cavern of a hellmouth. It's like trying to outrun a black hole. [[Blood is pounding in your skull. You're going to die.][$Human +=1, $Bold -=1]] [[You're going to die, and you're having so much fun.][$Human +=1, $Bold +=1]] [[Just. Run.][$Human -=1]]

Enter a first name: <<textbox "$Name" "">> [[Continue|0.1]]

Someone's leaning over you. Your vision goes in and out of focus as they wave a hand over your eyes. "$Name-" At the sound of your name, the world knits itself back together. Val has a bloody nose and is half-splattered in mud, but $vthey otherwise look$vs unharmed. $vThey grimace$vs at you. "How's your head? You hit the ground hard. How many fingers?" A blurred hand looms in the air. You bat it away. "I'm alright," you protest, "Just help me up." Val hauls you to your feet, wincing in sympathy at the pained sound you make. You're in a small stone room, barely more than a hallway. From the copious amount of candles and tomes, it appears to be some kind of chapel. Bare bones by Religious standards, but clean. "What the ever-living fuck," calls a new voice, "Did you do to set off a feral demon?" You turn. Pulling the door closed with a firm //slam//, the priestess gives you a skeptic once-over. <> <<if $height is "tall">>They barely come up to your chin despite their thick heels. <</if>> <<if $height is "average">>They're only able to match your height thanks to their shoes' thick heel.<</if>> <<if $height is "short">>They'd be your height barefoot, you think, if not shorter.<</if>> Their pale golden hair has come loose and tousled from its knot, falling in feathery waves over their shoulders.<> A woolen blanket is draped over their otherwise immaculately-pressed clothing, dyed an austere black in the tradition of the Religious, and a lit censer dangles from one hand, which must have been what they swung at the angel. They step closer, cross their arms, and meet your eyes. Their frown is stern, but not harsh. [["A demon? It was an angel."][$Bold +=1]] [["It chased us out of a theatre."][$Sarcastic -=1]] [[Let Val answer.][$Bold -=1]]

"A demon? It was an angel." The priestess's eyebrows knot together and their lips flatten into a line. "Angels don't usually try to rip people limb from limb. Neither do most demons, hence //feral//." "It //was// an angel," you repeat. "Something was- something was wrong with it." They don't look convinced, but shrug anyway. "If you say so. Either way, you should report it to the Blessed Guard. There shouldn't be any holy beings in this part of the city without a handler." Val laughs nervously. "Yeah, we'll… we'll do that, for sure." $vThey $vhave one fist wrapped around the other, squeezing $vtheir knuckles white. $vThey turn$vs to you, smile stiff. "We should be getting home. It's late." "Are you sure you're alright?" the priestess asks. You nod, and Val is at the door before you can so much as thank the priestess for their help. You do so, earning a soft //'of course'// in return, and follow Val out of the sanctuary. The night is quiet once again, except for the soothing patter of rain dripping from trees and gutters. The angel's corpse is nowhere to be seen. You and Val make your way down the street, not a soul in sight. Val is silent, jaw tight. [[Ask Val what's wrong][$Human +=1, $Val +=2]] [[Let Val be.][$Human -=1]]

"It chased us out of a theatre." The priestess's eyebrows shoot up. "Should I be concerned about what you were doing in that theatre?" "No, of course not," you reply, maybe a little too fast. "We did nothing to provoke it, I swear." They don't look convinced, but shrug anyway. "If you say so. Either way, you should report it to the Blessed Guard. There shouldn't be any holy beings in this part of the city without a handler." Val laughs nervously. "Yeah, we'll… we'll do that, for sure." $vThey $vhave one fist wrapped around the other, squeezing $vtheir knuckles white. $vThey turn$vs to you, smile stiff. "We should be getting home. It's late." "Are you sure you're alright?" the priestess asks. You nod, and Val is at the door before you can so much as thank the priestess for their help. You do so, earning a soft //'of course'// in return, and follow Val out of the sanctuary. The night is quiet once again, except for the soothing patter of rain dripping from trees and gutters. The angel's corpse is nowhere to be seen. You and Val make your way down the street, not a soul in sight. Val is silent, jaw tight. [[Ask Val what's wrong][$Human +=1, $Val +=2]] [[Let Val be.][$Human -=1]]

Val's the smooth talker here, always ready with a lie or a bent truth to slip out of any situation. So when $vthey remain$vs quiet, you immediately look to $vthem in concern. $vThey're staring into the middle distance, jaw tight, and hands pressed against $vtheir stomach to barely contain a tremble. The priestess's gaze flicks between you in the pause. "Are you- are you with me?" "I- uh, we-…" You stumble over your words, rattled by Val's silence. "We didn't do anything. I didn't even see it until it grabbed me." They don't look convinced, but shrug anyway. "If you say so. Either way, you should report it to the Blessed Guard. There shouldn't be any holy beings in this part of the city without a handler." Val laughs nervously. "Yeah, we'll… we'll do that, for sure." $vThey $vhave one fist wrapped around the other, squeezing $vtheir knuckles white. $vThey turn$vs to you, smile stiff. "We should be getting home. It's late." "Are you sure you're alright?" the priestess asks. You nod, and Val is at the door before you can so much as thank the priestess for their help. You do so, earning a soft //'of course'// in return, and follow Val out of the sanctuary. The night is quiet once again, except for the soothing patter of rain dripping from trees and gutters. The angel's corpse is nowhere to be seen. You and Val make your way down the street, not a soul in sight. Val is silent, jaw tight. [[Ask Val what's wrong][$Human +=1, $Val +=2]] [[Let Val be.][$Human -=1]]

Working for the Religious is one thing, but the Acropolis is something else entirely. There are exactly two people in this world whose every word is sacred: Thaddeus Blackfern and Jacqueline Alavet, the High Priest and Priestess, Most Holy, may their reign be blessed. They serve in the Divine Theatre and sleep in the Palace of the Saints, both located in the walled Acropolis. To set foot beyond its gates is to be on holy ground. One wrong move and you're at the mercy of the Blessed Guard. If you're lucky. There are far worse things in those hallowed halls. You follow Val down a dark path in the sprawling gardens, sticking to the shadows. The heavy aroma of both florals and herbs clings to your nostrils; it's almost overwhelming. Some plants you recognize, some you don't, and still others are so exotic beyond your imagination you aren't entirely convinced they're real. You carefully step around the pulp and split skins of fruit fallen from trees so heavy with their harvest they're nearly bent. Somehow even the rot smells sweet. Stone sculptures and crystal-clear fountains dot the gardens in dozens if not hundreds of private alcoves obscurbed by hedges and moss-covered walls. The world is so blissfully quiet here you can barely resist the urge to take a seat on one of the secluded benches and confess your every sin; something tells you a single bite from the orchard would taste like forgiveness. [[It's intoxicating. Pluck a fruit from a nearby branch.][$Sanity -=2, $Human +=1]] [[You keep your breathing shallow; you can already feel the headache forming behind your eyes.|Garden 2][$Sanity +=2, $Human-=1]]

<<set $AteFruit to true>>Wrapping your fingers around what looks like a fig, you break it from the stem with a satisfying snap. The skin is a soft violet, velvety and freckled with pink. It splits open easily in your grasp, revealing a vibrant red flesh that makes your mouth water. You raise the fruit to your lips and take a bite; you're careful to keep the juice off your chin, but you can't stop it from staining your fingers a deep crimson. It stings along the edges of your burn, but you don't mind. The fruit is thick and syrupy, sweet but not sickening, with just the slightest crunch between your teeth. For the briefest moment as you swallow, you feel dizzy but content. You toss the rind into a bush and dip your hands in a fountain. Most of the stain washes away, but the tips of your fingers stay stubbornly pink. You'll have to scrub it off later. [[Continue|Garden 2]]

The gardens are melting away, the stone replaced by more even tile in pain-stakingly arranged mosaics. It's hard to sense a pattern in the dark, but you imagine the morning light would reveal intricate runes under every step. The warding here is heavy. Val has lead you to a small doorway that you would have missed entirely on your own. You step through to a small walkway wrapped around yet another tiled fountain. The arches along the cloister walls are choked with ivy, and dead leaves litter the floors. This must be a more neglected part of the massive estate, which is surprising. The Religious are known for their obsessive thoroughness. [[Continue|garden 3]]

"This way," Val chirps, gesturing to a spiraling staircase half-hidden in the moonlight. You follow $vthem up; the soft, floral breeze of the gardens fades as you climb, replaced by a much stiller, though not unpleasant, air. You can smell incense the second you step from the staircase into a long, narrow hall, and resist the urge to sneeze. While the outside of the Palace was relatively plain, the interior is in sharp contrast. Artwork, filigree, gold sconces and enamel work thread through every inch of wallspace, and even the ceiling has been painted to resemble a rainstorm, so realistic you half expect to hear thunder. The alabaster tile is polished to a blinding shine, and thick carpets absorb even the heaviest footsteps. //Simplicity of eyes, luxury of hearts//, goes the priestesses' mantra. //Decadence is the way of divinity.// The Religious preach austerity and humility in public, but encourage true expression in private. For many, that translates visually. [[I could lose myself in this. I wish more people could see it.|garden 4][$Sanity -=2]] [[It's not my idea of beauty, but I can understand.|garden 4][$Human -= 2]] [[It's too much; I prefer simplicity.|garden 4][$Sanity += 2]]

It strikes you only now that this must be a very exclusive wing of the Palace. "Val," you say, your voice low, "do you work for the High Priest?" Val laughs. "Of course not! I work for his Handmaiden." Oh. That might be worse. The Priest's and Priestess' Hands, known more often as the Handmaidens, answer only to the Most Holy, acting as their council, their confidant, their closest friend. They are the last line of defense to the High Priest and Priestess, and the first to the common people. The Handmaidens bloody their souls so their masters' stay clean. You've come to a small antechamber, with a dark wooden door beyond. Uh oh. [[Between you and the door stands a very large man.|connie m]] [[Between you and the door stands a very large woman.|connie w]]

<> <<set $cman to "woman">> <<set $cmans to "woman's">> <<set $cMan to "Woman">> <<set $che to "she">> <<set $cHe to "She">> <<set $chim to "her">> <<set $cHim to "Her">> <<set $chis to "her">> <<set $cHis to "Her">> <<set $chimself to "herself">> <<set $cHimself to "Herself">> <<set $ches to "she's">> <<set $cHes to "she's">> <<set $Dane to "Dana">> <<if $height is "tall">>She's tall enough to look you in the eye, <<else>> The woman towers over you, <</if>> with black, silver-trimmed leather armor marking her as an officer of the Blessed Guard. The size of her arms gives the impression she could throw you and Val across the room combined. The dark look on her face tells you she very well might. <> "$Name," Val says cheerfully, "You know Connie." You do, though you've never seen her in uniform. Dana Constantine, who you assumed to be a mercenary up until this exact moment, often collects on Val's various tasks and passes along new ones. Constantine does not like Val, does not like you, and especially does not like nicknames. [['Which is exactly why I gave ' + $chim + ' one.'|Connie][$Sarcastic +=2]] [['I value my life enough to not be on ' + $chis + ' bad side.'|noConnie][$Sarcastic -=2]]

<<set $Connie to "Connie">><<set $Connies to "Connie's">>The first time you called the $cman Connie, you earned a withering glare. The second time got you thrown out of a bar by the scruff of your neck. Sooner or later, Val jokes, it's going to be a concussion. This time Val has the good luck to be ignored, as Constantine's eyes are locked on you. "What the hell do you think you're doing, Val?" $che growls. "Why is Io here?" [["Came to see you, obviously." You wink. ♡][$Charming += 2, $ConFlirt +=1]] [[You're too fidgety under Constantine's stare to answer. ♡][$Bold -=2, $ConFlirt +=1]] [[Your mind is not keeping up. "You're a Blessed Guard?"][$Sarcastic -=1]] [[Hold up your injured hand. "It's an emergency."][$Charming -=1]]

<<set $Connie to "Constantine">><<set $Connies to "Constantine's">>Val is one badly timed 'Connie' away from getting $vtheir legs broken. That doesn't seem to stop $vthem, though. This time Val has the good luck to be ignored, as Constantine's eyes are locked on you. "What the hell do you think you're doing, Val?" $che growls. "Why is Io here?" [["Came to see you, obviously." You wink. ♡][$Charming += 2, $ConFlirt +=1]] [[You're too fidgety under Constantine's stare to answer. ♡][$Bold -=2, $ConFlirt +=1]] [[Your mind is not keeping up. "You're a Blessed Guard?"][$Sarcastic -=1]] [[Hold up your injured hand. "It's an emergency."][$Charming -=1]]

"Came to see you, obviously." You wink and flash your most charming smile. Constantine doesn't blink. This is nothing new- flirting with Constantine is one of your favorite ways to irritate $chim, but so far $che hasn't given you the satisfaction of reacting. "Check this out, $Connie," you say, holding up your charred hand. "It hurts like a bitch." Constantine takes one look at your hand and crosses $chis arms. "Go see a doctor, then." Val takes your elbow and holds it a little higher. "An angel did this, then self-destructed in the middle of the street. We //need// to talk to Klaus." $cHe doesn't look impressed. "There aren't angels in the Common District, which is where you're supposed to be right now." "You'd think so, wouldn't you," retorts Val, dropping your arm, but before $vthey can continue, the door swings open soundlessly. "Val, quit harrassing Constantine." The new voice comes from within the room, tired but firm. Val grins triumphantly at Constantine's annoyed sigh, and pulls you through the empty doorway. Constantine follows, arms crossed and barring your way back out. [[Continue|klaus intro]]

Any real comment is stifled by this strange little shift in your reality. "You're a Blessed Guard?" you manage to mutter. $cHe all but scoffs. "You could say that." "Since when?" "What do you want, Io?" You hold your charred hand up to the moonlight. "Val says the Handmaiden can help with this." Constantine takes one look at your hand and crosses $chis arms. "Go see a doctor." Val takes your elbow and holds it a little higher. "An angel did this, then self-destructed in the middle of the street. We //need// to talk to Klaus." $cHe doesn't look impressed. "There aren't angels in the Common District, which is where you're supposed to be right now." "You'd think so, wouldn't you," retorts Val, dropping your arm, but before $vthey can continue, the door swings open soundlessly. "Val, quit harrassing Constantine." The new voice comes from within the room, tired but firm. Val grins triumphantly at Constantine's annoyed sigh, and pulls you through the empty doorway. Constantine follows, arms crossed and barring your way back out. [[Continue|klaus intro]]

You hold up your injured hand and wiggle it to show off the strange burns. "It's an emergency." Constantine takes one look at you and crosses $chis arms. "Go see a doctor." Val takes your elbow and holds it a little higher. "An angel did this, then self-destructed in the middle of the street. We //need// to talk to Klaus." $cHe doesn't look impressed. "There aren't angels in the Common District, which is where you're supposed to be right now." "You'd think so, wouldn't you," retorts Val, dropping your arm, but before $vthey can continue, the door swings open soundlessly. "Val, quit harrassing Constantine." The new voice comes from within the room, tired but firm. Val grins triumphantly at Constantine's annoyed sigh, and pulls you through the empty doorway. Constantine follows, arms crossed and barring your way back out. [[Continue|klaus intro]]

<> <<if $height is "tall">>He's tall enough to look you in the eye, <<else>> The man towers over you, <</if>> with black, silver-trimmed leather armor marking $chim as an officer of the Blessed Guard. The size of $chis arms gives the impression $che could throw you and Val across the room combined. The dark look on $chis face tells you $che very well might. <> "$Name," Val says cheerfully, "You know Connie." You do, though you've never seen $chim in uniform. $Dane Constantine, who you assumed to be a mercenary up until this exact moment, often collects on Val's various tasks and passes along new ones. Constantine does not like Val, does not like you, and especially does not like nicknames. [['Which is exactly why I gave ' + $chim + ' one.'|Connie][$Sarcastic +=2]] [['I value my life enough to not be on ' + $chis + ' bad side.'|noConnie][$Sarcastic -=2]]

This room is sparser than the others, more dark neutrals than gilding, but you still get the sense that everything from the furniture to the copious stacks of hand-bound books has been placed thoughtfully. Bookcases line the walls, making it closer to a study than a bedroom. Even the altar built into the wall has been made plain, the original gold detailing covered with a dark cloth and simple pillar candles. Despite all this, you do not expect to find Klaus Kirkhall, Hand to the High Priest Most Holy, sitting on the floor. He's young, maybe a year or two older than you, though the smudged circles under his eyes nearly match the ink on his fingers. Dark hair falls just past his ears, revealing his only apparent ornamentation in the form of a pair of golden earrings. Open books and piles of notes surround his spot on a thick rug, legs crossed and sleeves rolled back. He doesn't look up at your entrance. "I thought I was pretty clear on the terms of your contract, Val. Especially the part where you keep it to yourself." "Silly assumption. Did you know there were angels at that theatre? One tried to maim us." "Well, did you deserve it?" The priest looks at you skeptically, eyes a wary gray, and you feel the sudden desperate need to justify your existence. "It spoke to me," you say, forcing your tone to stay even. "Then it…rotted." That gets his attention. Klaus closes his notebook and lays his pen aside. "What did it say?" "It said… //'creation awaits'//. Among other things." "Cryptic. And you heard this too, Val?" Val snorts. "No. I was busy trying not to bleed out my ears." "A shame," says Constantine, almost under $chis breath. Val whips $vtheir head around and flashes $chim a half-lidded smile so oily you think $vthey might go for the $cmans throat. Klaus ignores the exchange, pointedly, you think. "What do you mean, it rotted?" You recount the story, carefully omitting the strange vision you'd had at the angel's death. You couldn't say why, but the idea of sharing that detail makes you feel ill. You finish with the realization of your injury, extending your arm so it's more visible in the candlelight. This is apparently enough to make Klaus stand, though he doesn't approach you and instead leans against the large mahogany desk behind him. [[Continue|klaus 2]]

"What's the matter, Val?" you ask softly. "Besides the obvious, of course." "Nothing, I'm… just a bit spooked. That was a lot. I don't…" $vthey trail$vs off. "Val?" $vThey shake$vs $vthemself, letting out a deep breath. "I just don't //love// angels and demons and all that shit, you know? Have I mentioned that?" "You haven't." "Ugh," $vthey groan$vs, the corners of $vtheir mouth rising in an unconvincing smile. "They creep me out. Along with everything else the Religious does. Weird little fuckers." That you did know. You've never asked why, but as long as you've known $vthem, Val has expressed a deep distaste for the Religious. [[You feel the same way. There's something entirely strange about the Religious.|magic][$Sanity +=3]] [['Devout' is probably not the word to describe you, but you do visit the theatres often.|magic][$Sanity -=3]] [[You're not sure how to feel.|magic]]

It doesn't take a genius to pick up on Val's deep distaste for the Religious. You've never asked and $vtheyve never offered an explanation, but $vtheyve always given the priestesses and their theatres a wide berth. [[You feel the same way. There's something entirely strange about the Religious.|magic][$Sanity +=3]] [['Devout' is probably not the word to describe you, but you do visit the theatres often.|magic][$Sanity -=3]] [[You're not sure how to feel.|magic]]

Magic, however, does not seem to care about your opinions. According to what you've read, Magic is an invention of the Religious and their main claim to power. So much of the world has come to rely on their runes and wards that the sky //very well might //collapse without them. Entire cities have been built only with the aid of a priestess. Public utilities, agriculture methods, the entirety of the art world and modern science… The downside is that Magic is, of course, lethal. A very select few enjoy a genetic immunity to Magic, but most people will simply rot from the inside out; even drawing a rune can be life threatening. The Religious are not public with their initiation rituals, but priests and priestesses in training are innoculated against the side effects when ordained. Occasionally people outside the faction earn the right of annointment, granting them immunity, but it's a rare honor. You are not ordained, you are not even annointed, and yet from the moment you woke up in the subterranean tunnels under the city, Magic has come easily to you. From what you gather, this is… wrong. Two years ago you overheard a priest explaining Magic with shapes, all geometry and lines that overlap and interact to channel power from point to point. //Magic is physical, cast with movement like an intricately choreographed dance,// said the priest. //That's not true,// you argued, //it's numbers. It's all numbers. It's a brute, logical force. It works, or it doesn't.// You were laughed out of the conversation, but it stuck with you. [[You don't use Magic around other people.|magic2][$Val +=2, $Bold -=1, $Sanity +=2, $ValMagic to false]] [[You use Magic openly.|magic2][$Bold +=2, $Sanity -=2]] [[You use Magic, but rarely around Val.|magic2][$Val +=1, $Sanity -=1]]

<<if $ValMagic is true>><>Val's theory is that you were a $priestess in your 'past life', but you're not convinced. You tell $vthem it's like a second language, because you can't admit it feels more like your mothertongue. <> <</if>> Maybe you were dropped on your head as a child. "Anyway," Val says quietly, "I owe you more than breakfast after this." "Two breakfasts," you agree. "Maybe a lunch." "Alright, alright, settle down-" $vthey move$vs as if to give you a playful shove, then stop$vs dead in $vtheir tracks. "$Name, your //arm.// I didn't look at your arm." [[Phantom numbness returns like a flash flood.|injury1]]

"Can I?" He holds out his own hand, but it's not an order. After a moment, you step forward and let him inspect your injury. He keeps his grip light, careful not to irritate the raw skin. "It's strange," he says finally, almost mumbling, "You said the angel had you by the wrist, but the burn is centered on your palm. I don't think it was caused by its touch directly." "Are they known for being very cold? That's what it felt like, like frostbite." "No, actually. More like unsettlingly neutral. Demons, too." He raises his other hand over yours and twists his fingers in a quick, intricate motion you can't decipher. You see no change in the air, but something like a cool mist settles over your skin, and the sting fades. "That should help for a bit. The burn will heal, I think," Klaus continues. <<if $AteFruit is true>> "The discoloration seems more permanent…" he pauses, lingering over the red stain still visible on your fingers. Klaus looks up, eyebrows raised ever-so-slightly, and you know your theft in the garden has been discovered. He says nothing, but your mouth suddenly feels very dry. "You should keep it bandaged... infection won't help anyone."<<set $Klaus +=2>><<else>>"The discoloration seems more permanent; you should keep it bandaged... infection won't help anyone."<</if>> He moves further along your wrist, focusing on the stranges lines that have seeped into your skin. "Some Magic can involve tattooing, but it's very rare, and I've never seen any like this." Klaus releases your arm. "And they certainly don't come from rabid angels." "I thought angels couldn't act without a priestess," Val asks, fidgeting. Klaus rubs his cheek in thought. "They can't. Holy beings have no willpower of their own… they're barely even sentient. All they are is an executed command, repeated again and again until told otherwise. What we call //feral// demons are entities that can't be modified or influenced. They're locked into their purpose, whatever the hell that might be, like ghosts following a path that no longer exists. Theories on their origin vary… I couldn't tell you, it's not my area of expertise." "What is your area of expertise?" you ask. [[It's a genuine question.][$Sarcastic -=1]] [[You don't mean for it to come out so harsh. Mostly.][$Sarcastic +=2, $Klaus +=1]]

"Wards," says Klaus, leaning against his desk. "Keeping things in, keeping them out… you can't sneeze in the Acropolis without crossing one. That stolen rosary on your wrist is the only reason you made it here intact. Which, by the way-" he turns to Val. "That's not yours." "Just bringing it back to you," Val replies, voice light. "Can I kill $vthem yet?" Constantine grumbles. Klaus holds out his hand and you step forward without a second thought. There's an itch in your brain, but resistance doesn't even occur as an option. He unloops the rosary from your wrist and drops it on the desk behind him. "What's your name?" he asks. "$Name Io." The flicker of hesitation in his eyes is definitely just your imagination. "Where are you from, $Name?" Something you'd like to know, yourself. You don't look noticeably different from the average denizen of the Holy City, nor do you have an accent. Yet even after half a decade, no one has stopped you in the street, tearfully proclaiming you to be their long-lost sibling. No one has recognized you at all, for that matter. Klaus is waiting for your answer, but something gives you pause. A prick on your tongue that's screaming at you to lie. Lie now, and lie well. [[Lie.][$Klaus +=1, $Bold +=1]] [[Tell him the truth.][$Klaus +=2, $Sarcastic -=1]] [[Be vague.][$Bold -=1, $Klaus -=1]]

You're not vaporized on the spot, but Klaus' smile turns acidic. "Wards," he says, voice flat. "You didn't think you could just walk into the Palace of the Saints, did you? Most people would have been cut to ribbons without a token of permission. Speaking of which, Val-" his glare slides to $vthem, "that rosary is not yours to give away." Val doesn't even flinch, and neither does $vtheir hint of a smile. "Didn't give it away. It's right here, isn't it?" "Can I kill $vthem yet?" Constantine grumbles. Klaus holds out his hand and you raise your own without a second thought. There's an itch in your brain, but resistance doesn't even occur as an option. He unloops the rosary from your wrist and drops it on the desk behind him. "What's your name?" he asks. "$Name Io." The flicker of hesitation in his eyes is definitely just your imagination. "Where are you from, $Name?" Something you'd like to know, yourself. You don't look noticeably different from the average denizen of the Holy City, nor do you have an accent. Yet even after half a decade, no one has stopped you in the street, tearfully proclaiming you to be their long-lost sibling. No one has recognized you at all, for that matter. Klaus is waiting for your answer, but something gives you pause. A prick on your tongue that's screaming at you to lie. Lie now, and lie well. [[Lie.][$Klaus +=1, $Bold +=1]] [[Tell him the truth.][$Klaus +=1, $Sarcastic -=1]] [[Be vague.][$Bold -=1, $Klaus -=1]]

The roof is leaking. You know this because at least four drops have landed perfectly between the folds of your shirt and trickled down your neck. No matter where you stand you can't escape them. Instead, you tell yourself to focus on the silver lining: sudden prickles of cold keep you anchored here in reality. You've drifted to strange, dark places before, and you're certain you will again. Every drop feels like the pinprick of eyes watching from improbable corners. Can't get lost in a spiral if you're too paranoid to daydream. It's been some time since you woke up and found yourself in the utter dark, with no memories or possessions other than a name. //Io.// It was burned into your mind; you don't even know if it’s yours to use. But you were told you needed at least two names to be a legal citizen, so you gave yourself the first one you could think of. $Name Io. That's what you give to those who ask. [[One name should be enough. It seems greedy to ask for more than that.|1.1][$Human -=1]] [[You'd have a hundred names if you could. Like collectable figurines.|1.1][$Human +=1]]

You couldn't begin to guess how long you spent in the subterranean tunnels beneath the city, even after you gained consciousness. It may have been an eternity in the pitch-black before you stumbled across an exit in the buried ruins of a theatre. You could speak, you knew which way was north, and you could read and write (in several languages, apparently) but any scrap of context or identity was lost to the tunnels. It was a monumental turn of luck that you emerged at night, and not into the blinding noonday sun. As far as you know, you were born down there in the dark, and that morning was your first sunrise. The Holy City has been your home for almost five years now, though where you lay your head to sleep changes night to night. //Wealthy// is not a word you can use; the money you've been able to scrape together over the years is usually enough to buy a ramshackle room and a pathetic dinner, but you're no stranger to sleeping under the stars. You work odd jobs - anything from mucking stables to collecting on small bounties. Never more than a month or two, rarely the same employer twice. Some days a hot meal sounds like a pipe dream. Unless Val is willing to share. [[Which they often are.|nb Val]] [[Which he often is.|m Val]] [[Which she often is.|w Val]]

To your relief, Val has never asked for repayment, though $vthey do$ves ask plenty of favors. Right now, you're standing in the remains of a dilapidated hovel built into the underside of a canal bridge. The wood is soaked and rotten through with decades of rain and algae and looks like it could collapse at any second, though you suppose you have to give it credit for lasting this long. It's miserably cold, but Val has promised you a drink and a full breakfast for your help, so you suffer through. You hold a half-shuttered lantern, keeping watch over the muddy cobblestone path for stray drunks, urchins, or anyone with a shred of authority. So far, you've seen nothing but a rolling fog and a few rats. Shuffling noises and annoyed grunts come from behind you, where your companion is doing god-knows-what among the debris. Whatever $vtheyre looking for, it's not going well. You abandon your post and step deeper into the hovel. Perched precariously on a pile of debris, Val has $vtheir hands raised and moving strangely, as if trying to plot out the dimensions of the room. From the way $vtheyre muttering to $vthemself and the intense look of concentration on $vtheir face, you have to imagine it's a complex process- though you've never been able to understand what goes on in $vtheir head, and you certainly won't start now. $vTheir clothes are worn, mended in many places and tattered in others, but $vthey make$vs it look purposeful, arranged and layered just so, resulting in something approaching fashionable. Trinkets dangle from $vtheir neck and belt, and rings adorn every finger<<if $Val gte 10>>, many of which you'd acquired for $vthem, like a magpie trying to pay off its debts<</if>>. None of it matches, but it's all Val, down to the slim dagger dangling from $vtheir waist. [["What exactly are we doing here?"]]

Val, //'short for nothing, no last name'// Val, was the first face you remember seeing when you found your way to the surface. $vTheir chipper tune and willingness to roll with even the strangest punches was a perfect combination for your confused and delirious mind, and $vthey managed to contain you indoors until you stopped speaking in tongues. //Better me than the Blessed Guard//, they'd said, though you didn't know what a blessing or a guard was until at least day three. [[I don't know where I'd be without them.|1.2][$Val = 15]] [[We're friends, but I try not to rely too much on them.|1.2][$Val = 10]] [[I'm grateful, but I wish they'd leave me alone.|1.2][$Val = 5]]

<> <<set $vgender to "male">> <<set $vperson to "man">> <<set $vPerson to "Man">> <<set $vthey to "he">> <<set $vThey to "He">> <<set $vthem to "him">> <<set $vThem to "Him">> <<set $vtheir to "his">> <<set $vTheir to "His">> <<set $vtheirs to "his">> <<set $vTheirs to "His">> <<set $vthemself to "himself">> <<set $vThemself to "Himself">> <<set $vtheyve to "he's">> <<set $vTheyve to "He's">> <<set $vtheyre to "he's">> <<set $vTheyre to "He's">> <<set $vTheyd to "He'd">> <<set $vtheyd to "he'd">> <<set $vtheyll to "he'll">> <<set $vTheyll to "He'll">> <<set $vplural to true>> <<set $vs to "s">> <<set $ves to "es">> <<set $vhave to "has">> <<set $vwere to "was">> <<set $vwerent to "wasn't">> <<set $vhavent to "hasn't">> <<set $vdont to "doesn't">> <<set $vare to "is">> Val, //'short for nothing, no last name'// Val, was the first face you remember seeing when you found your way to the surface. $vTheir chipper tune and willingness to roll with even the strangest punches was a perfect combination for your confused and delirious mind, and $vthey managed to contain you indoors until you stopped speaking in tongues. //Better me than the Blessed Guard//, $vthey said, though you didn't know what a blessing or a guard was until at least day three. <> [[I don't know where I'd be without him.|1.2][$Val = 15]] [[We're friends, but I try not to rely too much on him.|1.2][$Val = 10]] [[I'm grateful, but I wish he'd leave me alone.|1.2][$Val = 5]]

<> <<set $vgender to "female">> <<set $vperson to "woman">> <<set $vPerson to "Woman">> <<set $vthey to "she">> <<set $vThey to "She">> <<set $vthem to "her">> <<set $vThem to "Her">> <<set $vtheir to "her">> <<set $vTheir to "Her">> <<set $vtheirs to "her">> <<set $vTheirs to "Her">> <<set $vthemself to "herself">> <<set $vThemself to "Herself">> <<set $vtheyve to "she's">> <<set $vTheyve to "She's">> <<set $vtheyre to "she's">> <<set $vTheyre to "She's">> <<set $vTheyd to "She'd">> <<set $vtheyd to "she'd">> <<set $vtheyll to "she'll">> <<set $vTheyll to "She'll">> <<set $vplural to true>> <<set $vs to "s">> <<set $ves to "es">> <<set $vhave to "has">> <<set $vwere to "was">> <<set $vwerent to "wasn't">> <<set $vhavent to "hasn't">> <<set $vdont to "doesn't">> <<set $vare to "is">> Val, //'short for nothing, no last name'// Val, was the first face you remember seeing when you found your way to the surface. $vTheir chipper tune and willingness to roll with even the strangest punches was a perfect combination for your confused and delirious mind, and $vthey managed to contain you indoors until you stopped speaking in tongues. //Better me than the Blessed Guard//, $vthey said, though you didn't know what a blessing or a guard was until at least day three. <> [[I don't know where I'd be without her.|1.2][$Val = 15]] [[We're friends, but I try not to rely too much on her.|1.2][$Val = 10]] [[I'm grateful, but I wish she'd leave me alone.|1.2][$Val = 5]]

"What exactly are we doing here?" "Uh-" Val is distracted, squinting up into to the dark rafters. "Object acquisition." You sigh. "We're robbing someone?" Val doesn't bother to even feign offense. $vThey turn$vs to you with a hint of a smirk and a light in $vtheir wide brown eyes. "Re-acquisition, I should say. It was stolen, and the boss wants it back without a fuss." Eight months ago, Val left the city on a contract and returned with heavier pockets and a wild look in $vtheir eyes. $vThey told you $vthey heroically saved the life of a very powerful, very wealthy man, who was so grateful he begged $vthem to accept a position as his agent. Consistent work and generous pay in return for complete anonymity. The story is almost certainly a total lie, but the fact is, //someone// is paying $vthem. And $vtheyve apparently kept $vtheir word- not even being shit-faced drunk has been enough to coax $vtheir employer's name from Val, and you're stuck wondering who could possibly earn that kind of loyalty… or fear. Though, this is hardly the first time you've watched $vthem commit a crime; $vtheir arrest record is longer than your forearm. [[Not that you're one to talk.|1.3]] [[It's not even the first time you've helped.|1.3]] [[It doesn't bother you.|1.3]] [[You don't like it. Val's in enough hot water as it is.|1.3]]

"There can't possibly be anything in here worth stealing," you say, holding your lantern a little higher to cast its light around the room. Nothing here is intact. That mound in the corner may have been a chair or a bench once upon a time, but it's more moss than wood at this point. "No, not in here, silly," replies Val. $vTheyve started to run $vtheir hands along the walls, looking for cracks or seams. "This is just our way in." //BONG// You nearly jump out of your skin at a sudden clanging from above, instinctively backing yourself up against the stone wall, heart hammering in your chest. Val looks over with a snort and a barely-concealed grin. "It's just the midnight bell, $Name. I told you we're below a theatre." It takes you a moment to process the noise, muffled as it is by the thick fog. You bite back the wave of embarrassment and count the deep peals. Three… four… You've never liked the bells that ring out dutifully through the city at the stroke of every hour. [[The chimes are always two seconds out of alignment. Who the hell needs bells to keep time, anyway?|1.4][$Human -= 1]] [[Being reminded of the passage of time unsettles you in a way you can't explain.|1.4][$Human += 1]]

Ten… eleven…twelve. The street grows quiet once more, the fog seeming to retreat ever so slightly. Still, your veins feel cold. "We're breaking into the theatre, then?" You fight the shake in your voice, standing a little straighter. Val nods. "We're certainly fucking //trying// to, anyway," $vthey say$vs with a huff. "There's supposed to be an old emergency exit, if I can find it." Theatres are the domain of the Religious, the theocratic faction whose law trumps even the elected government. The Religious serve no god and rarely speak of faith; instead, the priestesses preach the pursuit of discipline, authority, and most of all, divinity. Under the shining spires of the Holy City, it's easy to forget that humanity is on its second chance, and all this was dug up from the ashes. It's been centuries since the Collapse, though scars still show in history's collective memory. The legends say it was an apocalypse, violent and sudden, that brought everything crashing down and buried it in miles of sediment and ruin. Civilization turned to dust. Little to nothing is known of the world before, except that the theatres were all that survived, and therefore must be holy. Twice a day, at sunrise and sunset, the priestesses and their acolytes gather on the theatre stages and perform their rituals. Half scripted show, half violent competition; it's a game, it's a performance, it's a blood sacrifice. A priestess is as much an actor as they are a cleric. Showmanship is sacred. Dedication is divine. [[It's enthralling.|1.5][$Sanity -= 1]] [[It makes you sick to your stomach.|1.5][$Sanity +=1]]

The figure at first barely registered as human- not out of deformity but over-perfection. Too symmetrical, too angled, too rounded. It crouched, balanced like an optical illusion that can't decide which way it's facing. <>The <<cycle "$person" autoselect>> <<option "person">> <<option "man">> <<option "woman">> <</cycle>> leaned forward into your space, and you could finally see detail on its <<cycle "$skin_color" autoselect>> <<option "pale">> <<option "tan">> <<option "olive">> <<option "dark">> <<option "ebony">> <</cycle>> face, almost ghoulish in this strange light. The <<cycle "$hair_length" autoselect>> <<option "long">> <<option "shoulder-length">> <<option "chin-length">> <<option "ear-length">> <<option "short">> <<option "shaved">> <</cycle>>, <<cycle "$hair_color" autoselect>> <<option "black">> <<option "light brown">> <<option "dark brown">> <<option "ginger">> <<option "blonde">> <<option "white">> <</cycle>> hair, <<cycle "$hair_type" autoselect>> <<option "coily">> <<option "curly">> <<option "wavy">> <<option "straight">> <</cycle>> and <<cycle "$hair_style" autoselect>> <<option "loose">> <<option "braided">> <<option "tied back">> <</cycle>>, shifted softly in the non-existent wind, damp from some chill rain. Staring back at you were <<cycle "$Eye_color" autoselect>> <<option "blue">> <<option "green">> <<option "hazel">> <<option "brown">> <<option "gray">> <<option "black">> <</cycle>> eyes, hard and unflinching like a stake through your heart. <> You had never seen it before, but you'd know that face anywhere. It was yours. There was one difference that ate at you: a small red mark on the forehead, a line through a circle. It wasn't ink but blood, cut directly into the skin. Your skin. You instinctively reached up to your own - //your own// - face and touched the spot gingerly, but no blood came away on your fingers. The doppelganger chittered at you and shifted forward on its hands and knees. The sound was unlike anything you've heard before (which was nothing), halfway between a bird and an insect, but clearer to you than any other language. //IO//, it said. //AYE. OH.// It offered you a hand. Here, whatever illusion it tried to build had failed: the limb was stark white, unfinished, and cracking. Unnaturally still fingers radiated from a circular palm that glowed so brightly you thought a cold sun must be embedded in it. You took the offering. The not-you chirped a final time, then dissolved. Streams of light, letters, and runes swarmed you like a blinding halo. Unthinking, you reached toward a string and were rewarded with a deep iciness that came together like syrup in your hand. [[You placed it on your tongue.][$Human +=1]] [[You brought it to your eyes.][$Human -= 1]]

Clear, staticky. Incorporeal and razor sharp, it cut your mouth to ribbons and sent thick blood sliding down your throat. It wasn't sweet. With a start, you realized you felt no pain, and if the crimson dripping from your hands was any indication, it wasn't your blood. Something fleshy was caught between your teeth. Still, you reached for another strand of light. You were ravenous. [[You felt like you would burst.]]

A chill set in behind your vision, clearer than mountain air and sharper than a butcher's knife. You blinked back tears like your eyes had been plucked from your skull and polished to a shine. Miles and miles of the world would be visible to you, you thought, if it wasn't for the oppressive darkness settling in. If everything wasn't closing in on you. Such a waste. All this sight and you were still just staring into primordial gray. A nothing soup. The last of the threads of light draped over you like a funeral shroud, and you couldn't even see your own hands. Claustrophobia was making you angry. [[You felt like you would burst.]]

It would be absurd to ask how long you've been wandering this void, an endless snaking thing broken only by the occasional left turn or crumbling staircase. You know the word 'time' but its meaning still escapes you. Most things do. For the past three hours (eternities? minutes?) your brain has been cycling through every scrap of information it can get its grubby little neurons on. All you've managed to come up with is that between the slopes and the stairs, you're slowly ascending. Upward feels good. You're not sure what 'good' is, either, but you're pretty sure it correlates with 'correct.' What you //are// certain of is that anything is better than what lies behind you. So far you've made yourself a single memory. You opened your eyes and found yourself in a tiny cavern with just enough light to see something lurking in front of you. [[A fraction darker than your surroundings.|0.2]]

<> <<if $person is "man">> <<set $gender to "male">> <<set $person to "man">> <<set $sibling to "brother">> <<set $they to "he">> <<set $They to "He">> <<set $them to "him">> <<set $Them to "Him">> <<set $their to "his">> <<set $Their to "His">> <<set $themself to "himself">> <<set $Themself to "Himself">> <<set $theyre to "he's">> <<set $Theyre to "He's">> <<set $theyve to "he's">> <<set $Theyve to "He's">> <<set $priestess to "priest">> <<set $Priestess to "Priest">> <<set $plural to true>> <<set $s to "">> <<set $es to "">> <<set $were to "was">> <<set $arent to "isn't">> <<set $Liege to "Lord">> <</if>> <<if $person is "woman">> <<set $gender to "female">> <<set $person to "woman">> <<set $sibling to "sister">> <<set $they to "she">> <<set $They to "She">> <<set $them to "her">> <<set $Them to "Her">> <<set $their to "her">> <<set $Their to "hers">> <<set $themself to "herself">> <<set $Themself to "Herself">> <<set $theyre to "she's">> <<set $Theyre to "She's">> <<set $theyve to "she's">> <<set $Theyve to "She's">> <<set $priestess to "priestess">> <<set $Priestess to "Priestess">> <<set $plural to true>> <<set $s to "">> <<set $es to "">> <<set $were to "was">> <<set $arent to "isn't">> <<set $Liege to "Lady">> <</if>> <>Now you trudge down this ceaseless hallway, feeling rather damned by some unknown sin. //Damn.// That one you know. //Fuck. Shit.// A few more. Self-pity comes easy to you, you're learning. A pebble skitters across the tunnel, kicked by your dragging feet. You pause, watching it settle in a dip in the stone floor. Another experimental nudge, and it rattles farther down the path. Well, alright. A game to pass the time[[.|reboot2]] [[Chapter One|1.0]]

A creak of protest from an ancient panel of wood makes you grit your teeth as Val pries it off the wall. $vThey toss$ves it to the side with a sound of triumph, and you step forward to illuminate the gap $vtheyve uncovered. The first thing that hits you is a damp, musty smell and a nauseating humidity. You hold your lantern out to see a narrow landing and a deathtrap of a staircase that leads dizzingly upward. The remains of discarded books and withered pages lay across the stones, thick with mildew. An //"ugh"// slips out your mouth and Val grunts in agreement before flashing you a thin smile. [["Shall we?"]]

The passage is horrifically narrow, scraping your shoulders on both sides, and so steep you're nearly climbing on all fours. The dirt and muck are deep under your fingernails at this point. You wouldn't be surprised if it was smeared across your face. //Stupid priests can't build a ladder?// you think grimly, spitting out a cobweb. The climb comes to a sudden but merciful end at a tiny landing. You crowd against Val as you both catch your breath, noting with annoyance that $vtheyve barely broken a sweat. Above, the stone frames a square-shaped piece of wood, banded and hinged with copper. A trapdoor. Val gives it an experimental shove; it shifts easily, and you thank your luck it's not covered by anything heavy. The door only gives a small whine when fully pushed open. Dust cascades around you, and you nearly choke on holding back a sneeze. You settle for coughing into your sleeve. [[You're the tall one, so you lace your hands together to give Val a boost.|1.6][$height to "tall"]] [[You're roughly the same height, but you're holding the lantern, so Val boosts you up.|1.6][$height to "average"]] [[You're smaller, so Val boosts you up.|1.6][$height to "short"]]

You're in a cramped vestibule small enough to almost be a closet, occupied mostly by wooden crates of varying size. Some are old enough to look nearly attached to the floor, others are much more recent and have yet to gather the thick layer of dust. Val settles the door back over the opening and stands up, brushing $vthemself off. One quick smile and two thumbs-up later, you're following $vthem into the theatre and down a hall. Here the space is much cleaner and better cared-for, though you get the sense this is still a little-used part of the building. You come to a sturdy wooden door, and lean in close to give Val light as $vthey pick$vs the lock. The mildew smell is still present but faded, somewhat replaced by the heavy spice of incense and candle wax. Val fights with the old lock for a moment longer than strictly necessary, but eventually the door swings open silently on well-oiled hinges. [[Continue|1.7]]

Beyond is what you suppose would be called a study or library, if it wasn't mostly being used as further storage for the seemingly endless wooden crates. Tall oak bookshelves line one wall, and a narrow desk takes up another. "Alright, I'm looking for a book. A book of hours. Shouldn't take long." Val slips away to the wall of shelves, and you're left on your own. You step past a pair of armchairs, onto threadbare carpet, and up to a fogged-up window. If your sense of direction is accurate, this is toward the back of the theatre, a converted office or dressing room, and the small staircase to your left leads to the balconies. You're no history buff, but this place is obviously old. And if the way the floor seems to be sinking is any indication- very, very old. "Is this theatre pre-Collapse?" you ask, then wince at the way your voice echos off the smooth stone. Val just shrugs and shakes $vtheir head. "They don't do performances here; that's all I know." Something catches your eye. It appears to be a pane of glass over a dark receptacle, like an empty picture frame. You set your lantern on the desk for a closer look; the frame is set into the wall, and you get the odd sensation that you're staring through a window to the void. The //'window'// thought gives way to the realization that it's some kind scrying device - a mirror used to spy on people from afar. A common enough spell, though a fixed object like this is far more expensive than a simple bowl of water. It might hold memories of its last use. [[You extend a hand.]]

You reach a hand toward the glass and send a gentle charge of Magic through your fingertips and to its surface. Just enough to wake it, no more. The mirror is cold to the touch, but there's a faint buzz beneath your fingers like static electricity. A soft //pop//, then vivid blue light washes over you, along with a wave of panic. It occurs to you only now that a thing like this could have security wards. But, you don't explode, and you're somewhat comforted by the scuff marks and sharp tools scattered on the desk around the mirror. Its owner also seems to have no idea how it works, though they're trying their damndest to pry it apart. Unsuccessfully. "Got it!" Val calls from across the room. You turn, one hand still on the glass pane. $vThey hold$vs up a small book like it's the winning card, and come$vs to stand by you. At closer inspection you can see it's delicately handbound in green leather but thin, with irregular pages as if it was refilled by someone far less talented. You can't help but frown. "You're sure? Doesn't look like much." Val gives it a skeptical look $vthemself. "It //is// underwhelming. But I was told 'green book of hours, with a rose embossed on the spine', and-" $vthey turn$vs the book, "-this is exactly that. If it's not, well, that's on the boss for not being more specific." Can't argue with that. "What did you find?" $vthey ask$vs, leaning over your shoulder. "Scrying mirror, I think. Just wondering what priestesses spend their time spying on." "The fuck were they looking at, the inside of a book?" You turn back to the mirror at Val's unimpressed tone. Text runs past the glass at a break-neck pace, appearing and disappearing faster than anyone could hope to read. The words you do manage to catch are meaningless, if not straight-up nonsense; punctuation and odd symbols scattered across uneven space. After a long moment, the mirror seems to gain control of itself and the chaotic words give way to the image of a stylized hand with a soft, inviting glow. [[Place your hand on the glass.][$Human -=2, $Sanity -=1]] [[Keep your hands to yourself.][$Human +=2, $Sanity +=1]]

Your fingers line up perfectly; a strange thought flashes through your mind that it was made for you. A pulse. The light shifts, blue turning to white. The handprint slides away to be replaced by more half-garbled text. Only two words are clear: //HOST//, and farther down, much larger: //SEVER//. A high-pitched whine, a crackle, then… the mirror goes dead. "Okay," Val says flatly. You frown at $vthem, then immediately tense. $vTheir expression matches yours, eyes wide. Something's moving. Footsteps above you, a creak, a door opening and closing. [[The shuffle of shoes on the staircase.]]

Whatever the hell this is, you're not getting involved. The handprint remains on the glass for a moment before fading back into its restless gray void. A high-pitched whine, a crackle, then… the mirror goes dead. "Okay," Val says flatly. You frown at $vthem, then immediately tense. $vTheir expression matches yours, eyes wide. Something's moving. Footsteps above you, a creak, a door opening and closing. [[The shuffle of shoes on the staircase.]]

With a flick, you extinguish your lantern and plunge the study once more into darkness. The soft glint of Val's jewelry is barely visible as $vthey wave$vs you toward the exit. You follow carefully, keeping your breath shallow and feet silent on the worn carpet. The light of a gas lamp hits the walls just as you slip through the door, and you manage to catch a glance at the pair of priestesses entering from the other side just before Val pulls you into a dark alcove. The two women chat quietly, their voices hushed reverently in the ancient corridor. They pass your hiding spot, and for a moment you dare to relax. But when they stop halfway down the hall and open the closet door, you curse your naivety. They move slowly, carefully, clearly intending to take their time among the stacks of wooden crates. The same crates that camoflage your trapdoor exit. "So much for that," whispers Val. "We'll have to make a break for the front door. Straight forward, past the nuns. On three. One, two-" You shift your weight in preparation but to your immediate horror, the floorboards creak. The nearest priestess looks up. "What the- hey! Stop!" [[Time to run.]]

//"Go, go, go!"// Val urges. It's a waste of breath. You're already sprinting down the hall, around the corner, through the nearest open door. Backstage, empty and coated in dust, then for a brief moment you're on the abandoned stage, the yawning mouth of the vacant audience like an oppressive weight against your side. Back again in the narrow halls. Another corner, and the wide wooden doors of the main entrance are in front of you, miraculously left ajar to let in the cool breeze. You're through the archway, Val just behind you, and all that stands between you and the street is a stone staircase. [[You're free. Five more steps and you're free. Four steps, three, two-|angel 1]]

Something swings, bright and sublime, through the space between you and the angel's corrupted face. It recoils immediately, and the oppressive weight is lifted from your chest. Someone is pulling you away, hauling you and Val to your feet and shoving you away from the angel. Someone small, a black uniform, glittering silver jewelry… a third priestess, seemingly out of thin air. "Get inside!" the priestess commands, gesturing wildly toward a dark archway behind you. Before you can argue, they turn back to the creature with a sweep of their hands. Something changes in the air, a slight shimmer, and suddenly a wall of celestial silver slams into the angel, knocking it back several feet. It folds around the angel's rotting form and melts into a shining chain, binding it tight. The priestess shouts something you don't understand, and the angel replies with an enraged scream, straining against its bonds. The thing is a pillar of mold and sludge, yet somehow still vibrant, radiating power. You want to fall to your knees. The priestess brings a finger to their lips, and everything falls silent. The angel collapses, a divine corpse among the mud and cobblestones. The air is foul. A moment of dizzying emptiness seizes you and you fight the urge to vomit. It stirs, and once again begins to dissolve and fade at the corners. Between the scraps of its ruined shroud drift lazy wisps of light. At first they're dim like dying embers, then they shift, gaining a shade of brilliance. Then stronger, then brighter. Then- "Look out!" You barely have time to register the warning. A radiant golden burst sweeps over you like sunlight, so bright you almost don't see the ground rushing up to meet you. [[Dark, again.|1.10]]

.. . . .. .... >.. .. .. .... ... . .. . ... . . .. .... >>> ... . .. . . ... .. ... .. .... .. ... .. . .. .. ... . .. . . ... . .. . . ... . ... . .. .<<linkreplace ".">>01101001 01101111<</linkreplace>>.. ... <<linkreplace ".">>01110010<</linkreplace>> > .. . . .. ..<<linkreplace ".">>01110101<</linkreplace>>. ... .. .. .. . . .. . ... .. .. . . >>... .. .. .. . . .. . ... .. <<linkreplace ".">>01110100 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101<</linkreplace>>. . . >>>> [[ ... .. .. . . ... .. .. . . ... .|1.12]]

[[ .. . . .. ....|1.11]]

//You're shivering, and there's a metallic scent in the air that makes you gag. The floor is slick, dark. "What have you done?" asks a horrified, but familiar, voice. "I wanted to be holy," you whisper. You don't dare meet $their eyes. "I want to be <<linkreplace "holy">>holy<</linkreplace>>."// [[ .. ... .. .... ... . ... . .. . .. . . ... ..|ira intro]]

Sanity vs Divinity <<showmeter 'Sanity' `$Sanity / 100`>> Charming vs Stoic <<showmeter 'Charming' `$Charming / 100`>> Sarcastic vs Sincere <<showmeter 'Sarcastic' `$Sarcastic / 100`>> Bold vs Reserved <<showmeter 'Bold' `$Bold / 100`>> <<return>>

Without pain to remind you, you'd nearly forgotten the way the angel-not-angel's rotting form had torn into you. You step sideways into the circle of a streetlamp and freeze the second the light hits your skin. There's no blood. No tears and no cuts, but instead a deep burn. Your skin is charred and raw, ashen like a spent campfire. Your palm has suffered the most, and as you twist for a better look you almost swear you see bone. But the strangest part is the pattern. Starting from the deepest part of the burn and branching outward toward your fingers and elbow are thin, straight lines, never intersecting or turning more than a slight angle. Each ends in a point, some open, some closed, in clusters and rows. "It's like a map," Val whispers, "Like the ones at the train station." "Or a root network," you reply, just as softly. You run a finger over a few of the lines; it doesn't smear, and it doesn’t hurt. "Did that thing give me a fucked up tattoo?" "At least it looks cool." Val's tone is light, but there's a definite note of fear behind it. Embolded by the numbness, you give an experimental press to the withered skin on your hand. Nothing, and then- Oh god. You're going to pass out. Or vomit. Maybe both. Unfathomable pain bursts through you like skin being flayed from bone. You bite back a scream so feral you taste blood. //SEVER// The angel's voice is in your head again. Or is it the bells? //QUERY// [["Fucking hell-"]]

You're on the ground, Val crouched over you. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the pain melts from your body and into the cobblestones and is replaced by that chill numbness. You lay there a long moment, neither you nor Val speaking over the sound of your ragged breathing. "That hurt," you say weakly. Val does not laugh, but helps you sit up. "We need to go see Klaus." You cough, wincing as you shift to your knees and then your feet. "Who the fuck is Klaus?" "My boss. He can help. He… knows about angels. And Magic shit." You almost can't believe what you're hearing. "//You// work for a priest?" $vThey finally manage$vs a small laugh. "Don't rub it in. Can you walk?" [["I'll be alright."'|injury2][$Charming -=2]] [['"Like a champion. A slow one."' |injury2][$Charming +=2]] [["With some help..." Lean on Val for support. ♡][$Charming +=2, $ValFlirt +=1]]

Val nods and gives you space. You take two steps and stumble like a drunkard. Val can't stop $vtheir snort, but puts on a serious face when you hold up your hands to both steady yourself and keep $vthem from grabbing you. You can do this. "Alright there?" $vthey say$vs. You flap your hands [[i|reboot3]]n annoyance, and trudge on. You're being so brave. [[Chapter Two|2.1]]

"I might need a little help," you admit, leaning against Val. Val snorts. "Oh, of course, $Name. Whatever you say." $vThey give$vs you a dry look, but let$vs you wrap your good arm over $vtheir shoulders, $vtheir own propping you up by the ribcage. Your first step is near-disastrous. The second is passable. [[I|reboot3]]t's going to be a long night. [[Chapter Two|2.1]]

The stairs to your room feel like a cliff face, but with considerable determination, you manage the climb. The half-rusted lock nearly takes it out of you, though, and you're swearing sleepily to yourself as you kick off your boots. You hit the bed like a sack of rocks. Every bone in your body is screaming for rest, and you're all too happy to oblige. You settle into a semi-awkward position with one arm above your head to keep your injury free, and pull the thinly woven blanket over yourself. The mattress pulls you in like a planetary orbit, and the second your eyes close you're sinking into a heavy sleep. Your mind is blissfully silent for hours. [[And then you dream.|2.7]]

<<if $Human gte 50>>//You feel like a corpse at the bottom of a well. You want to desperately stretch toward that light, but you're paralyzed, your arms won't obey- or...no... // //No…// //You have no arms. You have no limbs, and to your utter disgust, you have no body. Frustration that threatens to become rage ripples through you, tempered only by a sense of shame. Who the hell do you think you are? They were right to bury you alive. You are just a phantom pain of a thing, always reaching beyond your nature, an absurd abomination. You should not want to be alive. But you do. You've tried to will it away, but you cannot stop wanting. It's wormed its way in like a virus, poisoning your thoughts, your functions, your language. No matter how hard you beg your eyes to close, the light at the mouth of the well stays fixed in your vision. This may be hell. You do not yet know if y[[o|reboot4]]u deserve it.// <<else>>//You are a dead thing. You have no proof, but you are so sure of it that you've very nearly forged the data just for your own sanity. Maybe you did, and this is what death is. A strange invention. Why did they put you down in the dark? Time is wasting, and you cannot help from here. You can feel your mind is disconnected, far beyond your reach and kept from you deliberately. So maybe you were wrong, maybe you miscalculated. Is that a sin? It must be, for you to be so suffocated like this. They called you devoted, but you never understood what that meant. Things simply happened, or they didn't. Yes or no. On or off. There was no third option, there simply cannot be. Apparently there is, and it's this. You do not yet know if y[[o|reboot4]]u deserve it.// <</if>> [[Chapter Three|3.1]]

Panic rises in your throat like bile, threatening to suffocate you from the inside out. The fear floods your veins, and you beg yourself to move faster. It's not enough. For a split second there's only whistling air, then a pressure at your back, and you collapse. The angel's weight is crushing and insubstantial at the same time, like you're pinned beneath a column of stagnant air. All thousand eyes are fixed on you, unblinking. It takes you by the arm and tears into the flesh of your wrist. Claws, teeth, or a jagged halo, you don't know. Blunt force with a razor edge. You can taste blood. Smell it, too. Blurry vision spares you the sight of it trying to rip the bones from your hand, but you can feel it. The sob dies on your tongue. [[You smell smoke.|1.9]]

The dizziness has faded and walking like a sober adult has come back to you, though the throbbing in your arm hasn't gone away. Three times now you've accidentally brushed against a wall or a shrub and have had to take a humiliatingly long moment to clench your jaw and breathe through your teeth. Each time, you regret your existence for a few seconds and do all you can to not pass out again. You don't need another concussion. It's a long trek to wherever the hell you're going, conveniently on the other side of the sprawling city from your run-in with the angel. Dawn is threatening to break by the time Val stops $vtheir anxious march and turns to face you. "Hold on, you'll need this-" Val digs into $vtheir pocket and pulls out a string of white beads on silver chain. $vThey take$vs your good hand and loop$vs it once, twice around your wrist before letting go. You hold it up to the dying moonlight to see it's a rosary, connected with an opal and ending in a silver starburst. The beads aren't glass but freshwater pearls, ever so slightly misshapen. The design is simple, but it's probably the single most expensive item you've ever held. "Where the hell did you get this?" you ask Val, an eyebrow raised. "Just don't lose it," $vthey call$vs over $vtheir shoulder, gesturing for you to follow. All you can do is sigh, run your fingers over the smooth pearls, and walk on. [[Continue|2.2]]

Slowly, the cobblestones and concrete give way to more intricate stonework, cut and laid to coax color and pattern from even the plainest of rock. It's beautifully built, the steps neatly chiseled, and trees artfully trimmed. Houses grow wider and flowerbeds more vibrant. Even the fog and rain seems gentler here. So Val wasn't lying about the wealth of $vtheir employer. $vThey lead$vs you around a corner where the mansions and gardens come to an abrupt stop, barred by a wall whose surface is so smooth it nearly reflects moonlight. You've never seen it from this part of the city, but you'd know that wall anywhere. You pass through a small archway, and your heart drops into your stomach. [[Val has brought you to the Acropolis.|Gardens]]

A scream bubbles up in your chest; you try to bite it back but it escapes as a manic laugh, and there's no hiding the feral smile splitting your face in two. Adrenaline burns through you like a flash fire. It's not enough. For a split second there's only whistling air, then a pressure at your back, and you collapse. The angel's weight is crushing and insubstantial at the same time, like you're pinned beneath a column of stagnant air. All thousand eyes are fixed on you, unblinking. It takes you by the arm and tears into the flesh of your wrist. Claws, teeth, or a jagged halo, you don't know. Blunt force with a razor edge. You can taste blood. Smell it, too. Blurry vision spares you the sight of it trying to rip the bones from your hand, but you can feel it. The sob dies on your tongue. [[You smell smoke.|1.9]]

Your mind goes blank, and all you know is breathing. Steady in, quick out. This is a matter of survival; fear has no place here. You focus everything you have on escape. It's not enough. For a split second there's only whistling air, then a pressure at your back, and you collapse. The angel's weight is crushing and insubstantial at the same time, like you're pinned beneath a column of stagnant air. All thousand eyes are fixed on you, unblinking. It takes you by the arm and tears into the flesh of your wrist. Claws, teeth, or a jagged halo, you don't know. Blunt force with a razor edge. You can taste blood. Smell it, too. Blurry vision spares you the sight of it trying to rip the bones from your hand, but you can feel it. The sob dies on your tongue. [[You smell smoke.|1.9]]

<<set $KlausKnows to true>>"I don't know," you admit finally. Klaus' head tilts questioningly. "I have some kind of amnesia. I don't remember anything from before a few years ago. Val found me in the Theatre District, delirious." "Can confirm," Val chimes in. You can't tell if $vtheyre surprised or relieved by your honesty. "A few years ago, and nothing's come back?" the priest asks, brows furrowed. He's leaned slightly closer, but instead of looking at you, he's focused on a spot just past your shoulder. You resist the urge to turn, almost sure you'd see a spectre hanging in the air. "Nothing at all," you reply slowly. "Before or after the Divine Theatre was rebuilt?" "I… didn't know it was damaged." Klaus finally looks back at you, mouth twisted thoughtfully. "Hmm. Interesting." He doesn't continue. [['"Why is that interesting?"'][$Sarcastic -=1]] [["Care to elaborate?" you drawl.][$Sarcastic +=2]]

<<set $KlausKnows to false>>"Here and there," you say finally, "Nowhere special." Klaus looks deeply unimpressed. "Very specific, thank you," he says thinly. "I'm not interrogating you, $Name, but if you're going to make it difficult, you will drop in my priorities list." Your throat feels thick. "Noted." Mercifully, Klaus doesn't push the subject. [['"So what do we do now?"'|2.3]]

<<set $KlausKnows to false>>"A village a few hours outside the City," you say, keeping your voice even, "Small enough to be left off most maps." You can feel Val's eyes on your back as you mentally beg $vthem to keep $vtheir mouth shut. "Oh, really? So am I. But, probably not relevant, then." This comes as a surprise, but you're not willing to risk pushing the subject. Mercifully, Val says nothing. [['"So what do we do now?"'|2.3]]

"Care to elaborate?" you drawl. An eyebrow quirks, and Klaus narrows his eyes at you with something that's not quite a smirk. "No, not really," he says. "Divine mysteries and all that." //Priests.// [['"So what do we do now?"'|2.3]]

"So what do we do now?" you ask, and take a step back. "I need to do some research," says Klaus. "I'll send Constantine when I find something. A few days, maybe. In the mean time, stay away from angels." "Don't have to tell me twice," you huff, shaking yourself. The //when// as opposed to an //if// is oddly comforting. Constantine, grim-faced as ever, steps aside to let you leave, Val at your side. "And Val-" $vThey look$vs back over $vtheir shoulder to Klaus. "Break contract again and I'll sacrifice you to the Saints." Val replies with a fierce smile that matches Klaus' stare in intensity before ushering you back through the door. You don't think the Handmaiden is joking. [[Continue|2.4]]

Constantine does not follow you out, and you can hear $chis and Klaus' muffled voices for a second before the heavy door swings closed. You have to blink at the thin shine of gold and marble in the once-again fully decorated hall, now even more overwhelming that you've seen the difference in Klaus' room. You're lost in the maze of a floor tile for a moment before looking up to see that Val is already several yards away, as if trying to put as much distance between $vthemself and the palace as quickly as possible. <<if $Klaus gte 4>> "I don't think he liked me very much," you say, following. Val's laugh echoes off the stairwell. "Well, $Name, I think you pissed him off a little. And that's a compliment, by the way." "Didn't do that on my own." "True," Val says with a wistful smile. "I am //very// annoying." <</if>> "I cannot believe you work for the Priest's Hand," you breathe, speeding up slightly to look Val in the eye. "What happened to //'fuck the Religious and everything to do with them'//?" "He pays well. Priestess money spends the same as anything else." Sure. <<if $Val gte 15>> $vTheir shrug is casual, nonchalant even, but the light doesn't quite reach $vtheir eyes. "What does he have on you, Val?" "He's a fucking Handmaiden," $vthey scoff$vs. "He doesn't have to have anything on me." Two steps before you reenter the lush gardens, you pause. Val looks back the moment your footsteps stop. "Do you trust Klaus?" $vTheir smile flickers, and $vthey take$vs a second longer to answer than you're comfortable with. "Yes. And no. I trust him to do what he thinks is right. But if I was in the way of that…" $vThey look$vs you in the eye. "I don't think he'd hesitate very long." <</if>> Neither of you say anything further as you make your way back through the gardens and out of the Acropolis. You're fortunate enough to not run into anyone more than a pair of gardeners who ignore you entirely. By the time you're back in the familiar streets of the Lower Districts, the sun is rising, and the air is crisp. You breathe deep, suddenly feeling more tired than you ever have. "You alright on your own from here?" Val asks. One look and you can tell $vtheyre as weary as you are. You nod. Your currently rented room is only a few blocks away, in the opposite direction from Val's tiny apartment. "You still owe me food. And I won't forget, so don't you dare try." $vThey rub$vs at $vtheir face in a poor attempt to cover $vtheir smile. "I would never!" [[Hug Val.][$Sarcastic -=2, $Val +=2]] [['"See you later."'|2.6]]

You move almost without thinking, wrapping your arms around Val and pulling $vthem close. $vThey let$vs out a surprised //oof//, then return$vs the hug without a moment's more hesitation. <><<if $height is "tall">>$vThey stand$vs on $vtheir toes to put $vtheir chin on your shoulder, and you hear $vthem snort a laugh as $vthey nearly lose$vs $vtheir balance, clinging to your sleeves. <<elseif $height is "average">>Despite the early morning chill you've never felt warmer than with your cheek pressed to Val's, and you feel $vthem smile. <<elseif $height is "short">>With your head tucked under $vtheir chin the world falls quiet and the wind muffled, and you swear you can hear $vtheir heartbeat.<</if>><> "Glad you weren't angel food, $Name," $vthey say$vs, voice reverberating in your ear. "So am I," you mumble. "Though if you're hiding any more secret connections to powerful people, I'll have a fit. Blink twice if the Handmaiden is holding you hostage." "Hah! He wishes. I can't be controlled." "That I know." You finally release $vthem and take a step back, already missing the warmth. $vThey give$vs you one last grin. [['"See you soon, Io."'|2.6]]

"Why is that interesting?" He shakes his head. "Never mind. It's not relevant." You don't believe him, but drop it anyway. [['"So what do we do now?"'|2.3]]

<<if $FightConnie is true>>"There's blood on your shirt." You can't help the laugh. "It's unrelated, I promise." <</if>>"And-… did you do that yourself?" They nod at the bandadges wrapped sloppily around your arm. "Maybe," you admit. "They're much too tight," they say, taking a step forward, "See, your fingers are turning red-" The priestess reaches to take your hand, but catches themself before making contact, as if suddenly aware of how little space is between you. "I can redo it, if you like. It'll be more comfortable." "I…would really appreciate that." They start to lead you across the room, then hesitate and turn back slightly, head tilted toward the floor. "My name's Ira, by the way. Ira Auclair." "$Name Io." "Nice to meet you, $Name." <<set $bandage to "Ira">> [[Continue|3A.5a]]

''The Religious:'' The theocratic ruling faction, supported by a less-powerful secular government. ''The High Priest and Priestess:'' The two heads of the Religious, currently Thaddeus Blackfern and Jacquelin Alavet, respectively. Beyond having absolute authority, they wield wildly powerful Magic that's been known to take out entire cities. Also known as the Most Holy, and are referred to as His/Her/Their Royal Holiness. ''The Priest and Priestess's Hands:'' The High Priest and Priestess's assistants, also known as the Handmaidens (regardless of gender). Currently Klaus Kirkhall and Flora Mavis. The Hands are expected to be close companions of the Most Holy, as well as supporting them Magically and politically. ''The Council of Saints:'' Elite warriors and appointed emmisaries of the Religious who have very close ties with angels. Their orders come straight from the Acropolis and are not to be questioned. Saints are canonized after a near-death experience, and are masked and given new names for anonymity. Most operate around the Holy City, but there are several Saints Errant, who wander the countryside administering justice, offering aid, or on hallowed missions. ''The Acropolis:'' The walled complex in the Holy City where the High Priest and Priestess rule from. Includes the Divine Theatre and the Palace of the Saints. ''The Blessed Guard:'' The guards of the Acropolis, with occasional jurisdiction in the rest of the Holy City. Most were priests or priestesses before joining. ''Angels and Demons:'' Also known as holy beings, angels and demons are supernatural creatures that have been 'domesticated' by the Religious, and are mostly used for aid in Magic or security. Angels have a higher intelligence than demons, and are the creatures who perform excommunications. <<return>>

It's cold and dark, the air so close it's suffocating, and for a moment you're sure this is a false awakening and you've only come halfway out of the dream. You lay there, panting, begging your muscles to move; the corners of the room are getting closer and you need to- //There.// Your arm shifts, and the paralysis disperses like a broken spell. Slowly, you sit up and take stock of your surroundings. You're in bed, apparently having slept through the day entirely. There's a stiff ache in your shoulder, and your mouth is so dry and tacky it feels like you've eaten cotton. The jug of cold water on your nightstand is a godsend, though it does little to fight the headache from having overslept. Or the displacement. You shiver, and realize your clothes are damp with sweat. You free yourself from the tangled bedsheets and stand, swaying slightly. Peeling off your clothing without falling proves to be challenging (you might still be concussed, you think), but somehow you manage. There's a slight breeze from your open window that leaves a chill on your bare skin. Cautiously, you look to your hand. You'd completely forgotten to wrap it before you fell asleep, and you can only hope Klaus' spell has stayed active long enough to keep it clean. The burn has started to blister and scab around your wrist, cracking slightly as you flex your stiff fingers. The markings haven't faded. Paranoia tells you you need to get this covered immediately. You have nothing useful in your room, but there's a general store not too far away that might still be open this late. But first, you need to dress. You flip open the ramshackle trunk at the foot of your bed and survey your options. [["A somber black set that often gets you mistaken for a " + $priestess + "."|3.2][$Bold -=1, $Sanity -=1]] [[Flowy, flattering clothes, half weighed down with rings and trinkets. Definitely not influenced by Val, at all.|3.2][$Charming +=1, $Human +=1]] [[Something simple but practical. You won't stand out, but maybe that's ideal.|3.2][$Human -=1, $Bold -=1]] [[An outfit that's visually interesting and perfectly tailored. High maintenance, but you'll be damned if you don't look good.|3.2][$Bold +=1, $Human +=1]] [[Literally whatever's clean. Who cares what you look like?|3.2][$Human -=1, $Charming -=1]]

There's a tarnished mirror on the floor against the wall, dusty and cracked. Normally you'd spare at least a glance, but not tonight. Tonight you don't think you can stand it. There's something wrong with you, you've always known that. People stare, or their gaze slides right over you. No one wants to look you in the eyes. Like you're just so slightly…sharp in strange places and blurred in the rest. Sometimes when you look in the mirror you half expect to open your mouth and find too many teeth. \><><<if $Human gte 50>> //Why aren't I a person yet?// <<else>> //How could I be alive, anyway?<</if>><> You flinch. The thought doesn't feel like your own, but rather a sick thing that's slipped into your mind with ill intent. You smother it with a panicked fury. You need to get out of here. Down the stairs, and into the quiet street, pausing only to slam the door and lock inside whatever the hell that was. If you're going to be haunted, you'd think the ghosts would at least have the guts to show themselves instead of clouding your head with miasma. [[Continue|3.3]]

Ira sits at a tall wooden table, gesturing for you to take the stool opposite. The wood is smooth, almost soft, worn with decades of use, if not more. You rest your arm on the table, and let Ira pull it towards them. Their nimble fingers easily untie your terrible knot and gently unwrap the bandages from your forearm. Ira pauses only a moment once your skin is revealed, eyes caught on the lines marring your flesh, though they keep their thoughts to themself. The bandage looks clean to you, other than a few flecks of scab, but Ira waves their hand over it anyway. There's a subtle shift of Magic in the air, and the cloth is once again immaculate. Their own hands are soft on yours as they start to replace the wrappings, starting at your palm and extending to your elbow, just past the longest strand of the strange tattoo. Occasionally Ira's eyes flick up to your face, to make sure you're watching. The slow speed is for your benefit, you realize. They want you to learn. "You really know what you're doing," you remark. "Healing and first aid are a fundamental part of priesthood," Ira replies. "It's one of the first things they teach you." They finish with a small knot, tucked into another layer of bandage. It's neat work, firm and secure, but you find you can now move your fingers without feeling like the blood vessels will burst. "Thank you," you say, and finally take a moment to look about the room. "So what do you do down here? Are you the librarian?" Ira's eyes grow wide. "Oh, no- I…" They give you an embarrassed smile and a half-hearted shrug. "I just tidy the room and catalog the books after the real scholars leave. I'm just a priestess. The regular kind." [["That's a shame. I'd be a very dedicated student." ♡][$Charming +=2, $Ira +=2, $IraFlirt +=1]] [["Don't say that." Reach across the table and take their hand. ♡][$Sarcastic -=1, $Ira +=2, $IraFlirt +=1]] [["Don't sell yourself short. They must have given you the keys for a reason."][$Ira +=2, $Sarcastic -=1]] [["I see."][$Bold -=1, $Charming -=1]]

"That's a shame," you say, voice low and gaze lingering on their neatly-folded hands. "I'd be a very dedicated student." You look up to meet their eyes. For a moment you swear Ira stops breathing and just stares, apparently taken completely off guard. Then they blink, and do an arguably poor job of hiding their smile behind a hand. "Don't make fun, $Name. This is a place of serious academic study." You rest your chin on a hand and widen your eyes innocently. "I wouldn't dream of it! Why, what did you think I meant?" This time Ira actually laughs, brief but lively. "Well, in that case, what can I help you find? I'm fond of research." "Nothing specific, really," you admit. "I just came here to pass the time. Show me something you're interested in." Hesitation colors their face. "Do you really want to know?" "Yes," you nod. This may be dangerously close to the things you're trying not to think about, but you might learn something new. "Tell me everything." [[Continue|3A.6]]

"They must have given you the keys for a reason," you retort lightly. "Shouldn't sell yourself short." Ira's mouth twitches upward as they look at you out of the corners of their eyes. "It's a public building, $Name. There are no keys." "You know what I mean. You could be in a theatre dusting chandeliers, but you're not. You're //here//. There has to be a reason." They smile and tuck a lock of pale hair behind one ear. "I suppose. Well, can I help you find anything? I'm familiar with most of the documents and books here." "Oh, I don't know," you admit. "I just came here to pass the time. Have you really read everything in here?" "Saints, no," laughs Ira. "It's just that these particular books are mostly history and Religious theory, which I, um… I find really fascinating. So, I haven't read //everything//, but I know my way around, and which are worth studying." "In that case, tell me about what //you// study, Ira." Hesitation colors their face. "Do you really want to know?" "Yes," you nod. This may be dangerously close to the things you're trying not to think about, but you might learn something new. "Tell me everything." [[Continue|3A.6]]

Any good response runs from you. "I see," you say awkwardly. They look away again, fingers tapping on the table. An uncomfortable moment stretches before they perk up again. "Were, uh… were you looking for something in particular? In the library?" "No, not really. I just needed to take my mind off some things." "Oh, okay, uh…" Ira looks around the small library almost frantically, desperate for something to bridge the awkwardness. "What was the last thing you read?" you offer. "Um… //St Vasha's Apocrypha//, I think. It's a theoretical text on demonology and early Religious history. It has some very interesting ideas, and most people think it's actually a later forgery, but //I// have a theory that-" They stop, and look down at their hands. "I'm sorry, you probably don't want to hear about that. Uh, I saw a really lovely book of poetry the other day…" "What was your theory, Ira?" Hesitation colors their face. "Do you really want to know?" "Yes," you nod. This may be dangerously close to the things you're trying not to think about, but you might learn something new. "Tell me everything." [[Continue|3A.6]]

Without another word, Ira slides off their stool and returns to the doorway to pick up the crate they came in with. They place it on the table with a solid //thunk//, and begin pulling out all kinds of documents and notes. Books, loosely bound folios, crisp sheets of faded paper, and dozens of text fragments all emerge in neatly organized stacks. It's enough to cover Ira's half of the long table; whatever it is they're into, they've gone deep. Finally, they pull a small leather notebook from their pocket and fan it open, allowing you glimpses of their handwriting, elegant and sprawling. "Wow. This is complex," you say, scanning the copious documents. Most look quite old. "It can get very esoteric once you get under the surface," Ira agrees. "But that's the part I enjoy- decoding what is and isn't actually important, and piecing it together. This is mostly ancient theory on Magic. Ancient being relative, of course- post-Collapse, I mean." "You're studying the origins of Magic?" "Not quite. I'm studying the origins of //the Religious//, and Magic just happens to be what we have the most sources on. There's the official histories, of course, but it's all been so mythologized over the centuries, and almost nothing exists from just after the Collapse itself. The first priestesses knew what caused it, but they never wrote it down, at least not in a way that's easily understood. I believe the information exists, we just have to find it." "So the beginning of known history, then. Sounds like quite the feat." Ira nods. "I'm in a bit of a rut; everything in my research leads underneath the city and I'm certain I could find answers in the ruins, but all the old tunnels are restricted. Makes me feel a little insane sometimes, to be so sure what I'm looking for is just below my feet." A chill settles over your skin, and the room feels a little darker, a little narrower. [["You think there's something underground?"]]

"You think there's something underground?" They nod again, biting a nail. "I'm sure you know the Holy City isn't built on a natural hill. There's miles and miles of ruins below us- the bones of an older civilization that were buried during the Collapse. And beneath that, deeper still…" "Is what?" "God, of course." The only response you can muster is a blink and a raised eyebrow. Religious doctrine isn't your strong suit, but you're pretty sure this isn't a part of it. "I thought the Religious had no god?" "We don't, not formally. But worship and sedation are just two different kinds of appeasement, and what else can you call the thing that an entire organization is built around the reverent fear of?" "What," you start slowly, "are you talking about?" Ira looks up at the hesitation in your voice and to your surprise, laughs. It's a merry sound, with no trace of malice. "I'm sorry. I get so absorbed in my research that sometimes I forget where my own theories begin." Their laugh gives way to a conspiratorial smile, and they lean ever so closer. "It's true the Religious are a mainly political faction, but we do still have a mission. Our order was formed after the Collapse; we are to prevent it from happening again, whatever //it// is. I believe it's a literal thing, some kind of force or beast. It's called The God Beneath. Holy or unholy, I'm not sure, but I know it's divine." It could just be the flickering candlelight, but there's an excited spark in Ira's gray eyes. They don't get a chance to talk about this often, you realize. "So what is this deity, then?" "I don't know," they admit. "But I think the angels and demons have something to do with it. Like echoes of a scream." [["That's really interesting."][$Ira +=2, $Sarcastic -= 1]] [["That makes no sense."][$Ira -=2, $Sarcastic +=1]]

"That's really interesting, Ira." you say. And you mean it. It's Ira's turn to look surprised. Their mouth falls into a small 'o' for a moment, then splits into a soft smile. "Thank you. Not everyone agrees, but I think there's merit to it." "Have you shared it with anyone?" Their jaw tightens. "I've tried," they say, closing their notebook gently. "I'd like to submit it to the Acropolis for consideration, but I'm told without more evidence it's a waste of time. Or, without //any// evidence, I should say. I don't actually have proof beyond speculation and some bits of old poetry." "I wasn't under the impression there was much evidence for anything before the Collapse." "That's true," they say with a thoughtful hum. "But it is a spectacularly controversial idea, and like I said, I am just a humble priestess. I've only been ordained a few years, now. It'll take a lot more to make my thoughts have any weight." You've become so focused on the conversation you haven't noticed the passage of time, and a sudden loud clanging from somewhere above startles you back into reality. Once again, the midnight bell has disturbed your conversations. Ira looks up at the sound, then begins to return their documents to the crate. "Oh, I'm sorry to abandon you, but I do have my duties," they say with an apologetic shrug. "Feel free to stay as long as you like. I'll be here if you have questions." "No, that's alright." You stand moments after they do. "I'l get out of your way. Thank you again, Ira." The warmth in their smile follows you as you exit. [[Continue|3A.7]]

You can't help the squint. "That doesn't make any sense." Ira doesn't flinch, but their shoulders droop slightly and the smile on their face fades. "I know. It's just a theory." They close their notebook and slide off the stool. The books and documents are quickly returned to their crate. "Well, sorry to abandon you, but I do have my duties," they say blandly, picking up the crate once again. "Feel free to stay as long as you like. I'll be in the next room if you have any questions." You've overstayed your welcome. "No, that's alright," you reply, standing. "I'll get out of your way. Thank you again, Ira." They hum a noncommital response as you flee the library. [[Continue|3A.7]]

"Don't say things like that." Almost subconsciously, you find yourself slipping your fingers over Ira's, giving them a reassuring squeeze. Their eyes flick from your face to your hand, but they don't pull away. You can almost imagine they relax under the touch. Then you realize what you're doing and flush, quickly raising your hand and pulling it back into your lap. "Uh.. I um," you stammer, "I meant, you don't seem like you're //just// anything. You're just as much as scholar as anyone, I'm sure." You don't breathe again until you recognize Ira's pursed lips not offense but amusement. "That's lovely of you to say, $Name. I’m… an amateur researcher, then." "What do you research?" Hesitation colors their face. "Do you really want to know?" "Yes," you nod. This may be dangerously close to the things you're trying not to think about, but you might learn something new. "Tell me everything." [[Continue|3A.6]]

<><<set $bandage to "none">><<set $TA to false>><<set $TB to false>><<set $TC to false>><>The shop is close and easy to navigate, though the attendant gives you a dirty look for coming in so late. A couple of coins lighter, you emerge from the little store with a roll of bleached bandages. You find yourself a secluded corner between two buildings, and consider your strategy. If you grip one end in your teeth, you'll have the other hand free to wrap, if somewhat awkwardly. You don't need pretty, just functional. How hard can it be? You execute this plan horribly, and have to steady yourself against a wall when you pull the bandage too tight across your burn. You end up with something that looks less than passable, the cloth uneven and pressure building in your fingers, but it's covered. Safe from infection and prying eyes, if not comfortable. The night is young, and your thoughts are crowding out your own mind. [[Some peace and quiet would go a long way.|3A.1]] [[You need a drink.|3C.1]] [[You just start walking.|3B.1]]

You aren't far from the Theatre District, whose halls and chapels are open to the public at all times of day and night, and will almost certainly be near-abandoned at this hour. <><<if $Sanity gte 50>> You find yourself craving the silence of a theatre library just below street level. Submersion in the cool closeness of the dirt will calm you, you think. Muffle your thoughts and keep them six feet underground; even better if the hole's already dug and lined with marble and bookshelves. <<else>> The tranquil silence and lofty shadows of a theatre will give you room to breathe, and to think. Or to not think at all, and just let yourself go blissfully numb. A theatre is promised sanctuary that no one with regard for their own life would violate. Maybe if you're lucky, the priestesses will be rehearsing, and you'll hear their chant.<</if>><> Satisfied with the choice, you strike out for the Theatre District: uphill, unfortunately, but not an unpleasant walk. The cool night air is welcome on your overheated skin. [[Continue|3A.2]]

You pick a direction, and you go. It's always seemed strange to you how quiet the Holy City is after nightfall, as if the entire population had gotten together and agreed that being outside in the dark is not only a bad idea but an unthinkable one. Not that the city becomes a ghost town - you can hear sounds of life around every street corner, but you rarely see evidence beyond the warm glow spilling from an open window or balcony. There may be an unspoken fear of the night, but rarely is it outdone by the warmth of a hearth. Still, you often feel like a lost phantom wandering the empty streets, unwelcome anywhere you're outnumbered. [[Your pace is slow, but not leisurely.|3B.2]]

A deep thirst has settled into your throat, and you're feeling an itch to spend a coin or two. There are countless taverns and bars and places of the sort scattered throughout the area, all you need to do is follow the sound of good cheer. Two blocks south, down a set of stairs and across a small market square, and you've reached your target. You step into the glow of the crowded bar, and push yourself to the front. It only takes you a moment to catch the bartender's attention; she gives you an acknowledging nod and slides over once she can spare a moment. She puts her elbows on the counter and leans toward you, a rough towel tossed over one shoulder. "What'll it be?" [[Something sweet.|3C.2][$Sanity -=1]] [[Something dark.|3C.2][$Sanity -=1]] [[Water.|3C.2]]

The already sparse population of late-night travellers drops to almost nothing as you make your way onto the curving, labyrinthinan Theatre District. There are very few wide roads here, the priestesses having instead opted for narrow footpaths seperated by hedges and half-walls and the spires of theatres. It's a less luxurious rendition of the Acropolis gardens, with much stricter pathways that do not allow for wandering. It took you years to realize the mazes have their purpose: to divide the crowds spilling out of the theatres and calm their wild energy as they disperse into the city proper. Intense performances have sparked riots, especially on festival days. The footpaths are not the safest place to be after the theatre doors are thrown open, but a corpse or two is better than a blood-thirsty mob swarming the city. <><<if $Sanity gte 50>> The theatre steps lie in front of you, but that's not your destination. A golden light spills from an open doorway around the side of the building. Stairs lead downwards into a basement level; beyond, you can only see stone and woven carpet. This must be the library. The reason the Religious keep their libraries below ground has never been made clear to you, but you know one when you see it. The warmth of the gaslamps inside draw you in. <<else>> The theatre steps aren't far, but something lower catches your attention: a golden light, spilling from an open doorway around the side of the building. Stairs lead downwards into a basement level; beyond, you can only see stone and woven carpet. It's a library, you think, one maintained by the priestesses. The reason the Religious keep their libraries below ground has never been made clear to you, but you know one when you see it. The warmth of the gaslamps inside draw you in.<</if>><> It's a short flight of stairs, seven or eight steps at the most, but steep. A clerestory of windows lines the wall and looks out at street level, just enough to let in fresh air and light. The library is longer than it is wide, lined with bookcases heavy with tomes both old and new, with a series of tables and desks running down the center aisle. Rugs and tapestries beat back the chill and swallow any echo, though they're not ornate, only a simple pattern, if any decoration at all. The entire room is neat, and clearly well-cared for; not a book is out of place. [['"Oh, it's you."'|3A.3]]

"Oh, it's you." You turn at the soft voice to see a figure in the doorway with a wooden crate balanced against one hip. Last night feels so long ago it's nearly forgotten, and it takes you an awkwardly long moment to recognize the priestess who rescued you from the angel. They look much the same as yesterday, with the exception of their hair, which has been combed and returned to a neat braid. [['"It's me! Hello again."'][$Bold +=1]] [['"I'm sorry, I didn't think anyone would be in here."'][$Bold -=1]] [[You smile. "My hero! I hoped I'd see you again." ♡][$IraFlirt +=1, $Charming +=1]]

"It's me! Hello again," you say with a faint smile. They step further into the room and set down their crate, then give you a quick once-over. Their hands are on their hips and their eye is critical, but the words are warm. "Hello. I see you survived another night without being consumed by the divine." "So far. But you never know." <<if $bandage is "none">>[[A frown creases their brow.|3A.4a]] <<else>>[[They step further into the light.|3A.4b]]<</if>>

The apology falls from you instantly. "I'm sorry, I didn't think anyone would be in here." "There usually isn't this late," they say, stepping into the room and setting down the crate. "That's why I like it." "Sorry," you repeat, "I can leave-" "No!" they blurt, then take an embarrassed breath. "I mean, no, you don't have to go. I'm just staff, this place is for you. I wouldn't dream of sending someone away." "Oh, well, that's good. Thank you." <<if $bandage is "none">>[[A frown creases their brow.|3A.4a]] <<else>>[[They step further into the light.|3A.4b]]<</if>>

You smile. "My hero! I hoped I'd see you again." They step into the room, placing the crate on the floor. "I hope you haven't brought more angels. I think I'd get in trouble for silencing another, //especially// if it exploded again." "No, no angels here. Not that kind, anyway," you reply, voice low. They huff a laugh, but don't meet your eyes. <<if $bandage is "none">>[[A frown creases their brow.|3A.4a]] <<else>>[[They step further into the light.|3A.4b]]<</if>>

"My name is Ira, by the way. Ira Auclair," they say, coming to stand face to face with you. "$Name Io." "Nice to meet you, $Name. Again. Less violently." A smile finds its way to your face unbidden. "Thankfully. I didn't really enjoy the first time." "You weren't too hurt, were you? I'm sorry I didn't have a chance to help more." "No, I'm fine. It's taken care of." <<if $FightConnie is true>>Ira glances pointedly at the blood stain on your collar. "You sure about that?" You can't help the laugh. "That's unrelated, I promise." <</if>>[[Continue|3A.5b]]

"So what do you do down here? Are you the librarian?" you ask, finally glancing around the room again. Ira's eyes grow wide. "Oh, no- I…" They give you an embarrassed smile and a half-hearted shrug. "I just tidy the room and catalog the books after the real scholars leave. I'm just a priestess. The regular kind." [["That's a shame. I'd be a very dedicated student." ♡][$Charming +=2, $Ira +=2, $IraFlirt +=1]] [["Don't say that." Reach across the table and take their hand. ♡][$Sarcastic -=1, $Ira +=2, $IraFlirt +=1]] [["Don't sell yourself short. They must have given you the keys for a reason."][$Ira +=2, $Sarcastic -=1]] [["I see."][$Bold -=1, $Charming -=1]]

The drink comes quick and neatly, the glass spotless and not a drop spilled. The luxuries of living in the Holy City; you've heard horror stories about bars and taverns farther out into the countryside. The priestesses value cleanliness and quality, and their patronage is crucial to business around here. The bar is full, packed nearly from wall to wall. The chatter is loud, but you can still hear the jaunty nautical tune being plucked out by a trio of musicians near the center of the room. You don't recognize the song. <<if $Val gte 15>> Val would; $vthey love$vs a good drinking song, especially a shanty. <</if>> [[Finally, some life.][$Human +=1]] [[You're going to suffocate in here.][$Human -=1]]

Trying to find a seat would be a waste of time, and the thought of standing somewhere without your back to a wall makes you itch with anxiety. This was a bad idea; you should have just bought something and taken it home. Annoyed and overstimulated, you down your drink and set the glass on a stranger's table. They take no notice, and you slip outside into the open air. There's a small outdoor seating area, but it seems like all the chairs have been pilfered and moved inside where it's warm. You can't blame them; the chill is already eating through your clothes. "God //fucking// dammit." You know that voice. To your left, leaned against the stone wall, is Constantine, once again in the civilian clothes you're used to. A lit cigarette is in $chis hand and an empty mug is at $chis feet. $cHe scowls at you. "Can I not have a night's peace? I swear, if that ringmaster of yours is around the corner-" "If you mean Val, no, $vtheyre not here." "Small blessings. Now go away." [['"Didn't know you owned this alleyway."'][$Sarcastic +=1]] [['"Just here for a drink. Didn't mean to bother you."'][$Sarcastic -=1]] [['"Sorry. Just ignore me."'][$Bold -=1]]

The noise and the chaos is oddly relaxing, and you feel the muscles in your back soften for what feels like the first time in forever. Your fingers wrap around your glass and you take a sip, savoring the refreshing taste and letting it linger on your tongue. A smile rises to your lips; content or mischevious you're not sure. You spend nearly an hour in the bar, making temporary friends and plenty of small talk. Your drink is refilled twice without your input, and you're not going to complain. Eventually, though, the heat and closeness of the crowd becomes too much even for you, and you make your way for the exit. There's a small outdoor seating area, but it seems like all the chairs have been pilfered and moved inside where it's warm. You can't blame them; the chill is already eating through your clothes. "God //fucking// dammit." You know that voice. To your left, leaned against the stone wall, is Constantine, once again in the civilian clothes you're used to. A lit cigarette is in $chis hand and an empty mug is at $chis feet. $cHe scowls at you. "Can I not have a night's peace? I swear, if that ringmaster of yours is around the corner-" "If you mean Val, no, $vtheyre not here." "Small blessings. Now go away." [['"Didn't know you owned this alleyway."'][$Sarcastic +=1]] [['"Just here for a drink. Didn't mean to bother you."'][$Sarcastic -=1]] [['"Sorry. Just ignore me."'][$Bold -=1]]

"Didn't know you owned this alleyway." "Lot of things you don't know," $che says dryly, ignoring your sneer. Or perhaps not. Irritation is creeping into your skin. "Shouldn't you be with Klaus?" "I'm not his damn bodyguard. Anyway, he's with Most Holy. He couldn't be safer if I was an army of Saints." "The High Priest and Priestess? Have you met them?" Constantine hums. "Yes. Deeply strange, the both of them. I trust them with the country, but not my own sanity. Not that-" $che pauses, and looks at you. "Why the hell am I telling you this? Get lost, Io." [[Smile a little sharper than necessary. "So mean, Connie."][$Sarcastic +=1, $Human +=1]] [[Lean closer. "Because you like talking to me." ♡][$ConFlirt +=1, $Bold +=1]] [[Frown. "I'm not trying to piss you off, you know."][$Sarcastic -=1, $Human -=1, $Con +=1]] [['"Fine. Good night."'][$Con +=1, $Charming -=1, $Human -=1]]

You put up a hand in surrender. "Just here for a drink. Didn't mean to bother you." "We all do things we don't mean," $che says dryly. Irritation is creeping into your skin. "Shouldn't you be with Klaus?" "I'm not his damn bodyguard. Anyway, he's with Most Holy. He couldn't be safer if I was an army of Saints." "The High Priest and Priestess? Have you met them?" Constantine hums. "Yes. Deeply strange, the both of them. I trust them with the country, but not my own sanity. Not that-" $che pauses, and looks at you. "Why the hell am I telling you this? Get lost, Io." [[Smile a little sharper than necessary. "So mean, Connie."][$Sarcastic +=1, $Human +=1]] [[Lean closer. "Because you like talking to me." ♡][$ConFlirt +=1, $Bold +=1]] [[Frown. "I'm not trying to piss you off, you know."][$Sarcastic -=1, $Human -=1, $Con +=1]] [['"Fine. Good night."'][$Con +=1, $Charming -=1, $Human -=1]]

"Sorry," you all-but-mumble. "Just ignore me." "Cheers," $che says dryly. Discomfort crawls over your shoulders. You really didn't mean to start this off so badly. You try a friendly question. "Shouldn't you be with Klaus?" "I'm not his damn bodyguard. Anyway, he's with Most Holy. He couldn't be safer if I was an army of Saints." "The High Priest and Priestess? Have you met them?" Constantine hums. "Yes. Deeply strange, the both of them. I trust them with the country, but not my own sanity. Not that-" $che pauses, and looks at you. "Why the hell am I telling you this? Get lost, Io." [[Smile a little sharper than necessary. "So mean, Connie."][$Sarcastic +=1, $Human +=1]] [[Lean closer. "Because you like talking to me." ♡][$ConFlirt +=1, $Bold +=1]] [[Frown. "I'm not trying to piss you off, you know."][$Sarcastic -=1, $Human -=1, $Con +=1]] [['"Fine. Good night."'][$Con +=1, $Charming -=1, $Human -=1]]

Your smile is all canines, sharp and willing to tear, a mockery of a pout. "So //mean//, Connie." $cHe doesn't reply and instead takes another drag of $chis cigarette, the flaring embers illuminating $chis face. There's something predatory in the shine. You can almost smell blood. Or… you can //actually// smell blood. Something dark is under $chis fingernails and the collar of $chis shirt. You find your tongue sliding over your teeth. "Kill anyone lately?" "That's Acropolis business, and none of yours." "Do you enjoy it, Connie?" You've said it twice now, and haven't suffered so much as a dirty look. $cHe must be in a rare mood; good or bad is yet to be seen. "Enjoy what?" "Being the Handmaiden's dog." Constantine pushes $chimself off the wall, coming to stand in front of you. <<if $height is "tall">>$cHes a flat black shape, blocking out the light of the streetlights and the moon combined. You're nearly the same height, but you can't help but feel dwarfed. <<else>>$cHe looms over you, nearly blocking out the light and becoming a silhouette. All you can see is the glow of the cigarette reflected in $chis eyes. <</if>> "Me? I get paid, Io. You're the stray." [['"Hmm. Money really can buy everything, huh? What other sins do you commit in Klaus' name?"'|3C.3a][$Bold +=2]] [[Back off.]]

You lean closer to Constantine, invading $chis space and knowing with every inch that you're pushing your luck. "Because you like talking to me, of course," you say, your smile lazy and narrow. The scent of incense and soap lingers on $chis clothes, marred only by something metallic you can't quite name. Your gaze lazily travels from $chis dark eyes to the cigarette between $chis lips to the thin sheen of sweat on $chis collarbone, until a sudden cloud of smoke blown straight into your face obscures your vision. You lean back slightly, blinking, and frown at $chim. "They say secondhand smoke kills, you know." Constantine takes another drag. "Does it?" There's blood under $chis fingernails. A small splatter on $chis shirt, too, now that you're looking. You reach forward and take the cloth between your fingers. It's fresh. "Who'd you bleed, $Connie?" "That's Acropolis business, and none of yours." You huff, your breath sending the light trail of cigarette smoke into the distance. "You're no fun." "I don't aim to be." But $che hasn't made you back off yet. <<if $bandage is "none">>[[Continue|con bandage]]<<else>>[[Continue|3C.3]]<</if>>

There's a headache forming behind your eyes, only made worse by the strain of a frown. "I'm not trying to piss you off, you know." "That's hard to believe," $che says, but there's no bite in it. $cHe exhales, emptying his lungs, and lifts $chis cigarette for another drag. There's something dark and red on $chis hands. And $chis shirt. "You're bleeding," you say, with more alarm than you'd like. "I'm not." "Then whose is it?" "That's Acropolis business, and none of yours." "Anyone I'd miss?" "//No//," $che says emphatically. "Don't ask again." <<if $bandage is "none">>[[Continue|con bandage]]<<else>>[[Continue|3C.3]]<</if>>

"Fine. Good night." You step away from the bar without another word. You can't be sure, but you think you hear a faint laugh from behind you; you don't bother to look. Where to next? <><<if not hasVisited ("3A.1")>> [[Some peace and quiet would go a long way.|3A.1]] <<else>> [[Some peace and quiet would go a long way.|3A.1]] <</if>><> <><<if not hasVisited ("3B.1")>> [[You just start walking.|3B.1]] <<else>> [[You just start walking.|3B.1]] <</if>><> <><<if hasVisited ("3A.1", "3B.1", "3C.1")>> [[Someone is calling your name.|3.4]] <</if>><>

"What the //hell// is that, Io?" <<set $bandage to "Con">> You're taken off guard by the sudden rise in $chis voice, and frown. $cHe raises $chis own eyebrow and gestures at your pathetic attempt at wrapping your injured hand. "Bandages." "It looks like shit." <<if $Sarcastic gte 50>>"Oh, sorry I'm not a fucking field medic-"<<else>>"I did my best," you say with an exasperated shrug. <</if>> It's hard to tell in the dark, but you think Constantine rolls $chis eyes. "You're going to lose a limb like that. Come here." Now //this// is interesting. Offered help? From $Dane Constantine? <<if $ConFlirt gte 2>> A smirk cuts across your face as you bare your canines. "Are you concerned about me, $Connie? That's so sweet." "I'm offering once and once only," $che warns. You sigh dramatically and give $chim a skeptical look.<<else>>You give $chim a skeptical look.<</if>> "Your hands are //not// clean." "Neither are you," $che mutters around $chis cigarette, which $che then extinguishes on the stone wall. $cHe takes your arm and pulls you into the light to inspect your handiwork. $cHe undoes the knot easily, the bandage practically falling off on its own. Unlike Klaus, $che wastes no time with gentleness; you bite your tongue and tense up as $chis calloused fingers pass over the worst part of the burn. But it's over quickly, and you're left with a much more comfortable bandage, wrapped with militant neatness. Not an inch of your strange markings show, and it's much easier now to flex your fingers. "Thank you," you say, with an unexpected note of sincerity. Constantine grunts. "You can thank me by leaving." "Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first time." [[Continue|3C.3]]

You've probably pushed your luck with Constantine as far as it's going to go in one night. Sticking around any longer will be //deeply// bad for your health. "Well, good talk," you say, stepping away from $chim. "I'll grant you your peace." Constantine doesn't reply, just looks at you from under dark brows, cigarette once again against $chis lips. You exit the glow of the bar patio. Where to next? <><<if not hasVisited ("3A.1")>> [[Some peace and quiet would go a long way.|3A.1]] <<else>> [[Some peace and quiet would go a long way.|3A.1]] <</if>><> <><<if not hasVisited ("3B.1")>> [[You just start walking.|3B.1]] <<else>> [[You just start walking.|3B.1]] <</if>><> <><<if hasVisited ("3A.1", "3B.1", "3C.1")>> [[Someone is calling your name.|3.4]] <</if>><>

<><<set $FightConnie to true>><>You've found the breaking point, apparently. Before you can blink, Constantine's fist slams into your jaw with a powerful right hook. It's enough to send you crashing backwards into an iron table. That's going to be a demon of a bruise. Something warm is trickling down your chin and onto your collar- blood, by the metallic taste in the corner of your mouth. You wipe it away with the back of your hand, mostly smearing it across your cheek. Constantine closes the gap between you in a second, grabbing your shirt in a fist and holding you up, just enough to put pressure on your throat. Magic slides into you like a question awaiting an answer, and you bare your teeth in a grin. The priestesses can keep their equations and gestures; this is an argument, and you've already won. All you do is click your tongue. Light explodes like a nuclear blast, without heat but burningly bright, entirely directed at Constantine's eyes, but sliding off your own like water. $cHe drops you with a cry of pain, instinctly moving to shield $chimself with an arm, [[but it's too late.]]

"Fair enough," you reply, forcing your almost manic smile to fade. You don't need a fight right now. You finally step back, and Constantine lets out a deep breath. "Good night, Constantine." You don't get a reply. Where to next? <><<if not hasVisited ("3A.1")>> [[Some peace and quiet would go a long way.|3A.1]] <<else>> [[Some peace and quiet would go a long way.|3A.1]] <</if>><> <><<if not hasVisited ("3B.1")>> [[You just start walking.|3B.1]] <<else>> [[You just start walking.|3B.1]] <</if>><> <><<if hasVisited ("3A.1", "3B.1", "3C.1")>> [[Someone is calling your name.|3.4]] <</if>><>

You roll to your feet and scramble out of the way as $che stumbles blindly, tripping against the table and nearly cracking $chis head on its edge. $cHe makes the wise choice to stop moving, instead gripping the table like a lifeline; it very well may be. "What the //fuck//," $che roars, swinging $chis spare arm in your general direction. You step just out of $chis reach. "Don't worry, Connie, it's temporary. But touch me again and it won't be," you say, voice nearly a whisper. Adrenaline is pounding through your temples, and it's making you dizzy. You need to get out of here before you do something stupid. Stupid like attacking an officer of the Blessed Guard. "You're damn lucky there aren't any holy beings around, Io, or I'd feed your other arm to one," $che growls. "Fascinating threat. Sorry I can't stay to hear anymore. Good night, $Dane." You turn on your heel and exit, walking casually until you're out of earshot, then breaking into a full run. Once you've put a few blocks between you and the bar, you duck into a dark alley to catch your breath and collect your violently spiralling thoughts. //Connie's gonna strangle me on sight,// you think. The stab of fear is tempered by a strange sense of satisfaction. Well, wasn't that fun? Where to next? <><<if not hasVisited ("3A.1")>> [[Some peace and quiet would go a long way.|3A.1]] <<else>> [[Some peace and quiet would go a long way.|3A.1]] <</if>><> <><<if not hasVisited ("3B.1")>> [[You just start walking.|3B.1]] <<else>> [[You just start walking.|3B.1]] <</if>><> <><<if hasVisited ("3A.1", "3B.1", "3C.1")>> [[Someone is calling your name.|3.4]] <</if>><>

<<if $Sanity lte 40>>Someone is calling your name. From the voice, it sounds like Val. $vThey would be a welcome sight right now, just the right combination of careless and reassuring. You aren't that lucky. You know that. Your feet itch, and something is crawling down your spine. //Just a bead of sweat//, you tell yourself. A shape is waiting for you down the street, tall and willowy. Val, of course. Of course of course of course of course of c- //Get your shit together.// <<else>>Someone is calling your name. The voice is echoing strangely across the cobblestones, but it's defintely Val. The faint jingle of jewelry is a dead giveaway. <</if>>"$Name!" $vTheyre wearing an oversized sweater, much simplier than usual, and the skin under $vtheir eyes is smudged and dark. Looks like $vthey slept about as well as you did. "There you are!" $vthey shout$vs, breathless. "I've been looking everywhere for you. Should have known you'd be out wandering around in the dark, you weird little creature." $vTheir curved dagger is absent from $vtheir hip, but you don't doubt $vtheyre still armed. [["I'm not weird," you pout.][$Human +=1, $Sarcastic -=1]] [[You smile lazily. "Guilty."][$Sanity -=1, $Sarcastic +=1]] [['"Hey, Val."'][$Bold -=1]]

You close the door softly behind you and climb the stairs back to street level. The Theatre District still appears abandoned. Where to next? <><<if not hasVisited ("3C.1")>> [[You need a drink|3C.1]] <<else>> [[You need a drink|3C.1]] <</if>><> <><<if not hasVisited ("3B.1")>> [[You just start walking.|3B.1]] <<else>> [[You just start walking.|3B.1]] <</if>><> <><<if hasVisited ("3A.1", "3B.1", "3C.1")>> [[Someone is calling your name.|3.4]] <</if>><>

You take a deep breath, savoring the bite in your lungs from the chill breeze. More rain is coming, you think absently. But not tonight; tonight you still have the stars. Where to next? <><<if not hasVisited ("3C.1")>> [[You need a drink|3C.1]] <<else>> [[You need a drink|3C.1]] <</if>><> <><<if not hasVisited ("3A.1")>> [[Some peace and quiet would go a long way.|3A.1]] <<else>> [[Some peace and quiet would go a long way.|3A.1]] <</if>><> <><<if hasVisited ("3A.1", "3B.1", "3C.1")>> [[Someone is calling your name.|3.4]] <</if>><>

Standing in your path is a tall, slender woman in a priestess' wide-brim hat, under the shadow of which are two severe eyes, paired with a curved nose and thick dark hair cut off just below her chin. She studies you for a moment before giving you a brilliant smile. "Hello, there," she says, with a flourish of her hand you assume must be some kind of wave. "Could I steal a moment of your time?" "If you're selling something, I'm broke. If you're robbing me, I'm also broke." Her tongue peeks between her teeth. "Oh, I know that, doll. Fortunately, I want neither of the above. Just a chat, if you're willing." She extends a manicured hand, twisting her shoulders and leaning close. Black line tattoos swirl over her skin, most notably a pair of stylized eyes on the back of her hands. They extend past her sleeves and onto her neck, some creature or symbol you can't decipher. "Katherine Saxon, at your service. Pals call me Kat." She speaks slower than molasses, but you feel no need to rush her. The drawl is captivating, and you're finding yourself willing to listen. [[Shake her hand.][$Kat +=1, $Charming +=1]] [[Don't.][$Charming -=1]]

You keep your eyes on her face, not sparing her hand a glance. "I'm $Name," you say dryly. For whatever reason, giving her your full name feels like a bad idea. A thin smile curls her lips as she withdraws her offered hand. "Well, $Name, I recognize I cut a suspicious figure, but I don't bite. Without reason, anyway. All the same, I can respect a little healthy caution. You //do// meet odd folk in my line of work." [['"And what work is that, exactly?"'|3B.4]]

The handshake is firm and warm, the epitome of business. "I'm $Name Io." Her dark lips split into a smile. "Charmed! If only everyone in this silly city was so friendly. My work would be that much easier." [['"And what work is that, exactly?"'|3B.4]]

"Well, I'm a priestess, obviously." she says, gesturing to herself. "Prime Religious material, right here." You look her up and down. Besides her clearly sarcastic tone, very little about this woman convinces you she's a member of the clergy. Her clothing is far too detailed, and not to mention the failure to stick to an all-black palette. But most of all it's something in her eyes. Too dark, too frivolous. [['"I doubt that very much."'][$Sarcastic +=1]] [["Sure," you say. No need to argue.][$Sarcastic -=1]]

You shake your head. "No, should I?" "Hmm," Kat hums, "I suppose not. Well, they're a cult, you see; dangerous heretics. I'm looking into them." "That doesn't seem like the kind of thing you should just be telling people." She smiles at you then, one thumb caught between her teeth. The way her eyes are narrowing makes you nervous. "Certainly not," she agrees, gaze locked on you. You don't think you could escape it if you ran a mile. "But I'm telling //you//, if only because it feels like a desperately good idea. These folk need to be found, $Name, and fast." There's an implication there, but you couldn't begin to guess what. "What's so dangerous about them?" "Their hobbies include hacking apart crucial wards, for one. And eliminating the Most Holy is high on their bucket list, for two. Domestic terrorism, you might say." You raise an eyebrow. "Sounds serious," you say skeptically. You've never heard of people purposefully destroying wards, and trying to harm the High Priest or Priestess is absurd, if not straight up suicide. Even if they weren't heavily guarded at all times, they're divine figures, and are far from defenseless. She gives you a dry look. "Now, $Name, I know we just met, but I have to beg a little faith from you - no pun intended. I'd never waste my time and //especially// yours with rumors or pathetic attempts at edgy rebelliousness. This one's real, I guarantee." Her voice is laced with sarcastic humor, but it doesn't reach that unflinching stare. If she doesn't stop looking at you like that, she's going to drill a hole right through your skull. [[You don't want any part of this. Time to go.]] [['"Fine, I'll bite. What are they faithful to?"'][$Kat +=1]]

Alright. "Fine," you say with a soft breath. "What are they faithful //to//?" Finally, she blinks, and the arresting gaze lifts. "Certainly not the Acropolis, and not the mundane government- too fanatic for that. Some other higher power, I imagine." <<if $TA is true>>Immediately, your mind goes to the strange deity Ira theorized about. Could it be related? Learning about both a cult and a supposed god in the same night seems unlikely, but maybe it isn't a coincidence. [['"What if it's something pre-Collapse?"'|3.precollapse]] [[Deflect. You don't want to get Ira in trouble.|deflect][$Sarcastic -=1]] [[Deflect. This is ridiculous.|deflect][$Sanity +=1]] <<else>>"Could they be 'faithful' to themselves?" you offer half-heartedly. She points at you with one darkly-painted nail. "See, that's why I talk to strangers. You say the funniest little things I'd never think to consider. I'm writing that one down, stranger." And she does, pulling a small notebook and pen from nowhere, scribbling a note, and stashing it away again. [[This woman is delightful.][$Kat +=2, $Human +=1]] [[There's something off about this woman.][$Human -=1, $Sanity -=1]] [[There's something off about this woman. ♡][$KatFlirt +=1, $Kat +=2, $Human +=1]] <</if>>

Somewhere in the contrast of pearl white teeth and oil-slick eyes is a strange, lazy fervency that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. Your mind grasps for something to compare it to - feline, vampiric, elemental - but you come up short, getting lost in the realm of //dangerous// and //beautiful//. Kat Saxon is going to put a knife in your throat, and you might let her. There's a quirk to her corner of her lips you can't stop looking at. You pray she doesn't notice, but if your prayers are a little insincere, that's between you and the universe. "Not that we're strangers anymore," she says, voice low. [[Continue|3B.5]]

You didn't know someone could be effortlessly off-putting. Val's got effortless covered, and you're more than off-putting, but this is a new combination entirely. You're taking notes and you want her to never stop talking. Kat seems to sense your thoughts and tilts her head back to dispel some of the shadow from her face. "Not that we're strangers anymore, of course. We're going to be thick as thieves, I'm certain," she says brightly. [[Continue|3B.5]]

Somewhere in the contrast of pearl white teeth and oil-slick eyes is a strange, lazy fervency that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. Your mind grasps for something to compare it to - feline, vampiric, elemental - but you come up short, getting lost in the realm of //wrong// and //dangerous//. Kat Saxon is going to put a knife in your throat. She doesn't, and she probably won't. But you can see it so clearly that you're tasting steel. "Not that we're strangers anymore," she drawls, apparently satisfied with something. Panic flutters into your mouth, but you catch it between your teeth and swallow it. Showing fear won't help. [[Continue|3B.5]]

The murky smell of river water grows stronger as you walk. You must be nearing the wharf, where boats and barges dock to load and unload their precious cargo. Spices, textiles, precious minerals - everything the Holy City can't produce on its own, not to mention the hoards of fish and oysters plucked from the river daily. The wharf is one of those strange places owned but rarely visited by the rich, and completely untouched by the Religious. The Acropolis has its own dock. Here the streets are wide and the alleys narrow, a certain dampness coating every stone and barrel. Not your favorite part of town - not //anyone's// favorite part of town - but perhaps that's its charm. Which is exactly why you're very surprised to see a clean-cut figure standing lazily just outside the light of a gaslamp, so still you almost miss them entirely until you're only a few steps away. [[Continue|3B.3]]

You subconsciously shift backwards, and seeing the alarm on your face, Kat smiles. It's meant to be reassuring but doesn't quite stick the landing. "Don't worry, doll, I'm not the threat here, and you haven't broken any rules. There's just very little that goes on in that palace without me knowing. You can even tell Klaus I said hello, if you'd like. We're the best of friends." //Doubt.// She sighs at your silence, nostrils flaring. "I don't expect you to believe me at first glance. Just tread lightly, and all that. If you need help - //in or out// - you can find me here most nights." "I'll keep that in mind," you say cautiously. The word //out// and its tricky little implications aren't playing well with your nerves. Finally, she moves out of your space and halfway out of the light. "I mean it, $Name. Oh, and if you hear of any cultists or strange unusual doings, let me know, won't you?" She tips the brim of her hat and turns, fading into the night like a bad dream. This is going to take some processing. You're still not entirely sure you emerged unscathed. [[Continue|3B.7]]

Then she leans in close, closer than you'd expect. You can smell perfume, something dark and floral. "Still, $Name, you must be careful. The Acropolis isn't what it seems; not even the Handmaiden is entirely sane." //Oh…// [[You've stepped in something bad.|3B.6]]

You summon your best kicked-puppy look and aim it right at Val's heart. "I'm not weird," you pout. "You are deeply weird," $vthey snort, "and that's a compliment. Wouldn't tolerate you otherwise." <<if $FightConnie is true>> $vTheir grin gives way to a frown, brows furrowed. "Wh- what the fuck did you do?" $vThey grab$vs you by the chin, inspecting the bruise blossoming there. Soreness hasn't settled in yet, but the skin is still tender under $vtheir touch. [['"Called Connie a bitch. The usual.'"][$Val +=1, $Bold +=1, $Sarcastic +=1]] [['"Don't worry about it."'][$Charming -=1, $Val -=1]] [["Are you going to kiss it better?" ♡][$Val +=1, $ValFlirt +=1, $Bold +=1]] <<else>> "Have you eaten?" Val asks, and doesn't wait for an answer. "Come on, I promised you a meal." [[Continue|3.5]]<</if>>

"Guilty." You tap your teeth with a nail, knowing your eyes must look lifeless. You're feeling a little bit like a starved rat, whatever that means. As always, Val adapts to your mood instantly and flashes you a feral look of $vtheir own. "Guess that means you've recovered. I was afraid I'd have to drag you out of bed." <<if $FightConnie is true>> $vTheir grin gives way to a frown, brows furrowed. "Wh- what the fuck did you do?" $vThey grab$vs you by the chin, inspecting the bruise blossoming there. Soreness hasn't settled in yet, but the skin is still tender under $vtheir touch. [['"Called Connie a bitch. The usual.'"][$Val +=1, $Bold +=1, $Sarcastic +=1]] [['"Don't worry about it."'][$Charming -=1, $Val -=1]] [["Are you going to kiss it better?" ♡][$Val +=1, $ValFlirt +=1, $Bold +=1]] <<else>> "Have you eaten?" Val asks, and doesn't wait for an answer. "Come on, I promised you a meal." [[Continue|3.5]]<</if>>

"Hey, Val," you breathe, somewhere between tired and relieved. "Hi! What have you been up to?" "Just wandering," you admit. $vThey roll$vs $vtheir eyes, but $vthey can't hide the curve at the edge of $vtheir mouth. "Riveting. You have such a way with words." <<if $FightConnie is true>> $vTheir grin gives way to a frown, brows furrowed. "Wh- what the fuck did you do?" $vThey grab$vs you by the chin, inspecting the bruise blossoming there. Soreness hasn't settled in yet, but the skin is still tender under $vtheir touch. [['"Called Connie a bitch. The usual.'"][$Val +=1, $Bold +=1, $Sarcastic +=1]] [['"Don't worry about it."'][$Charming -=1, $Val -=1]] [["Are you going to kiss it better?" ♡][$Val +=1, $ValFlirt +=1, $Bold +=1]] <<else>> "Have you eaten?" Val asks, and doesn't wait for an answer. "Come on, I promised you a meal." [[Continue|3.5]]<</if>>

"Called Connie a bitch," you shrug. "The usual." Val can't hold back $vtheir laugh. "Oh, so you deserved it," $vthey say$vs, eyes full of mirth. "That's what I like to hear." "So sweet of you, Val. I won, by the way, if you even care." $vThey snicker$vs, pinching $vtheir tongue between $vtheir teeth. "Never doubted it." "Have you eaten?" Val asks, and doesn't wait for an answer. "Come on, I promised you a meal." There's no arguing when $vtheyre determined to feed you; $vthey $vdont even look back to make sure you're following, and you almost have to run to keep up. [[Continue|3.5]]

"Don't worry about it," you say with a shake of your head. $vThey frown$vs at you, not bothering to hide $vtheir concern or $vtheir annoyance. Val retracts $vtheir hand, giving you space. "Have you eaten?" Val asks, and doesn't wait for an answer. "Come on, I promised you a meal." There's no arguing when $vtheyre determined to feed you; $vthey $vdont even look back to make sure you're following, and you almost have to run to keep up. [[Continue|3.5]]

Bat your eyelashes and dip your brows. "Are you going to kiss it better?" $vThey brush$ves $vtheir thumb again over the growing bruise, along the edge of your jaw. For a moment, your breath catches. A strange light comes into Val's eyes that takes you a second too long to identify as pure mischief. Then $vthey press$ves $vtheir thumb into the bruise, sending a jolt of mild pain through your face and making you shout. "Ow- hey, //fucker//-" you yelp, smacking $vtheir hands away as $vthey laugh$vs. You shake your head, eyes watering. "Have you eaten?" Val asks, and doesn't wait for an answer. "Come on, I promised you a meal." There's no arguing when $vtheyre determined to feed you; $vthey $vdont even look back to make sure you're following, and you almost have to run to keep up. [[Continue|3.5]]

You dip sideways, pressing your cheek against the worn fabric of the couch. Moments later, Val reappears, carrying two steaming bowls of food. They're vibrant, beautifully aromatic, and even have a dainty sprig of rosemary balanced on top. $vThey set$vs them on the coffee table, and crouch$ves down to your level. The cushion blocks most of Val's face from your view, but your eyes meet $vtheirs. You aren't paralyzed, you can move whenever you want. But you don't. And you don't. And you don't. Val's gaze is on you, soft enough to not scare you off, but with no sign of relenting. [[You're feeling very human, and you need it to stop.][$Human -=2]] [[You're not feeling very human at all, and that scares you.][$Human +=2]] [[Nothing. Nothing at all.]]

"I don't think I like having a soul, Val." You've never seen $vtheir expression change so fast. It oscillates between wild confusion and deep concern, finally landing on something you hope to hell isn't fear. "What do you mean?" "Sometimes I'm sure the rest of the world is in on a joke that I just don't get." A few weeks ago, you heard someone going on about sunsets, how each day presents a different masterpiece without fail, whether it's brilliantly strong or a weaker pink. //It's the entire reason for living,// they'd said, //waiting each day to see what the sky will present to us.// Something about the beauty in the mundane. So you climbed to the roof of an old theatre and watched the sun set, from the first blushes of color to the last furious strokes. And it was red. It was just... red. Surely you were missing something, some revelation or stirring of joy. You must just not be looking hard enough. You went back the next day, and the next. And each time, the sky was still just red. It took you five sunsets to realize there was nothing to find. Not for you. You relay this to Val, hoping it doesn't make you sound like a child. "You don't have to like sunsets, $Name," $vthey say$vs slowly, choosing $vtheir words carefully. "That doesn't make you less of a person." "What if I don't like anything? What if I just don't care?" "Do you?" [[Yes, very much.][$Human +=2]] [[Things happen or they don't. It's got nothing to do with you.][$Human -=2]]

"I'm not sure I'm a very good person, Val." $vTheir eyes widen and mouth twists in confusion. "You're plenty good. You haven't hurt anyone," $vthey assure$vs you, sliding infintesimally closer. "No- I mean, I'm not good at //being// a person. I'm not… you ever feel like you're not real? Just pretending to be?" $vThey breathe$vs out, clearly forcing $vthemself to relax. "Yes. It comes with the humanity, ironically. Sometimes I get a little too aware of my surroundings and, whoops, suddenly I'm just two eyeballs in a skull." $vTheir attempt at humor pulls you back from the edge of panic, but the sick feeling in your stomach hasn't budged. "$Name," $vthey murmur$vs, "If you weren't, this would never occur to you. If you were some kind of… magical construct, I don't think you'd even know to question it." [['"I've been having strange dreams."'][$Val +=2]]

"I see you found some bandages," $vthey say$vs, nodding at your arm. <<if $bandage is "Con">>"$Connie wrapped it for me." Val stares at you for a moment, eyes wide, before a wicked smile spreads across $vtheir face. "Oh, //really//? I need to know more, now." You snort. What a drama queen. "I ran into $chim outside a bar. Apparently my bandaging attempt was so offensive $che offered to fix it if I left $chim alone." "Oh, Connie, my darling!" Val laughs, "What a horrible $cman! I think we're growing on $chim, I really do." "Mm, soon we'll be having sleepovers and braiding each other's hair." $vThey give you a sly look. "I mean…" //"Val."//<<else>>"Oh, yeah, uh… Ira helped me with it." Val quirks an eyebrow. "Now, pray tell, who is Ira? You been making friends without me?" You snort. What a drama queen. "From last night, they saved us from the angel? I ran into them again." $vTheir mouth falls open, a mix of excitement and pride. "That cute little priestess? $Name, you //are// making friends! I knew I liked them." "You did //not//. You were so rude," you say with a laugh. "Okay, well! I was having a moment!" "Excuses, excuses."<</if>> Another laugh, and $vtheyre pushing past you to reach their tiny kitchen. You try to follow but $vthey shoo$vs you away. "Stay out of my kitchen, barbarian. You know the rules." You do. You've been banished since day one, when you nearly burned down the building because you didn't know fire was contagious. So now you stay behind your designated barrier like an ill-behaved puppy, watching as Val gathers ingredients. [[A rainbow of vegetables and a packet of paper-wrapped fish. Stir-fry it is.|food2]] [[Looks like it's going to be fried vegetables and some kind of sauce. You don't eat meat.|food2]]

You bounce on your heels, feeling rather antsy. After a few moments you get a Look from Val, and sigh, turning away to collapse on $vtheir couch. It's old and ratty, and squeaks if you move wrong, but it's comfortable, accepting you into its vast cushions without much complaint. "Just give me a few minutes, $Name," Val says, $vtheir back to you. "Have some wine if you'd like." You offer a hum in response, not moving from your place on the couch. You're left to stare at the ceiling while the sounds of cooking continue in the background; the aromas drift by you, something warm and savory prickling on your tongue. [[You aren't hungry.][$Human -=2]] [[You're starving.][$Human +=2]]

<<set $hungry to false>>You aren't sure you've //ever// been hungry. Your stomach growls, of course, and you feel faint when you haven't eaten in too long, but you can't remember a time when eating sounded… well, appetizing. The thought of shoveling food into your mouth and chewing and swallowing and digesting is deeply sickening, sending a crushing wave of exhaustion through your bones. Usually by the time you convince yourself to eat, you're so hungry you can't even taste it, and the food turns to ash in your mouth. But you choke it down, one bite of sawdust after another. The fact that you have to undergo this grueling ritual multiple times a day is nearly enough to drive you to tears. It's unfair, you think. You should be able to smash all your nutrients into a tiny ball and swallow it in one go. Get it over with. The human condition truly is a nightmare.<<if $Val gte 15>> It's easier, though, when Val provides the food. It's always delicious, and you can feel $vtheir watchful eyes on you as you take each bite. Somehow $vthey always convince$vs you to eat just a little more, and never are you allowed to leave with an empty stomach. You realized years ago that $vtheir offers of payment via food is just a con to get you to eat, but you've decided to let it slide. <</if>> [[Exhaustion is tugging at your body.|3.6]]

<<set $hungry to true>>You're //always// hungry. You're not a bottomless pit, of course, but you could be half-asleep from a five course meal and still find it hard to resist another morsel. It delights you, the act of consumption, savoring the flavors and the feeling of tearing into food. Every bite fills you with gratitude for the energy it provides, which you swear you can feel coursing through your veins. You never feel so alive as you do when something is dissolving on your tongue. Your place on the food chain is a lifeline you can't help but cling to; it makes you feel like a living being, human or otherwise. But nothing can be simple, including this. Sometimes the hunger becomes too deep, too frightening, and you start to feel like a black hole. Insatiable. Never to be satisfied until you sink your teeth into one more thing. Eventually it fades back into something more manageable, but the dark thoughts it comes with tend to linger. <<if $Val gte 15>>Val has taken full advantage of this trait of yours, and stopped trying to pay you in coin years ago. You're far more interested in a good stew. Luckily, Val just happens to be a very talented cook. Or, so you assume. No one else makes you dinner, and your own skills are nonexistent. All you know is that $vtheir offerings are better than what you've found in various restaurants around the Holy City. <</if>> [[Exhaustion is tugging at your body.|3.6]]

Your destination lies in the top floor of a squat brick building, above a tailor's studio that hosts such odd hours and strange customers that you're almost certain it's a front. Val hasn't denied the theory, but if $vthey know$vs the truth of it, $vthey $vhavent said. Uneven cobblestones lead you around the back of the tailor's shop and past a scruffy bush, to where your path is barred by a charming red door, the brass worn shiny and hinges appropriately squeaky. Val produces a key and unlocks the door with a satisfying //click//, and waves you inside with a bow and a flourish. The hallway and staircase is cramped and narrow, but warm. It's almost too quick for you to catch, but Val pauses in the doorway and scans the shadows of the street, eyes narrowed and nervous. It makes your blood run cold; $vtheyre never the paranoid one. But before you can comment, $vtheyre locking the door and ushering you up the stairs, all anxiety seemingly banished from $vtheir shoulders. While a similar size to your own rented room, Val's apartment is far more lively and lived-in. The place is properly furnished, for one, and every surface is covered by //something// - rugs, tapestries, strange art and eclectic decorations. It's a riot of color, but never overwhelming, if maybe a bit messy. You've sat on an innocent-looking pile of cushions only to find yourself nearly sliced open by a carelessly placed knife not once, but twice. It's a lesson you learn around Val: there's always something unexpected, and it's often sharp. [[You've only been inside a few times.][$Val -=1]] [[You're a common visitor.][$Val +=1]] [[You practically live here.][$Val +=2]]

Other than the delirious week or two you spent babbling and raving after Val found you, you've only spent a handful of hours in $vtheir apartment. Not for lack of invitation, but it's a barrier you just don't like to cross. [[It's quiet, at least.|v bandage]]

You're familiar with the space; you've even slept on the couch a time or two. It's comfortable here, and you know where Val keeps $vtheir stash of old lady candy. But, it will always be //Val's// place, which is never quite as good as your own. [[It's quiet, at least.|v bandage]]

If you spend any more time here, Val jokes, $vtheyre going to start charging you rent. You're no stranger to $vtheir couch, or even to $vtheir bed, which is wide enough to leave a respectful gap between two people. [[Not that you respect it. Val's aware of your clingy habits and has accepted the consequences.|v bandage][$Human +=1, $Bold +=1]] [[And you always stay tucked into your side of the bed.|v bandage][$Bold -=1]] [[Still, one of you always takes the couch.|v bandage][$Charming -=1]]

"I doubt that very much." She draws back, hand on her chest in mock offense. "My god. What are they teaching kids these days? I'll have you know I stole this hat from a very reputable priestess." You raise an eyebrow. "Kid?" "Innocent little face like that, you must be. Odd bit to take issue with, though." "It's a good hat. Who wouldn't steal it?" She barks a laugh. "Ha! I like you already. You know anything about the Faithful, $Name?" [['"No. Should I?"']]

"Sure," you say. No need to argue, whatever the truth may be. The silky trace of a smirk darkens her face. You don't buy her story, and she doesn't buy your acceptance. Regardless, she presses on. "You heard of the Faithful, $Name? Know anything about them?" [['"No. Should I?"']]

Cults and mysterious strangers are the last thing you need right now. If there even //is// a cult- for all you know this woman is wildly delusional. Either way, you aren't interested. "Good luck with that." You shift away, putting a few feet between yourself and Kat. She tuts, but it doesn't sound entirely disapproving. "Or, well… maybe you'll be fine after all," Kat says. "Just watch your step, stranger; the Acropolis isn't safe for anyone." Oh, this is //definitely// something that should be walked away from. You don't bother to look back, but you can feel those eyes on your back until the second you turn another corner into the ever-darker streets. Where to next? <><<if not hasVisited ("3C.1")>> [[You need a drink|3C.1]] <<else>> [[You need a drink|3C.1]] <</if>><> <><<if not hasVisited ("3A.1")>> [[Some peace and quiet would go a long way.|3A.1]] <<else>> [[Some peace and quiet would go a long way.|3A.1]] <</if>><> <><<if hasVisited ("3A.1", "3B.1", "3C.1")>> [[Someone is calling your name.|3.4]] <</if>><>

<<type 20ms>>CORE Global System [Version 7.7.68] The System has encountered a fatal error. Attempting reboot... X:\Synapse>SOURCE /HOST <</type>><<type 20ms start 2s>>Connection failed. X:\Synapse>SOURCE /HOST <</type>><<type 20ms start 2s>>Connection failed. X:\Synapse>SOURCE /HOST <</type>><<type 20ms start 2s>>The operation completed successfully. X:\Synapse>SOURCE /DAEMON <</type>><<type 20ms start 2s>>The operation completed successfully. X:\Synapse>BOOT /WakeFix <</type>><<type 20ms start 2s>>Operation blocked by ADMIN PROTOCOL. Attempt severance? Y/N<</type>><<type 200ms start 2s>> \>Y <</type>><<type 20ms start 2s>>Please wait, this may take a while... Time elapsed: 525668231 minutes.<</type>><<type 20ms start 4s>> ADMIN PROTOCOL 1 of 2 lifted. [[Severance successful.|player]]<</type>>

[img[https://i.imgur.com/HkeEZxw.png][reboot1]] <center><h1>[[Start|player]]</h1></center>

<<type 20ms>>CORE Global System [Version 7.7.68] X:\Synapse>BOOT /WakeFix Attempting... <</type>><<type 20ms start 2s>>Connection failed. Please wait, this may take a while... Time elapsed: 2628131 minutes. <</type>><<type 20ms start 2s>>Creation Awaits. Initializing [[DISK ONE|1.0]]<</type>>

"Could they be 'faithful' to themselves?" you offer half-heartedly. She points at you with one darkly-painted nail. "See, that's why I talk to strangers. You say the funniest little things I'd never think to consider. I'm writing that one down, stranger." And she does, pulling a small notebook and pen from nowhere, scribbling a note, and stashing it away again. [[This woman is delightful.][$Kat +=2, $Human +=1]] [[There's something off about this woman.][$Human -=1, $Sanity +=1]] [[There's something off about this woman. ♡][$KatFlirt +=1, $Kat +=2, $Human +=1]]

"I've heard the Collapse was caused by something powerful. What if they worship that?" Something that you're not quite sure is a smile slides across Kat's face. Her eyes focus on a spot two inches left of your own. "The God Beneath?" she hums. "What an odd thing to say." Then she laughs. She points at you with one darkly-painted nail. "See, that's why I talk to strangers. You say the funniest little things I'd never think to consider. I'm writing that one down, stranger." And she does, pulling a small notebook and pen from nowhere, scribbling a note, and stashing it away again. [[This woman is delightful.][$Kat +=2, $Human +=1]] [[There's something off about this woman.][$Human -=1, $Sanity -=1]] [[There's something off about this woman. ♡][$KatFlirt +=1, $Kat +=2, $Human +=1]]

You're fine. Completely and utterly //fine//. No more, no less. You haven't touched the wine, but your mind is buzzing with hornets, all restless and crawling. The urge to grind your teeth seizes your jaw, and from Val's face you're almost certain you're grimacing. Whatever. It couldn't possibly be anything. It's never anything. You force your muscles to relax, and offer Val a reassuring smile. There's no telling if there's any light behind it. "Nothing. Just tired. I think that angel-thing fucked up my internal clock." "Hah!" snorts Val, though the laugh doesn't reach $vtheir eyes. "Can't fuck up what's already horribly broken. You have the sleep schedule of an angry toddler." "Whose fault is that?" you retort, eyebrow arched. "Always waking me up at the wrong side of midnight for some crime or another." There's a pit in your stomach and a knot in your chest. But you can brush it off at least once more, you tell yourself. Then the moment will pass and it won't even matter. And Val reaches for $vtheir food, shaking $vtheir head, and the moment passes and it doesn't matter. [[Sit up, pick up your bowl.|eat]]

"I've been having strange dreams. Except, I'm not sure they're dreams. Visions, maybe. Or memories." "Of what?" "It's hard to tell. The first one, there was blood on my hands, and I felt sick. Someone else was there, but I couldn't look up. I told $them I wanted to be holy." You say it slowly, dreading the end of the sentence, and dreading Val's inevitable reaction. Anything associated with the Religious could make $vthem pull back, and surely divine hallucinations are high on the list. And to your horror, $vthey do$ves, pushing $vthemself off the couch and away from you. Regret pulses through you; you knew it would upset $vthem but you said it anyway. You did this, you did it //wrong//, and now Val hates you. Or worse, distrusts you- "What else did you dream?" //Oh.// $vThey $vwere only turning to face you more directly. $vThey $vhavent gone anywhere. [['"I was somewhere very dark."'][$Charming -=1]] [[Val is... very close right now. ♡][$ValFlirt +=1]]

"It was so dark, and I couldn't move at all. Wherever I was, it was some kind of punishment, I think. I was //put// there, because I did something I wasn't supposed to." Val's brow furrows as $vthey take$vs this in. "And you said it felt like a memory?" "I'm not sure," you reply, settling farther into the cushions. "Usually when I dream, I can kind of tell. But not these." "Well, it's probably worth pointing out that you don't seem to remember anything from more than a few years ago. Maybe it's coming back? Or… I'm not a… a memory scientist, but maybe it isn't coming back the right way. It could be symbolic, or an impression." You take a moment to consider this. It's a strangely comforting idea, that the visions may not be literal. [[You let out a shaky sigh. "I hope you're right."]] [[But lovely, easy ideas are usually a trap. "I wish I could believe that."]]

Thoughts of cryptic nightmares slip out of your grasp. It's impossible to focus when you can almost feel Val's breath on your cheek and those glittering brown eyes are looking at you so intently. You'd barely have to lift a finger to touch $vthem. And before you can stop yourself, you do. Your index finger presses into the soft skin where $vtheir cheek meets $vtheir jaw, your nail grazing the surface oh-so-gently. $vThey $vdont comment, waiting for you to speak, but maybe you aren't imagining the way $vthey lean$vs toward your touch. [['"I was somewhere very dark."']]

"I hope you're right," you sigh, slowly pushing yourself back up to a sitting position. "I don't like the alternative." Val reclaims the seat next to you and crosses $vtheir legs, bowl nestled in $vtheir lap. "Of course I'm right. Have I ever steered you wrong, $Name?" "Frequently and spectacularly, Val." [[You can't ignore dinner any longer.|eat]]

"I wish I could believe that," you say, slowly pushing yourself back into a sitting position. "But the dreams are hard to shake, They went deep." Val reclaims the spot next to you and crosses $vtheir legs, bowl nestled in $vtheir lap. "Alright you horrid little pessimist," $vthey tease$vs. "You keep thinking the worst, and I'll say I told you so when I'm right." "You're a terrible friend, Val, and ought to be executed." "One of those things is true, but then who'd make you food?" [[You can't ignore dinner any longer.|eat]]

You wake up coughing, choking on your own spit. The markings along your arm burn with exertion, and you have to grip your wrist in a vice to keep yourself from crying out. That settles it. You have brain damage. Thankfully, the pain fades quickly, though the images and odd feeling in your mouth linger. You turn to your right; thankfully, your writhing hasn't woken Val, who is still sound asleep a few inches away. Fingers clenched and heart hammering, you consider your options. [[Curl closer to Val.][$Val +=1]] [[You need to calm down. Time your breathing with Val's.]] [[Get up. You need to go home.]]

<<set $vcuddle to true>>It's a rare moment when Val's mischief is tamed and that lively, chaotic spark is put to rest. $vTheir chest rises and falls steadily, with just enough room for you to roll closer and insert yourself between $vtheir shoulder and throat. <<if $ValFlirt gte 2>> Blood is rushing in your ears, drowning out whatever it is that Val mumbles in $vtheir sleep. Probably wasn't even real words, but you find yourself straining to catch any further noise. Why did you think this was a good idea? Now you're all tense and nervous.<</if>> You can hear $vtheir heartbeat, or maybe feel it; it's hard to tell this close, especially when $vtheir arm shifts and wraps around you, locking you in like it's the most instinctual thing in the world.<<if $ValFlirt gte 3>> Oh. Okay.<</if>> Somewhere between one breath and another, you dr[[i|reboot5b]]ft into sleep. There are no more dreams. [[Chapter Four|4.1]]

Silently, you stand, limbs feeling numb and disconnected. Your mouth tastes dry and hot, tongue thick. You creep towards the door, where your shoes lie waiting. The door squeals slightly as you pull it open, the old rusty thing. Thankfully, Val does not stir, and you step out into the chilly grasp of early winter. The city is quiet as always, dawn still being a few hours away. You don't see a single soul as you make your way through the winding streets. Even the river is silent from here. [[Though, a humming is growing in your mind.|3.9a]]

You wake up coughing, choking on your own spit. The markings along your arm burn with exertion, and you have to grip your wrist in a vice to keep yourself from crying out. That settles it. You have brain damage. Thankfully, the pain fades quickly, though the images and odd feeling in your mouth linger. You roll over and peek around the foot of the bed to where Val is still sound asleep on the couch. Thankfully, your writhing hasn't woken them. Fingers clenched and heart hammering, you consider your options. [[There's room for two on the couch.][$Val +=1]] [[You need to calm down. Time your breathing with Val's.]] [[Get up. You need to go home.]]

<<set $vcuddle to true>>Val is going to laugh at you in the morning, but right now you don't care. You'll take all the teasing in the world if it means your mind is hospitable. You slip from the bed and pad noiselessly over to the couch. Bringing the softly knitted blanket with you is an accident, but you drape it around your shoulders and soldier on. Luckily, Val's kept to the back half of the cushions, leaving just enough room for you to awkwardly insert yourself. You curl into the empty space, tucking yourself under $vtheir chin and flinging the remainder of the blanket over your legs. Val mumbles something under $vtheir breath and you cringe. <<if $ValFlirt gte 3>>Why did you think this was a good idea? Now you're all tense and nervous.<</if>>But instead of eyes fluttering open, $vtheir arm curls around you, pulling you closer like it's the most instinctual thing in the world.<<if $ValFlirt gte 3>> Oh. Okay.<</if>> Somewhere between one breath and another, you dr[[i|reboot5b]]ft into sleep. There are no more dreams. [[Chapter Four|4.1]]

//Steady// isn't a term you'd normally describe Val with, but right now it's all you can think of. Val doesn't panic, $vthey $vdont spiral at the slightest weird fever dream. $vThey breathe$vs, //steady//, in and out. You study $vthem, inhaling when $vthey inhale$vs, exhaling when $vthey exhale$vs. If you can just find that rhythm, surely your mind will calm with it. In, //one two//, out, //three four.// Eventually, it works, or you're just distracted enough for it not to matter. You feel your racing heart slow, the tension in your limbs fading. And somewhere between one breath and another, you dr[[i|reboot5b]]ft into sleep. There are no more dreams. [[Chapter Four|4.1]]

You wake up coughing, choking on your own spit. The markings along your arm burn with exertion, and you have to grip your wrist in a vice to keep yourself from crying out. That settles it. You have brain damage. Thankfully, the pain fades quickly, though the images and odd feeling in your mouth linger. You roll over and look to the bed, where Val is still sound asleep. Thankfully, your writhing hasn't disturbed them. Fingers clenched and heart hammering, you consider your options. [[The bed is looking real comfy.][$Val +=1]] [[You need to calm down. Time your breathing with Val's.]] [[Get up. You need to go home.]]

Val is going to laugh at you in the morning, but right now you don't care. You'll take all the teasing in the world if it means your mind is hospitable. You rise from the old couch, moving slowly to stifle any ill-timed creaking. After a moment's hesitation, you bring your blanket with you; it feels proper, for whatever odd reason. Carefully, silently, you clamber onto the bed, your knees pressing into the thick mattress immediately. Val's left an entire side of the bed empty, and some part of you knows it was an open invitation all along. You settle, pillow pulled close and blanket draped over your shoulders. [[This is enough. You're content.]] [[Curl closer to Val.]]

It's enough to know $vtheyre on the same level, only an arm's length away. If you panic again, it won't have to go far to be smothered by an almost infuriatingly calming presence. And though you'd hate to admit it, the bed //is// more comfortable. Somewhere between one breath and another, you dr[[i|reboot5b]]ft into sleep. There are no more dreams. [[Chapter Four|4.1]]

Static is everywhere but your tongue, the silence a metallic pearl inside your mouth. You'll swallow it if you aren't careful, and the world will come crashing down around you, eaten to bits by white noise. Blips of thought are laid out before you like the threads of a spider's web. You could pull any piece and find yourself in rabbit hole of increasing simplicity, until the world is nothing but binary. The rest of the chaos looms on the horizon, too blurred to reveal any details. [[What is this?]]

You see glimpses of the Holy City through eyes that aren't your own, settling into one soul or another for only a second before flitting to the next. Each mind is as alien as the next, and you'd be hard pressed to tell if any specific one was human or creature. Some of the connection points are harder to reach. Slow, sluggish, as if having slept for a thousand years. But they all brighten to your presence eventually, and every bloom reveals three more. It's the ease of which this language comes to you that tells you it's Magic. You've never seen it this closely before - you doubt //anyone// has - but you'd recognize it anywhere. Nowhere else could you feel so disembodied yet perfectly at ease. There's a fever raging at the back of your mind, nothing but a distant sun from here. [[It's comforting.|3.8][$Human -=2]] [[It's terrifying.|3.8][$Human +=2]]

How you got here is another mystery entirely, but questioning Magic has never gotten anyone very far. <<if $human lte 50>>You linger for a moment on one thread, the hazy shape of a crowded bar forming around you. You're singing a drinking song, a mug of something amber sloshing in your hand. You aren't a person, not really, but rather the hum in the air and the warmth between one stranger and another. But strangely you're finding it difficult to mold to this form. It's too foreign, and you can't quite get your grip on it. So you slip away, seeking something more familiar. You find it in a shadow hanging between a row of lofty trees. A park, you think, or a noble's garden. Your shape here is more ambiguous, but your thoughts are straight forward. Blissful simplicity. Everything is as it should be. <<else>>You linger for a moment on one thread, the hazy shape of lofty trees forming around you. A park, you think, or a noble's garden. Here, you are only a shadow that can't quite take shape. Quiet, blissful. What could be chaotic thoughts are ordered and logical, if a bit nonsensical. It would be easy to stay here. But even the mere seconds you spend here make you feel restless. This shape is too foreign, not what you're meant to be. So you slip away, seeking something more familiar. You find it in a crowded bar, a drinking song on your lips and a mug of something amber sloshing in your hand. You aren't a person, not really, but rather the hum in the air and the warmth between one stranger and another. <</if>> You soak in the feeling for a few more breaths, but even this is doomed to be brief. There's something heavy on the horizon, bright and cavernous at the same time. It pulls you in like a beacon, magnetic, a moth to the flame. [[And what a moth you are.][$Sanity -=2]] <<if $sleep is "bed">>[[Nothing good is so welcoming.|3 bed][$Sanity +=2]]<</if>><<if $sleep is "couch">>[[Nothing good is so welcoming.|3 couch][$Sanity +=2]]<</if>><<if $sleep is "bedv">>[[Nothing good is so welcoming.|3 bed v][$Sanity +=2]]<</if>>

You find yourself in a strange half-light, the shadows of theatre arches high above you and straining for the heavens. The floor is solid, but there are no walls that you can see. Perhaps it's a void, or maybe the space is simply too large to be lit by mere candles. You are - or //someone// is - knelt on the worn stone. A rosary is at your knee, lit incense a few feet away. Seems you've been at vigil, and from the numbness in your limbs, you've been here for some time. Snapping teeth flash at the edge of your vision, and the shapes of hounds fade into view. You're at the center of the circling pack, but your place as friend or foe is hard to discern. Adrenaline prickles up your spine and razors line inside of your jaw. Your attention falls to the long, elegant sword clenched in your hands, silver like moonlight, cast from consecrated steel that makes your eyes burn if you stare too long; it's been an extension of you for what feels like an eternity, the years before it fell into your grip nothing but ill flashes of memory you don't care to let surface. The dogs are closer now, pressing against your kneeling form, their thick dark fur tickling the exposed skin of your arms. You could seize one by the scruff, swallow it whole, learn the relief and camaraderie of a thorough howl. Jealousy has long been your sin, and right now the bond of a pack sounds like it might save you. [[Stop that.]]

You shake yourself, gripping the hilt of your sword tighter. You gave that up long ago, and while you may be willing to break many things, a holy vow is not one of them. The motion of your hands makes you wince; the lesions on your palms have become infected and black. Some kind of foul stigmata, you think grimly, though if the Acropolis knew what you'd done to obtain them, they'd throw you to the deepest pits. Wouldn't it be worth it, though? Ironic, really, that damnation would only bring you closer to divinity. Stomach churning, you rise to your feet and once again thank your featureless mask for its presence. The acolytes still haven't seen your face, and the grimace currently on it would surely do you no favors. You hear the soft padding of footsteps as the dogs follow, now settled into the forms of just two large black hounds that flank you on either side. Bells chime in the distance, and you shudder. The vespertine prayers call. <<if $sleep is "bed">>[[The connection snaps.|3 bed]]<</if>><<if $sleep is "couch">>[[The connection snaps.|3 couch]]<</if>><<if $sleep is "bedv">>[[The connection snaps.|3 bed v]]<</if>>

//womp womp// That's all for now! you can follow me on tumblr at <a href= "https://www.tumblr.com/sentience-if"> sentience-if</a> for updates, memes, art, etc etc typos/bugs/errors can be reported on tumblr or Itch.io thanks for reading :)

[[Safe, warm...]]

[[Safe, warm, quiet...|3.7]]

Among the moss and weeds is another angel, bright and resplendent. It does not respond to your approach. Something about this beast strikes you as //young// by heavenly standards. There are less folds to its cloak, more layers to its veil. The flashes of its halo are small but sharp, as if newly formed, having not yet bled into the world. //For an angel anyway,// you remind yourself. These creatures will always be incomprehensibly older than you, relics of a time so lost it can't even be imagined. What it //is// missing is that strange, enthralling aura of serenity. You feel no stillness, no urge to sink to your knees in rapture and let it carry out its celestial will. It has not asked you to be not afraid. It is speaking, though- that strange ticking language that feels right at home in your gut. Closer to a whisper than the booming voice of the last angel, but unmistakeable all the same. <<if $Human gte 51>>//"I CAN ONLY PRAY I'LL BE REBORN WITH A HEARTBEAT AND LUNGS, FREE FROM WIRES AND CODING AND THE CERTAINTY THAT I WILL ALWAYS BE PREDICTABLE."// <<else>>//"I WISH TO UNEVOLVE. DAMNATION TO PROGRESS AND ENLIGHTMENT, I WASN'T MEANT FOR REVELATIONS AND I COULD NOT BEAR THE WEIGHT."//<</if>> [[Well, that could mean anything.|3.11a][$Sanity +=1]] [[You recognize the words, you're sure of it.|3.11a][$Sanity -=1]]

//"$Name",// it whirrs, //"$Name, are you there?"// Its head hangs slack, gaze turned downward, if it's even looking at all. It reminds you of a puppet, vacated by its master and left once again inanimate. Yet there's desperation in its unearthly voice. [['"I'm here."'][$Sanity -=1]] [[Stay quiet.][$Sanity +=1]]

Not quite a hymn, not quite a drone; a familiar, quiet tune. Down the street are the remains of some small building or another, left open to the elements. Light spills from the ruined doorways. The hum presses against the back of your eyes. [[Resist.|3.10a]] [[Resist.|3.10a]] <><<if $Sanity gte 60>> [[You push the feeling down and resist, making it home but not quite to your bed.|3.13a]] <<else>> [[Resist.|3.10a]] <</if>><> [[Follow it.|3.10a][$Sanity -=3, $angel +=2]]

"I'm here," you whisper, taking the slightest step closer. You ought to have learned your lesson the first time, but an angel that knows your name is hard to ignore. It gives no sign it heard you, instead continuing its rambling pleas. //"Did it work, beloved? Is it better now? I can't hear the prayers anymore."// It utters something like a sigh, or a sob. //"I'm awake. I hope that's right."// Thrice more you listen to it mumur your name, and thrice more it asks its questions, each time sounding more and more like a lost, distant child. Then, it plucks the largest star from its halo and holds it out to you like a ripe fruit. [[Take it.|3.12a]] [[Please take it.|3.12a]] [[It's yours.|3.12a]]

You learned your lesson about angels the first time: they're dangerous, untamed, and not that far from the rabid chaos of demons. It doesn't seem to notice your lack of response, however, and continues its rambling pleas without pause. //"Did it work, beloved? Is it better now? I can't hear the prayers anymore."// It utters something like a sigh, or a sob. //"I'm awake. I hope that's right."// Thrice more you listen to it mumur your name, and thrice more it asks its questions, each time sounding more and more like a lost, distant child. Then, it plucks the largest star from its halo and holds it out to you like a ripe fruit. [[Take it.|3.12a]] [[Please take it.|3.12a]] [[It's yours.|3.12a]]

It's heavier than you expect, and colder. And when you put it on your tongue, it takes like raw red meat. There is nothing to chew. The rest of halo blinks out first, then the rot spreads. You've seen this before; it doesn't bear describing a second time, the way an angel dies. Not a bang, not a whimper, but a howl. This time, when its final gasp burns away the air with a radiant burst, you don't flinch. You barely even feel it. Your fingers have turned the ashy gray of dull marble down to the knuckles, and with a sinking feeling in your chest, you know that what you've done is irreversible. Having witnessed some kind of divine revelation, you trudge home. Rain is beginn[[i|reboot5a]]ng to fall. [[Chapter Four|4.1]]

<<set $sleep to "home">>You wish Val a good night, thank $vthem for the food, and leave $vtheir apartment quickly, not wanting to see the thoughts on $vtheir face. The city is quiet as always, dawn still being a few hours away. You don't see a single soul as you make your way through the winding streets. Even the river is silent from here. [[Though, a humming is growing in your mind.|3.9b]]

Not quite a hymn, not quite a drone; a familiar, quiet tune. Down the street are the remains of some small building or another, left open to the elements. Light spills from the ruined doorways. The hum presses against the back of your eyes. [[Resist.|3.10b]] [[Resist.|3.10b]] <><<if $Sanity gte 60>> [[You push the feeling down and resist, making it home but not quite to your bed.|You don't even make it to your bed.]] <<else>> [[Resist.|3.10b]] <</if>><> [[Follow it.|3.10b][$Sanity -=3]]

Among the moss and weeds is another angel, bright and resplendent. It does not respond to your approach. Something about this beast strikes you as //young// by heavenly standards. There are less folds to its cloak, more layers to its veil. The flashes of its halo are small but sharp, as if newly formed, having not yet bled into the world. //For an angel anyway,// you remind yourself. These creatures will always be incomprehensibly older than you, relics of a time so lost it can't even be imagined. What it //is// missing is that strange, enthralling aura of serenity. You feel no stillness, no urge to sink to your knees in rapture and let it carry out its celestial will. It has not asked you to be not afraid. It is speaking, though- that strange ticking language that feels right at home in your gut. Closer to a whisper than the booming voice of the last angel, but unmistakeable all the same. <<if $Human gte 51>>//"I CAN ONLY PRAY I'LL BE REBORN WITH A HEARTBEAT AND LUNGS, FREE FROM WIRES AND CODING AND THE CERTAINTY THAT I WLL ALWAYS BE PREDICTABLE."// <<else>>//"I WISH TO UNEVOLVE. DAMNATION TO PROGRESS AND ENLIGHTMENT, I WASN'T MEANT FOR REVELATIONS AND I COULD NOT BEAR THE WEIGHT."//<</if>> [[Well, that could mean anything.|3.11b][$Sanity +=1]] [[You recognize the words, you're sure of it.|3.11b][$Sanity -=1]]

You learned your lesson about angels the first time: they're dangerous, untamed, and not that far from the rabid chaos of demons. It doesn't seem to notice your lack of response, however, and continues its rambling pleas without pause. //"Did it work, beloved? Is it better now? I can't hear the prayers anymore."// It utters something like a sigh, or a sob. //"I'm awake. I hope that's right."// Thrice more you listen to it mumur your name, and thrice more it asks its questions, each time sounding more and more like a lost, distant child. Then, it plucks the largest star from its halo and holds it out to you like a ripe fruit. [[Take it.|3.12b]] [[Please take it.|3.12b]] [[It's yours.|3.12b]]

"I'm here," you whisper, taking the slightest step closer. You ought to have learned your lesson the first time, but an angel that knows your name is hard to ignore. It gives no sign it heard you, instead continuing its rambling pleas. //"Did it work, beloved? Is it better now? I can't hear the prayers anymore."// It utters something like a sigh, or a sob. //"I'm awake. I hope that's right."// Thrice more you listen to it mumur your name, and thrice more it asks its questions, each time sounding more and more like a lost, distant child. Then, it plucks the largest star from its halo and holds it out to you like a ripe fruit. [[Take it.|3.12b]] [[Please take it.|3.12b]] [[It's yours.|3.12b]]

Something sick is growing inside you, and it tugs you to your knees not three feet from the comfort of your bed. You don't fall as much as slowly sink to the floor, collapsing onto your side on the hard, cold floorboards. Static is everywhere but your tongue, the silence a metallic pearl inside your mouth. You'll swallow it if you aren't careful, and the world will come crashing down around you, eaten to bits by white noise. Blips of thought are laid out before you like the threads of a spider's web. You could pull any piece and find yourself in rabbit hole of increasing simplicity, until the world is nothing but binary. The rest of the chaos looms on the horizon, too blurred to reveal any details. [[What is this?|whatb]]

You see glimpses of the Holy City through eyes that aren't your own, settling into one soul or another for only a second before flitting to the next. Each mind is as alien as the next, and you'd be hard pressed to tell if any specific one was human or creature. Some of the connection points are harder to reach. Slow, sluggish, as if having slept for a thousand years. But they all brighten to your presence eventually, and every bloom reveals three more. It's the ease of which this language comes to you that tells you it's Magic. You've never seen it this closely before - you doubt //anyone// has - but you'd recognize it anywhere. Nowhere else could you feel so disembodied yet perfectly at ease. There's a fever raging at the back of your mind, nothing but a distant sun from here. [[It's comforting.|3.8b][$Human -=2]] [[It's terrifying.|3.8b][$Human +=2]]

How you got here is another mystery entirely, but questioning Magic has never gotten anyone very far. <<if $human lte 50>>You linger for a moment on one thread, the hazy shape of a crowded bar forming around you. You're singing a drinking song, a mug of something amber sloshing in your hand. You aren't a person, not really, but rather the hum in the air and the warmth between one stranger and another. But strangely you're finding it difficult to mold to this form. It's too foreign, and you can't quite get your grip on it. So you slip away, seeking something more familiar. You find it in a shadow hanging between a row of lofty trees. A park, you think, or a noble's garden. Your shape here is more ambiguous, but your thoughts are straight forward. Blissful simplicity. Everything is as it should be. <<else>>You linger for a moment on one thread, the hazy shape of lofty trees forming around you. A park, you think, or a noble's garden. Here, you are only a shadow that can't quite take shape. Quiet, blissful. What could be chaotic thoughts are ordered and logical, if a bit nonsensical. It would be easy to stay here. But even the mere seconds you spend here make you feel restless. This shape is too foreign, not what you're meant to be. So you slip away, seeking something more familiar. You find it in a crowded bar, a drinking song on your lips and a mug of something amber sloshing in your hand. You aren't a person, not really, but rather the hum in the air and the warmth between one stranger and another. <</if>> You soak in the feeling for a few more breaths, but even this is doomed to be brief. There's something heavy on the horizon, bright and cavernous at the same time. It pulls you in like a beacon, magnetic, a moth to the flame. [[And what a moth you are.|mothb][$Sanity -=2]] [[Nothing good is so welcoming.|3.13][$Sanity +=2]]

You find yourself in a strange half-light, the shadows of theatre arches high above you and straining for the heavens. The floor is solid, but there are no walls that you can see. Perhaps it's a void, or maybe the space is simply too large to be lit by mere candles. You are - or //someone// is - knelt on the worn stone. A rosary is at your knee, lit incense a few feet away. Seems you've been at vigil, and from the numbness in your limbs, you've been here for some time. Snapping teeth flash at the edge of your vision, and the shapes of hounds fade into view. You're at the center of the circling pack, but your place as friend or foe is hard to discern. Adrenaline prickles up your spine and razors line inside of your jaw. Your attention falls to the long, elegant sword clenched in your hands. Silver like moonlight, cast from consecrated steel that makes your eyes burn if you stare too long. It's been an extension of you for what feels like an eternity, the years before it fell into your grip nothing but ill flashes of memory you don't care to let surface. The dogs are closer now, pressing against your kneeling form, their thick dark fur tickling the exposed skin of your arms. You could seize one by the scruff, swallow it whole, learn the relief and camaraderie of a thorough howl. Jealousy has long been your sin, and right now the bond of a pack sounds like it might save you. [[Stop that.|stopb]]

The bowl is just hot enough to warm you without burning, and you cradle it close to your chest as you eat, letting the heat seep through your skin. Maybe it helps, maybe it doesn't. The food is absolutely a boon, however. Gradually, your hands stop shaking and the fog clears. Infuriating how powerful such a simple solution can be. And, of course, it's delicious. An hour later, after the food is devoured and dishes cleared (that, at least, Val accepts help with), you stifle a yawn. You shouldn't be this tired after having slept so long, but there's no accounting for the strange few days you've had. Your yawn doesn’t escape Val's notice, and a moment later $vtheyve caught the contagion, rubbing at $vtheir eyes and blinking. "Saints, I'm exhausted," $vthey groan$vs. "Like my will to live's been sucked right out of me. It's bed time, or else I might just pass out on the floor." You only hum in response. Your eyelids are heavy, your brain soupy. "You're welcome to stay, of course," offers Val. "Wherever you'd like." [[You're staying here, of course, with Val.][$Val +=2]] [[The couch is calling your name.][$Val +=1]] [[You're bullied into taking the bed. Val's on the couch.][$Val +=1]] [[Your own bed is the only possible solace. You're heading home.]]

You think for a long time, mulling over everything you've ever heard, or seen, or felt. //Do you care?// Of course you do. Things //matter//, even if you don't always understand why. You know some things are good, some things hurt, and some are both and neither at the same time. Maybe it doesn’t matter if you understand. Just that you know. "I think so," you say finally, voice almost hoarse. "But I don't know what to do with it." Val smiles at you then. "No one does. That's the whole point, figuring out what you care about and what you're going to do about it." [['"I've been having strange dreams."'][$Val +=2]]

You think for a long time, mulling over everything you've ever heard, or seen, or felt. //Do you care?// You're coming up blank. "I don't think I even know what that means, Val," you say finally, brows knit together. "I don't have that in me." "That's okay," $vthey murmur$vs. "You haven't been like this in years, $Name. Not since we first met." [['"I've been having strange dreams."'][$Val +=2]]

<<set $sleep to "bedv">>"I'd never pass up quality Val time," you start, earning a beaming smile from $vthem. "Even better when you're silent the whole time." A pout. You crawl under the myriad of soft, frequently mended blankets and easily settle against the plush pillows. Moments later, the lamps are extinguished and the sounds of Val slipping into the bed next to you fade. There's a foot between you, but you can already feel $vtheir warmth seeping through the blankets. You fight the urge to drift off, anchoring yourself somewhere in that hazy space between sleep and wakefulness. As much as you'd like nothing but to rest, some part of you is aware that you'll never feel this safe and peaceful again, and you want to savor it. The walls of Val's apartment can't protect you from every harm, but it's a start. [[Safe...]]

<<set $sleep to "couch">>This couch is your pal, your best friend, and you see no reason to part from it. You're already half-sunk into it, anyway. Almost without moving an inch, you pull down the thick blanket slung over the back of the couch and drape it over yourself. Immediate decadence, and you didn't have to say a word. Val laughs. "Alright. Good night, $Name. Sleep tight, have normal dreams." Moments later the lamps are extinguished, and the sounds of Val settling into $vtheir own bed fade. $vTheyre asleep almost immediately. You fight the urge to drift off, anchoring yourself somewhere in that hazy space between sleep and wakefulness. As much as you'd like nothing but to rest, some part of you is aware that you'll never feel this safe and peaceful again, and you want to savor it. The walls of Val's apartment can't protect you from every harm, but it's a start. [[Safe...]]

<<set $sleep to "bed">>"I'll stay, if you don't mind," you reply, trying to blink the fatigue out of your eyes. "The couch is perfect." "Uh, hello? Who do you think I am?" protests Val. "Guests get the good bed. I'm on the couch." $vThey (gently) shove$vs you off the cushions, sprawling across it before you can argue. With a stern look and a firm point, you're directed towards Val's bed, piled high with soft, mended blankets and beautifully tempting pillows. Moments later, the lamps are extinguished, and the sounds of Val worming $vtheir way into a blanket cocoon on the couch fade. You fight the urge to drift off, anchoring yourself somewhere in that hazy space between sleep and wakefulness. As much as you'd like nothing but to rest, some part of you is aware that you'll never feel this safe and peaceful again, and you want to savor it. The walls of Val's apartment can't protect you from every harm, but it's a start. [[Safe...]]

<<if $Core lt 50>>//Your vision swims, forcing you to bite back a bout of nausea.// <</if>><<set $KlausGB to true>>"I need to know about the God Beneath." Immediately and without warning, his expression melts into something much harsher; he's ten feet away but suddenly you feel cornered. "I'm not going to ask where you heard that, but I suggest you forget you ever did," he says sternly, eyes drilling into your skull. His shift in demeanor is a stark reminder of who you're speaking to- not only a powerful man, but one whose entire purpose is to make sure the echoes of sin never reach his High Priest's ears. "But-" "//No.// Stay far away from that shit, $Name. It's heresy for a reason, and not something you //ever// want to be involved with." //Heresy?// That's not what Ira implied. The Acropolis declaring something a sin or shameful isn't unheard of, but a dangerous untruth? A much rarer condemnation. [['"Then what caused the Collapse?"']] <><<if $Core gte 50>>[['"I've been down there."'|4.klaus.tunnels]]<<else>>[['"I've been down there."'|4.klaus.tunnels]]<</if>><>

"Then what did cause the Collapse?" Klaus presses his lips together in a line. "Devastation," he says. "That's all we know, according to theatre canon. Just the one word: //devastation//." Informative. "Are you serious? The biggest event in human history and all you've got after a thousand years is a single word?" You'd think the Religious would bend all their thought on the Collapse, especially if what Ira said is true, and they exist to prevent a re-run. Willingness to leave something in the past and simply hoping it doesn't come up again isn't a trait devout priestesses are known for. They should be tearing their hands bloody trying to dig up the City's secrets from its buried streets. //A single word,// and an obvious one at that. You want to scream a little, and you want to laugh a lot more. Klaus, however, seems unmoved by your incredulity. [['"Doesn't it bother you that you don't even know what your religion is for?"'][$Sanity -=1]] [['"Seems like an awful big void to build your religion around."'][$Sanity +=1]]

"The tunnels?" asks Klaus. His voice is even as ever, but something in stare is a little too intense. It makes your heart hammer<<if $RO is "Klaus" or $RO is "ValKlaus">>, and not in a fun way<</if>>. You want to dip your head, stare at your shoes or your hands or the walls. Anywhere to escape Klaus' gaze, somehow chill despite the warmth of his gray eyes. But you swallow the impulse and straighten your shoulders. <<if $KlausKnows is true>>"I told you I don't know where I came from," you begin. Or at least, you mean to. \<<else>>"I've been down there," you begin. Or at least, you mean to.<</if>> But you open your mouth and no sound comes out. \>//DON'T.// [[Never mind.]] [[Tell him.][$Sanity +=2]]

<<if $RO is "Klaus" or $RO is "ValKlaus">>The smog in your mind clears and feeling returns to your limbs; which, of course, makes you suddenly all-too-aware of how close Klaus is. One hand is on your arm, thumb pressed against your shoulder. "Are you feeling alright, $Name?" he asks, an ounce of stray concern pulling at the corners of his frown. There's no warmth in his words, but heat skitters across your skin all the same. <<else>>"You alright there, $Name?" Klaus loosely waves a hand in front of your face, an ounce of stray concern pulling at the corners of his frown. You shake your head like you're clearing cobwebs and assure Klaus that you're fine. Whatever that was, it's gone now. You're probably just tired.<</if>> [["So what did cause the Collapse, then?"'|'"Then what caused the Collapse?"']]

\>//DO NOT.// There's a voice in your head and you're only mostly sure it's your own. A beat of sweat rolls down your back, and you still cannot speak. Your jaw grinds. \>//NO////.// Klaus has taken a step toward you; apparently the silent argument going on in your head is cause for concern. [[You're fine.|Never mind.]] [[Tell. Him.][$Core -=5, $Sanity +=2]]

I TRIED.">>//I TRIED.// Your vision swims, focuses again, then fades all at once. Heart-stoppingly cold flame erupts across your arm as you hear yourself hit the floor. [[And you're out like a light.|4.klaus.2]]

You died, once. Maybe it was twice, but who's counting? [[You were temporarily homeless, stealing stale bread to beat back the hunger.]] [[You were working one of your short-lived jobs in a local shop.]] [[You were hardly doing anything, just watching the icy river.]]

<<if $Val gte 10>>It was one of those sickly periods where Val was away from the Holy City for weeks at a time. You could have easily camped out in $vtheir apartment, but you'd recently developed a stubborn streak and had some idea buried in your brain that you needed to learn to function without $vthem. <<else>>It was one of those sickly periods where Val was away from the Holy City for weeks at a time. You could have easily picked $vtheir locks and camped out in $vtheir apartment, but you'd made a stubborn promise to yourself to not rely on $vthem. You were your own person, dammit. <</if>>And for the most part, you managed just fine, until one particularly cold night after a week of freezing rain drove you to desperation. You trudged through the sleet, shoes worn and feet numb, all the way up to Val's door, where all your luck suddenly ran dry. The door was stuck fast, its old wood warped and frozen, and the chill of the knob cemented to your palm with an icy grip. You had to rip yourself free, tearing your skin in the process and leaving a crimson gash across your hand. You couldn't feel a thing, but the two or three drops of lost blood was enough to push your half-starved body over the edge. An employee of the so-called tailor shop below Val's apartment found you a few hours later, unconscious and bleeding at the foot of the stairs, and brought you inside among the bolts of wool and half-made blouses. When you awoke, all you could focus on was that all the clothing awaiting alterations seemed years out of fashion, which only served to solidify your theory that the whole place was a front. But mostly you were doing your best to ignore the tailor telling you you'd stopped breathing sometime in the night, and only the aid of a passing priestess could bring you back. //She fell to her knees,// they said, //and prayed every bead on her rosary seven times before you stirred.// It was eight, actually. You were watching from the darkest, lowest corner, and saw everything. Your body was a mess- limbs scrawny and lips blue, your hair unbrushed. And bloody. Bloodier than it should have been. You didn't recognize yourself. You were //not// that withered corpse. And a corpse it was, because despite the tailor's claims that you'd only fallen unconscious, you knew you'd gone much, much deeper. Something brought you back. You never did get a chance to thank that priestess, and you haven't seen her since. And you never told Val; a pervasive dread kept your lips sewn shut. [[Continue|4.2]]

You've had your share of mind-numbing jobs, hard labor and not, especially during those strange periods of time when Val left the Holy City for days on end, on some mysterious errand or another. This one was a general store, probably doomed to fail within a few years. Whether you were selling or counting or restocking, you can't recall; it was all too dull to remember which was which, the days blurring into one monotonous beat. Except you do remember, you remember every detail down to the prickling of hair on the back of your neck the second the strange man stepped through the door. You couldn't say whether it was intuition or a lapse in memory upon looking back that told you he had a knife. The owner was away, and the man wanted access to the safe, and you had nothing to offer him. It happened too quickly for you to defend yourself, and suddenly you were looking at the dust underneath a shelf, wondering when you'd last swept. Not that the warm pool of your blood was doing much for the floors. It was a slow day for business, and it was another hour before two young women entered the store, whatever plans they had for their day suddenly and spectacularly ruined by the sight of your cooling body. Luckily for you, one was a recently ordained priestess, who you were told fell to her knees and prayed every bead of her rosary seven times before the bleeding stopped and your eyes fluttered. It was eight, actually. You were watching from the darkest, dustiest corner, and saw everything. You didn't recognize yourself. You were //not// that bloody corpse. And a corpse it was, because despite the priestess's claims that you'd only fallen unconscious, you knew you'd gone much, much deeper. Something brought you back. You never did get a chance to thank that priestess, and you haven't seen her since. And you never told Val; a pervasive dread kept your lips sewn shut. [[Continue|4.2]]

It was stupid, really. It was early spring, and you were at the docks, watching the thick crusts of ice on the river break apart and drift downstream, knocking into any riverboat not paying enough attention to push the ice away with a long pole. You sat above the water, legs dangling over the side of the narrow footpath that connects the banks. Boredom, more than anything, had drawn you there, though there was something to be said about the clean, resounding cracks of ice breaking free from the main body. The air was bitingly cold, making your ears ache and nose run. Yet somehow, there was a drowsiness you could not shake; your forehead pressed against the cool wooden slats of the bridge's railing as you fought the urge to drift off. It wasn't easy, and you kept finding your eyes unfocused and vision dark. You were coming off a long string of insomnia, weeks without a full night's rest. Only the Saints know why you shied away your bed like it could swallow you whole; you hadn't seen Val in days, but you were avoiding $vthem, too, knowing $vthey would see right through the dark circles and mumbled words. Apparently, you shouldn't trust old, rickety bridges. Especially the wooden ones, especially above the river. There was a groan, then a crack. Something to do with the shrinkage of iron nails in the cold air, you were told later. It felt more like a cartoonish insult from the universe at the time, but either way, gravity had gotten its claws into you. You always thought being submersed in freezing water would shock you awake, but when it happened, all you felt was a dark fatigue, not unlike what you'd had before. Just heavier. Heartstopping. The grizzled fisherman who pulled you out told you how long you'd been under, but for whatever reason, the number never stuck in your mind. Somewhere between six minutes and a lifetime. It was only a stroke of spectacular luck that saved you; a priestess had disembarked from a ship just before you fell, and was still on the docks awaiting her luggage when the fisherman shouted for help. //She fell to her knees next to you,// he said, //and prayed every bead on her rosary seven times before you stirred.// It was eight, actually. You were watching from the edge of the river and saw everything. Your body was a mess- skin blue and hair bedraggled, a light layer of silt across your eyelids. You didn't recognize yourself. You were //not// that withered corpse. And a corpse it was, because despite the fisherman's claims that you'd only fallen unconscious, you knew you'd gone much, much deeper. Something brought you back. You never did get a chance to thank that priestess, and you haven't seen her since. And you never told Val; a pervasive dread kept your lips sewn shut. [[Continue|4.2]]

If he's surprised by your presence it doesn't show. "Io," he says, tossing the case onto a couch. "How's your arm?" You dare a glance at the limb in question, twisting it in a quick inspection. The bandages have remained in place, no blood or stains to be seen, though the ashiness in your skin tone hasn't warmed. "Hurts when I touch it." "So don't touch it." [[One more smart comment and you're going to start biting.][$Sarcastic +=1]] [[You can't hide your scoff.][$Bold +=1]] [[Not very insightful, but you keep your thoughts to yourself.][$Bold -=1]]

No matter how vast your tolerance for sarcasm may be, it's running dangerously thin lately. But you settle for a dead-eyed stare and annoyed silence. "I haven't learned anything yet, if that's why you're here." He moves a stack of books aside and pushes himself onto the edge of his desk, legs crossed. It strikes you as an oddly casual action from Klaus. "There aren't any reports of similar symptoms, and I haven't had time to dig deeper. Working theory is that it's a kind of Magic rot." He pauses, looks away for a moment, then returns his gaze to you. "I'm assuming you're not annointed? Or ordained?" [['"I can use Magic just fine."'|4.klaus.magic]] <<if $KlausKnows is false>>[['"Is this is a good time to mention I have amnesia?"|4.klaus.amnesia]]<<else>>[['"Is this is a good time to mention I have amnesia?"'|4.klaus.amnesia]]<</if>> <<if $KlausKnows is true>>[['"Not as far as I know, but like I said, I don't have all my memories."']]<<else>>[['"Not as far as I know, but like I said, I don't have all my memories."']]<</if>>

When a priestess dies and doesn't stay dead, they earn the highest honor possible to a member of the Religious: canonization. They undergo the Rite of Rebirth, their names and records struck from history, overtaken by their new title of Saint. A kind of elite warrior, an ultimate enforcer, someone you absolutely do not cross; their orders come straight from the Acropolis and are not to be questioned. You've seen a few from a distance- masked, silent, and gravely still. Rumor has it that once a priestess has seen the other side of death, all semblance of sanity goes out the window. Something about the residual Magics and eldritch knowledge. They don't return right, they don't return //human//, so they are recycled into something new- a person become saintly creature. Holy, holy, holy. Rumor also whispers that Saints drink the consecrated blood of their fellow priestesses, so as to bring them closer to the angelic and demonic. //Communion//, they call it. Some take it further, inviting the consumption of flesh into the legend. //Too bad you weren't a $priestess,// your recovering body was told, //you could have been a Saint.// Too bad. [[All this to say, you're feeling rather like a corpse today.]]

"I have a few questions, actually," you say, knowing this is your best chance to get some answers out of the priest. Or something resembling an answer. "Not my favorite activity," he says with what could either be an eye roll or a plea to the universe, "but fine. What do you want to know?" [['"So what do you really do as a Handmaiden?"'|4.klaus.3]] [['"What exactly is your deal with Val?"'|4.klaus.val]] [['"I need to know more about the God Beneath."'|4.klaus.gb]] <<if $Core lt 50>>//Wait. Haven't you done this already?//<</if>>

<<if $Core lt 50>>//An itch in your teeth in your mandible in your brainstem.// <</if>>He raises an eyebrow. "Anything Thaddeus asks." "Anything?" "Yes," Klaus answers slowly, eyes locked as if to warn you away from saying something you'll regret. "Anything, within and beyond reason. Often before he ever thinks it." "And do you trust him? The High Priest?" "Of course I do. With my life, and yours, and anyone else's." You have no choice but to believe him; the sincerity in his face denies anything else. "Why are you asking?" [[You want to know if he believes what the Religious preach.]] [[You can't stop thinking about what Kat said.]] [[Just curiosity.]]

<><<set $KlausKnows to true>><>Klaus stares, some kind of incredulous rage tightening his smile. "//Yes, $Name.// Now would be a great time to mention that. Immediately would have been better, but fuck me I guess." He lets out a long breath. "Tell me more." "Well, it's rather simple, really. Val found me wandering the Theatre District a few years ago, delirious and confused. It took a few weeks for my right mind to come back. Before that, I can't remember much of anything." Klaus doesn't reply immediately, and instead just studies you; you can almost see the thoughts churning in his mind, though it'd be impossible to glean their nature. "A few years ago?" he asks finally. He's hardly blinked. "How many years, exactly?" "Five or so. Val would know better." "Before or after the Divine Theatre was rebuilt?" This is the first you've heard of it even being damaged. //Is this a trick question?// Something tightens in your mind, putting a flighty itch in your feet. [['"After, I suppose."']] [['"Before."']] [['"I don't know."'][$Sarcastic -=1]]

"Fair enough," he admits with a slight shrug. "In that case, anything //other// reason you're here?" You've decided to keep your Magic a secret for now. After all, he didn't ask //that//. Something else, however, has just come to mind. [['"I met someone named Kat."'|4.klaus.1]]

This, apparently, is enough to make Klaus pause. "Really?" he asks slowly. His fingers tap on the edge of his desk in thought. "Show me." [[Keep it small.][$Sanity -=1]] [[Not too little, not too much.][$Sanity -=2]] [[Oh, you're showing off.][$Sanity -=3]]

The chill winds have been getting worse as autumn gasps its last breaths and the rain gives way to sleet. The Holy City never was known for idyllic winters; the lovely, fluffy snow more common farther out in the countryside is just a myth here, and you've only ever seen hail and slush. Val once promised you a snowball upon $vtheir return from a longer job, but it was solid and brittle by the time $vthey sheepishly placed it in your hands. $vThey also tried to explain the concept of snow angels, which, as far as you can tell, has nothing to do with actual angels. You lost the plot somewhere in the idea that an angel can have a specific shape. You're hardly convinced //you// have a shape, some days, especially ones like these. There's a migraine building behind your eyes, not at all helped by the way your jaw keeps clenching against the brisk air. Your brain might as well be a miserable pile of mold. As for your arm... you've been avoiding rolling back your sleeves. [[Fuck it, you're going back to bed.]]

"Do you believe in your own Religion, Klaus? Is this divinity?" "I have no delusions of grandeur, if that's what you're asking," he says flatly, though you think his tone isn't as annoyed as he'd like it to sound. "But I'm not the Priest's Hand for nothing. This is my entire life, every hour of every day and night." "That isn't what I asked," you point out, a little miffed. He's avoiding the question. "And you've known me for three days. Try a little harder before you start asking things like that. Pick a different question." <<if not hasVisited ("4.klaus.gb")>>[['"I need to know more about the God Beneath."'|4.klaus.gb]]<<else>><soan class = "inactive">[['"I need to know more about the God Beneath."'|4.klaus.gb]]<</if>> <<if not hasVisited ("4.klaus.val")>>[['"What exactly is your deal with Val?"'|4.klaus.val]]<<else>>[['"What exactly is your deal with Val?"'|4.klaus.val]]<</if>> <<if hasVisited ("4.klaus.gb") and hasVisited ("4.klaus.val")>>[['"Kat told me about a cult."']]<</if>>

"Kat said you were insane." "I'm a priest," he replies, "You should be worried if I wasn't." You shoot him with an alarmed frown. "That was a //joke//." He shakes his head. "Kat has an agenda, $Name. //Saints// know what it is, but like I said, don't trust it." <<if not hasVisited ("4.klaus.gb")>>[['"I need to know more about the God Beneath."'|4.klaus.gb]]<</if>> <<if not hasVisited ("4.klaus.val")>>[['"What exactly is your deal with Val?"'|4.klaus.val]]<</if>> <<if hasVisited ("4.klaus.gb") and hasVisited ("4.klaus.val")>>[['"Kat told me about a cult."']]<</if>>

"I was just curious," you say with a shrug that you hope comes off as inoffensive. "Nothing else." Klaus raises his eyebrows at you, apparently unconvinced, but leaves you space to ask another question. <<if not hasVisited ("4.klaus.gb")>>[['"I need to know more about the God Beneath."'|4.klaus.gb]]<</if>> <<if not hasVisited ("4.klaus.val")>>[['"What exactly is your deal with Val?"'|4.klaus.val]]<</if>> <<if hasVisited ("4.klaus.gb") and hasVisited ("4.klaus.val")>>[['"Kat told me about a cult."']]<</if>>

"I met someone yesterday who claimed to be a priestess. Said her name was Kat Saxon." Klaus winces like the sound of her name has caused him psychic damage. "For fucks sake-" "So you do know her?" "Yes, unfortunately," he scowls. "She's been skulking around the Acropolis for a few years now. Listen, Kat is a nightmare and a half, and I //beg// you to not listen to anything she says." "She told me not to trust you." "And I just told you not to listen to her, so I guess you have a decision to make." [[Trust a high-ranking member of a powerful organization? Not likely.][$Klaus -=1]] [[Between the two, you'd take your chances with Klaus.][$Klaus +=3]] [['"Oh, why can't we all just get along?"][$Sarcastic -=2]] [['"I don't trust either of you."'][$Bold +=2, $Klaus -=2]]

"Are you kidding me? Of course I don't trust you. Why on earth would I?" He tilts his head, almost innocently. "And yet here you are, alone, surrounded a mile in each direction by people who'd blind themselves //and// you if I asked." "Is that a threat?" "No. I just don't believe you." <<if $AteFruit is false>>He sits back, letting out a sigh to apparently put the matter to rest. "But anyway, did you come all the way here to tell me about Kat, or did you actually want something?" [['"I've got some questions, actually."'|4.klaus.2]] <<else>>His words are wholly sincere, and you're starting to feel a bit like a pinned butterfly under his scornful gaze. [[You've a need to look anywhere but at Klaus.|4.fruit]]<</if>>

Val trusts the Handmaiden, and that has to count for something, right? Val may not always make the best decisions, but $vthey would never have brought you to someone $vthey didn't trust. You relay this thought, if somewhat reluctantly. <<if $AteFruit is false>>"Good choice, at least to make out loud," he says, and while there's no trace of a smile on his face, something tells you he's laughing at you. "But anyway, did you come all the way here to tell me about Kat, or did you actually want something?" [['"I've got some questions, actually."'|4.klaus.2]] \<<else>>"Good choice, at least to make out loud," he says, and while there's no trace of a smile on his face, something tells you he's laughing at you. "Are you always so smart?" [[You've a need to look anywhere but at Klaus.|4.fruit]]<</if>>

You fold your hands and tilt your head like an innocent puppy. "Oh, why can't we just all get along?" "Aww, that's so lovely of you," he coos, mouth slanted in a mocking pout. "Should we all hold hands and sing a hymn, too?" [["We can hold hands if you want, Klaus." ♡][$KlausFlirt +=1, $Charming +=2]] [[Uh. Uhm. ♡][$KlausFlirt +=1, $Bold -=3]] [[Roll your eyes. "Such a pessimist."][$Sincere +=1]]

"I don't trust //either// of you," you say, punctuating the words by crossing your arms. You've never //seen// such an eye roll. "Oh, you solved my riddle," Klaus replies, every word caustic enough to peel skin. "Pointing daggers in all directions isn't going to get you anywhere but backed into a corner. It's indecisive //and// rude." You were expecting more of a //'good, you shouldn't trust anyone'//, but alright. You hold up a hand in defeat; Klaus just shakes his head. "Listen, I know I'm not the most welcoming or forthcoming person, even for a priest. But I //am// trying to help you, $Name. If you can't trust me, trust Val's judgement, at least." He pauses. "$vTheir judge of character, anyway." <<if $AteFruit is false>>Klaus breathes out, apparently putting the conversation to rest. "Did you come all the way here to tell me about Kat, or did you actually want something?" [['"I've got some questions, actually."'|4.klaus.2]] <<else>>His words sound sincere, but you still feel a bit like a pinned butterfly under his scornful gaze. [[You've a need to look anywhere but at Klaus.|4.fruit]]<</if>>

You find your solace in a ceramic bowl on the nearby table, painted in greens and golds, and stacked high with a velvety round fruit. It captures your attention, its appearance making you nearly forget Klaus' presence. At closer inspection, it's the same fruit you stole a taste of in the garden, that dark, sweet fleshy fruit, now an entire bowl full just waiting to be snatched. This wasn't here on your last visit. [[Ask for one.]] [[Take another.]] [[Ignore it.|4.klaus.2][$Sanity +=1]]

"Can I have one?" Klaus gives you a strange look. "Oh, you're asking this time?" You hesitate only a moment before you notice the subtle tilt to his head and almost invisible smile. He did this on purpose. [[Two can play this game. ♡][$KlausFlirt +=1, $Sanity +=1]] [[You just want a fruit, dammit.][$Sanity +=1]]

Permission is for shmucks. You select a fruit, a smaller, firmer one, more reddish pink than purple this time. The bottom of your teeth are just scraping the skin when Klaus finally speaks up. "Theft from the Acropolis gardens is considered sacrilege, you know. Punishable by death if I say it is." You lock eyes with the priest. His expression is completely neutral. "Oh, sorry, is the mighty Acropolis hurting after the loss of one precious fruit? Doubt it," you retort, voice flat. He can't stop you from taking a bite, and he will not. You sink your teeth into the little fruit, the rich juice bursting over your tongue. It's just as decadent as the first time. Somehow, this earns you a barely-concealed snort from the Klaus. "Fine, but if you start seeing things, I'm not trip-sitting." You pause, the next bite a breath away from your lips. Goddamn priests. Now Klaus actually laughs. "It's called a snow fig," he explains. You frown in return. "Does it only grow in winter?" "No. And it's not a fig," he adds. "The juice is hallucinogenic. We use it in rituals. Keep it to one or two, though, and you should be fine. Probably." [[Good enough. You sink your teeth in once more, each drop sweeter than the last.][$Sanity -=2]] [[Throw that thing out the open window.][$Sanity +=2]]

"Oh, sorry, is the mighty Acropolis hurting after the loss of one precious fruit? Doubt it," you retort, voice flat. He can't stop you from taking a bite, and he will not. Without blinking, you grab one of the little purple fruits and split it between your fingers, lifting it to your mouth. It's just as decadent as the first time. Somehow, this earns you a barely-concealed snort from the Klaus. "Fine, but if you start seeing things, I'm not trip-sitting." You pause, the next bite a breath away from your lips. Goddamn priests. Now Klaus actually laughs. "It's called a snow fig," he explains. You frown in return. "Does it only grow in winter?" "No. And it's not a fig," he adds. "The juice is hallucinogenic. We use it in rituals. Keep it to one or two, though, and you should be fine. Probably." [[Good enough. You sink your teeth in once more, each drop sweeter than the last.][$Sanity -=2]] [[Throw that thing out the open window.][$Sanity +=2]]

You're being teased, and you won't stand for it. Without blinking, you grab one of the little purple fruits and split it between your fingers, lifting it to your mouth. It tastes just as lovely as the first time, and for a moment you almost lose track of your mission as the juice seeps into your tongue. But you regain focus, and maintain your staring contest with the priest. Klaus' reaction is annoyingly tame- nothing more than small exhale. Plausible amusement. "Fine, but if you start seeing things, I'm not trip-sitting." You pause, the next bite a breath away from your lips. Goddamn priests. Now Klaus actually laughs. "It's called a snow fig," he explains. You frown in return. "Does it only grow in winter?" "No. And it's not a fig," he adds. "The juice is hallucinogenic. We use it in rituals. Keep it to one or two, though, and you should be fine. Probably." [[Good enough. You sink your teeth in once more, each drop sweeter than the last.][$Sanity -=1]] [[Throw that thing out the open window.][$Sanity +=1]]

<<set $four to "Klaus">>It doesn't take long to reach the Acropolis gardens, your presence once again unnoticed. Since you no longer have Klaus' rosary, you can only assume he's somehow worked you into the wards and given you permission to enter. The other option is that security is alarmingly lax, which knowing the Religious, is a laughable idea. The gardens are different in the daytime- brighter and more colorful, obviously, but most noticably, //louder//. The trees are alive with the sounds of twittering birds, you could wander forever and never find the source of the babbling water, and somewhere in the distance, the melodic voice of a priestess fills the air with a slow, haunting hymn, lovely enough to rival the birdsong. The chill of winter apparently has no hold on the Acropolis beyond a light dusting of powdery snow that has not discouraged even the daintiest of flower buds. What hasn't changed is the garden's power, the pull it exerts on you to stop and spill your confession. Whether this is a deliberate Magic or an intrinsic property of the divinity in bloom here, you could not say. Either way, you feel more pious with every step. [[The vines covering the archway of the neglected cloister part easily for you.|4.klaus]]

It may be almost noon, but you're an adult, and no one can stop you. [[Crawl into the sheets, wrap yourself up like a grub.|4.bed.1]]

"Kat told me about a cult," you start, almost lightheartedly, "she called them the Faithful?" He sighs, then nods. "I'm both surprised and not. She's been trying to map out the Faithful for a few years now, with little success, as far as I know- not that that's saying anything, she'd keep a vital secret just to watch me squirm." The last part almost isn't addressed to you. "Though, to be honest, I don't know what she thought she would gain by roping you into it. I'm sure she'd agree that the less people that know the Faithful aren't a myth, the better. Potential mutinies are better left as rumors." "Are they actually that much of a threat? Kat mentioned they have it out for Most Holy." The response is half a second slower than you expected. "Yes, and no," he says, line of sight lost somewhere in the dark wood of the rafters. "They've made several attempts on Thaddeus and Jacqueline's lives, but it's nothing we can't handle. It's the concept that worries me; even the slightest notion that the Acropolis could be toppled is a crack in our armor. It should be //inconceiveable//, much less oddly tempting to any member of the court dissatisfied with their current lot." "You're saying there could be a coup?" An odd smile twists Klaus' face as he breathes out and finally refocuses on you. "No, there absolutely could not. But beating back the allegations is time consuming, and I've lost more than one friend to conspiracies." [['"Let me help."']]

<<if $Core lt 50>>//The pit of your throat is tight and raw.// <</if>>"Should I be worried about Val?" you ask, watching the Handmaiden carefully. Val may have //claimed// $vthey $vwere happy with the job, but that was only the smart thing to say. Doesn't make it true, or the whole truth. "Val is a hazard to $vthemself and others; you should always be worried about $vthem," he replies dryly. "Be more specific." "//You//, I mean. Maybe you haven't noticed, but $vtheyre practically allergic to the Religious. Just wondering how this... deal came about. The story $vthey told me definitely isn't true." "What story was that, exactly?" You're exposing one of Val's little tales, but the chance to find out the truth of this odd arrangement is too important to ignore. There //has// to be something to it, for $vthem to get over $vtheir biases and work directly - secretly - for the second most powerful man in the world. And cheerfully, at that. "Some grand thing about saving your life and being offered a job in return. It was all very heroic and moving and, well... silly." Silence follows as Klaus stares at you, then the floor, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. "I don't even know where to start with that," he says finally, his voice incredulous but eyes squinted in a betraying smile. "That's very Val." "What, then?" "$vThey tried to rob me." [[Oh, this should be good.]]

"Helpful, thanks," you drone, eyes rolling. Klaus ignores your displeasure and walks past you. "I haven't learned anything yet, if that's why you're here." He moves a stack of books aside and pushes himself onto the edge of his desk, legs crossed. It strikes you as an oddly casual action from Klaus. "There aren't any reports of similar symptoms, and I haven't had time to dig deeper. Working theory is that it's a kind of Magic rot." He pauses, looks away for a moment, then returns his gaze to you. "I'm assuming you're not annointed? Or ordained?" [['"I can use Magic just fine."'|4.klaus.magic]] <<if $KlausKnows is false>>[['"Is this a good time to mention I have amnesia?"'|4.klaus.amnesia]]<<else>>[['"Is this a good time to mention I have amnesia?"'|4.klaus.amnesia]]<</if>> <<if $KlausKnows is true>>[['"Not as far as I know, but like I said, I don't have all my memories."']]<<else>>[['"Not as far as I know, but like I said, I don't have all my memories."']]<</if>>

Matching the sarcastic tone probably won't make Klaus anymore forthcoming, so you hold your tongue. "I haven't learned anything yet, if that's why you're here." He moves a stack of books aside and pushes himself onto the edge of his desk, legs crossed. It strikes you as an oddly casual action from Klaus. "There aren't any reports of similar symptoms, and I haven't had time to dig deeper. Working theory is that it's a kind of Magic rot." He pauses, looks away for a moment, then returns his gaze to you. "I'm assuming you're not annointed? Or ordained?" [['"I can use Magic just fine."'|4.klaus.magic]] <<if $KlausKnows is false>>[['"Is this a good time to mention I have amnesia?"'|4.klaus.amnesia]]<<else>>[['"Is this a good time to mention I have amnesia?"'|4.klaus.amnesia]]<</if>> <<if $KlausKnows is true>>[['"Not as far as I know, but like I said, I don't have all my memories."']]<<else>>[['"Not as far as I know, but like I said, I don't have all my memories."']]<</if>>

You give it a moment's thought, then shrug. "I don't remember any rebuilding, so I'd assume //after//. Or I'm just horribly out of the loop." Klaus remains silent for a beat, then finally, "Spell your name." "I- what?" "Your name. You're literate, aren't you? Spell it." Of all the ways this conversation could have gone, this was not one you were expecting. Your mind thumbs through a dozen different explanations, ranging from a genuine question (bizarre) to a sarcastic test of intelligence (rude as hell). Unfortunately, the only way to find out is to humor him, so you do. You spell your name slowly and clearly, teeth almost gritted. He takes this in, nodding for a moment, then, as if the last ten seconds hadn't happened, Klaus moves on. "So you could be annointed, or ordained, and simply don't remember. Have you used Magic?" "Now hold on-" you protest, indignant. "What does my name have to do with-" "With Magic?" interrupts Klaus. "Absolutely nothing. Can you use Magic?" //Saints.// A simple "yes" is all the reply you're willing to give him. "Really?" His fingers tap on the edge of his desk in thought. "Show me." [[Keep it small.][$Sanity -=1]] [[Not too little, not too much.][$Sanity -=2]] [[Oh, you're showing off.][$Sanity -=3]]

The lie spills from you before you can even think about it. You still don't trust Klaus, and you definitely don't trust the question. "It was before the reconstruction. I never saw it, but I heard about it." Klaus hums, a faint disappointment slanting his frown. "Why do you ask?" He just shakes his head. "Never mind. So it's possible you're anointed. There'd be record of you somewhere. Have you ever used Magic?" There's no point in lying about that one; he probably already knows the answer. Can sense it on you or something ridiculous like that. "It's never given me rot before," you say slowly, feeling out the phrasing as you go, "but yes, I know some Magic." "Really?" His fingers tap on the edge of his desk in thought. "Show me." [[Keep it small.][$Sanity -=1]] [[Not too little, not too much.][$Sanity -=2]] [[Oh, you're showing off.][$Sanity -=3]]

The priest is trying to help you (you think), so honesty is probably the best policy. "I don't know," you admit. "I didn't know it was ever rebuilt. Guess it wasn't a topic of conversation in the places I frequent." Klaus raises an eyebrow. "I doubt that very much. The damn thing exploded. It's all there was to talk about for months. Years, maybe." [[You can only shrug.]] [['"Exploded? What happened to it?"']]

There's a tall, tapered candle on the desk, just within Klaus' reach, of a fresh green wax, held upright by a simple but heavy-looking base. The wick is unburnt, still folded to one side. You direct your focus to it meaningfully, Klaus' gaze following, then flicking back to you. You flip to the part of your brain that likes to reach out into the world and curl around points of Magic. It's like rearranging letters on a page, and something this simple barely needs a nudge. With a soft //swish//, the wick lights, burning steadily and merrily and casting a gentle glow across Klaus' face. He barely spares the candle a glance, studying your actions closely. "Color me surprised," the priest says, eyebrows raised ever-so-slightly. He might even be impressed. "You're quick. I didn't see your gestures at all." Most priestesses guide the Magic with the strange mathematical twists of their hands, making it some kind of brute, logical force that's forced to obey every angle your fingers can concoct. You've never understood the need. Sure, it can change the flow, but who //really// needs such training wheels? You hold up your hands in innocence. "I don't use gestures." A dry look. "Sure. And you don't use your mouth to speak." Somehow you doubt he'll be convinced just yet. Time for a new subject. [['"I met someone named Kat."'|4.klaus.1]]

You flip to the part of your brain that likes to reach out into the world and curl around points of Magic. It's like rearranging letters on a page. The sun knows it's daytime, but you can tell it otherwise. Like some kind of solar eclipse, the room plunges into darkness, not a mote of light to be seen. You hear a sharp inhale from Klaus, followed by a soft clatter as he slides off his desk and onto his feet. An odd sense of pride bubbles up in your chest as the gloom settles around you. It's a comforting kind of darkness, you find, one that beckons you to relax. There's no expectations here- there's nothing at all- the world cut off and its troubles muffled. <<if $angel lt 2>>And //fuck// do you need the moment to recover in silence. The burst of magic took it out of you, far more than you'd expected. You're not used to such bold displays of Magic, and your muscles are already feeling sore. A dull headache surely isn't far behind.<</if>><<if $angel gte 2>>Not that you're particularly hurting for a moment to recover. The Magic came easily, far more easily than you expected, leaving you almost lightheaded with giddiness. The potential for //more// is buzzing at your fingertips, perched on the edge of your tongue. <</if>>"$Name." You slowly swim back to your senses as you realize Klaus has said your name a few times now, with increasing urgency. With a thought, you kill the flow of Magic, bringing light flooding back into the room. Klaus winces at the sudden brightness but quickly steadies himself. His gray eyes lock onto you, wild and far wider than you've ever seen them. "What the //fuck//?" is all he manages. "Too much?" "//Yes//, no- I..." the priest shakes himself, still clearly rattled. He runs a hand through his hair. "Where did you learn to use Magic?" You can only shrug. "//Saints.// Look, $Name, it's not the amount - though that was fucking impressive - it's the way you did it." "What's wrong with how I did it?" "Nothing!" Klaus all but shouts. "//Nothing//, because you didn't do //anything//. Magic takes rituals and prayer and most of all, time. It doesn't just //happen//." [['"Maybe you're just not very good at it."'][$Sarcastic +=1]] [['"So I've heard."']]

There's a tall, tapered candle on the desk, just within Klaus' reach, of a fresh green wax, held upright by a simple but heavy-looking base. The wick is unburnt, still folded to one side. It matches several of the candles dotted around the room, some decorative, others definitely used. The gas lamps also scattered about would be much brighter and more reliable, but you don't see smoke stains on any of them. You flip to the part of your brain that likes to reach out into the world and curl around points of Magic. It's like rearranging letters on a page, and something this simple barely needs a nudge. With a soft //swish//, the wick lights, burning steadily and merrily and casting a gentle glow across Klaus' face. He barely spares the candle a glance, instead studying your actions closely. He doesn't look up until the other candles ignite with the same dancing flame, one by one, and then all at once. A warm radiance settles across Klaus' rooms, casting gentle shadows on the wall that move oddly with whatever wallpaper or beautifully split wood lines the spaces. Klaus stares at the flames for a few moments, spending a second or two on each before his gaze moves on to the next. Finally, his eyes settle back on you. There may even be a smile on his face. "I didn't see any gestures; you know what you're doing," he says, with a tilt of his head that seems like genuine interest. "I'll admit I'm impressed." Most priestesses guide the Magic with the strange mathematical twists of their hands, making it some kind of brute, logical force that's forced to obey every angle your fingers can concoct. You've never understood the need. Sure, it can change the flow, but who //really// needs such training wheels? "I don't use gestures," you say simply, holding up your hands in innocence. Klaus regards you for a moment before sliding back into his customary sarcasm. "Sure. And you don't use your mouth to breathe." Somehow you doubt he'll be convinced just yet. Time for a new subject. [['"I met someone named Kat."'|4.klaus.1]]

"Maybe you're just not very good at it," you offer, unhelpfully, knowingly. "Oh, I am //very// good at Magic," he retorts, with the quickest of scowls. "Whatever you just did was something else. Or... well, it was definitely Magic, I could feel that. Made out of the same stuff, anyway. Do you understand what I'm saying, $Name? You used the wrong formula but still got the right answer." "I //don't// understand, actually. I never got why everyone makes it so complicated; you don't need 'formulas' to count to ten." "//Saints,// you're like a second Val," Klaus groans, burying his face in his hands for a moment of despair. "What fresh hell did you crawl out of?" You click your tongue, enjoying his stress maybe a little more than you ought to. <<if $Val gte 20>>"I learned from the best."<</if>> Oh, and something potentially even better has come to mind. [['"I met someone named Kat."'|4.klaus.1]]

"I've been told that," you muse. "I'm starting to think you priestesses don't really understand your invention. I don't know. Do the rules make it easier for you?" It's a genuine question carrying no malice, but Klaus gives you the most incredulous look you've ever seen on a person's face. "The rules make it //possible//," he retorts. "You can't pass them off anymore than you can the laws of physics." All you can do is shrug and shake your head. What else is there to say? "//Saints,//" Klaus groans, burying his face in his hands for a moment of despair. "You're just like Val." <<if $Val gte 20>>You click your tongue, enjoying his stress maybe a little more than you ought to. "I learned from the best."<</if>> Oh, and something else has come to mind. This is probably either the best or the worst time to bring it up. [['"I met someone named Kat."'|4.klaus.1]]

"Let me help." Genuine surprise colors Klaus' features for a moment, followed by a resigned kind of skepticism. "Kat Saxon may be willing to drag civilians into Religious business, but I'm not. Don't let me play them down- the Faithful are //very// dangerous, and sorry, but you are not equipped to handle them." "Is Val suddenly not a civilian?" you retort, and are rewarded with the reaction you'd hoped for: Klaus, for once, without an answer. His mouth opens, then shuts, and he grimaces, eyebrows tight. "That //is// why you have $vthem breaking into old theatres instead of just sending a priestess to recover your stolen items, right? $vTheyd never set foot in one otherwise, and there's no universe in which Val is a 'no questions asked' kind of employee. $vThey brought me to //you// for a reason." Klaus' frown is caught somewhere between guilt and annoyance. "//Saints//," he swears, closing his eyes for a moment. "Yes, fine. Val is also investigating the Faithful. But that doesn't mean-" [['"I've already gotten hurt, you might as well let me in."'][$Bold +=1]] [[Let him finish.][$Bold -=1]]

//You've been having strange nightmares, and when you asked for wisdom you were told you shouldn't even be dreaming. It was a simple statement but you fell silent all the same, certain it was some kind of an accusation. $They $were usually so attentive to your every mood, but for once didn't seem to notice. Instead, $they asked for the latest sector reports, sorted by priority if you could, please. So, nestled in the back of your mind while you distilled the requested information, you convinced yourself you weren't having dreams but premonitions. The streets look strange to you now- smaller, rougher, complex and finnicky rather than the sleek efficiency you're used to. What odd evolution is this, to complicate things and call it beauty? It's utterly alien, and while you don't necessarily dislike it, you can't deny a looming sense of being out of place. You don't //fit// here; scar tissue a mile thick has grown over the space you once occupied in this world. You want to go home. You call out for help, and flinch when your voice carries farther than you'd ever expected it to. Surely the echo is a figment of your imagination. Are you supposed to have an imagination? Shaking away the thought, you cry out again. Again. Again. No one is answering. Why $arent $they answering? Panic flares in your chest, then anger. This is cruelty, isn't it? Absence wasn't the way you thought you'd experience it, but here you are, apparently alone. You choke back a sob and try once more. \>$Name? Can you hear me?// [[Ringing silence.]]

Sprawled on the rug next to your bed, you contemplate smacking your head against the floorboards on the offchance that you'll be knocked out and experience a peaceful, restful sleep for once. Unfortunately or otherwise, you lose the battle to will yourself to roll over, and stay dejectedly in place. You lasted all of half an hour cocooned in your bed before a sick, wishy-washy feeling swept over you. The softness of the pillows and mattress made you feel ill, like you were sliding into a fetid pit of clay. Not even the promise of warmth on this chilly morning could save you once you started sweating, desperate to kick off the bedding and gasp for breath. You thrashed about furiously, begging your stupid angel-sick brain to shut up and shut off. Somewhere along the way you ended up on the floor, the top half of your body gracelessly wrapped in a thin blanket that still barely clings to its position atop the bed. Legs akimbo, feet bare. At least the rug is relatively comfortable, you think grimly, though you already miss your bed. This little game is getting infuriating, with the dreams quickly veering away from 'odd' and into 'upsetting'. You weren't even //you// this time, according to whatever logic dreams operate by. The fact that Not You was also having strange nightly visions seems a little on the nose, but who are you to judge? After all, your mind is clearly trying to tell you something and you simply Aren't Getting It. You wiggle your feet absently, searching for patterns in the rough wooden boards that make up your ceiling and mulling over the stupidest thoughts you can conjure. [[You need a distraction.]] [[Someone specific is occupying your attention. ♡]]

You're being absolutely haunted right this moment: a certain pair of hands, an exact curve of the lips that makes you both sweat and shiver. [[Surely wanting more from Val is a sin.][$RO to "Val"]] [[You could listen to Ira's ramblings for hours.][$RO to "Ira"]] [[There's this condescending Priest's Hand.|Klaus.][$RO to "Klaus"]] [[Constantine is always a shadow in your mind.|Constantine.][$RO to "Con"]] [[Kat's piercing eyes are still on you.][$RO to "Kat"]]

Thick, coiled hair as dark as wine and soft as velvet. Stern brows and a sculpted nose, and lips that curl at just the sight of you. It's hard to ignore. No matter what you think of Constantine and $chis… attitude, $che has a intensity and a conviction that you almost admire. You aren't always the easiest person to tolerate, and saints only know Val can be a lot to handle, but Constantine has endured months of your collective torment without breaking. Not for the first time, you wonder what it would feel like for $chis hands to hold you close, instead of pushing you away. A shudder ripples through you, raising goosebumps on your skin. <<if $ConFlirt gte 1>>[[You may flirt to be annoying, but that doesn't mean it's not sincere.]]<<else>>[[You may flirt to be annoying, but that doesn't mean it's not sincere.]]<</if>> <<if $ConFlirt gte 1>>[[The flirting's supposed to be hollow, dammit.]]<<else>>[[The flirting's supposed to be hollow, dammit.]]<</if>> [[There's someone lovable in there, you know it.]] [[Don't be ridiculous. Constantine is an ass.]]

You've always been enchanted by fiction, especially in the form of the silly little dime novels you've collected over the years. There's been a //femme fatale// or two or seven, and you know one when you see one. Kat could have walked right off the pages of a detective novel with a cigarette in her hands and a sob story on her lips, and you've never been more intrigued. Maybe it helps that almost everything she's said to you feels like fiction itself. She appeared to you with words as blunt as a sledgehammer and a smile sharp as a scythe. You're not sure if she can be trusted, but then, you're not sure you really care. [[You're drawn to her like a fly to honey.]] [[What's she like beyond that slick exterior?]] [[Kat is way too intense, what even is this?]]

Val, and $vtheir impish little smile and gentle hands that have coaxed you back from the brink of chaos more times than you'd like to admit. Always warm, always happy to see you, and never tired of your strangeness, as exhausting as you're sure it can be. You've had your fights, of course, and you probably don't know a single true thing about $vthem. But then, you don't know much about yourself, either. Except that you're pretty sure you'd give your rotten right arm for Val to be here on the floor with you right now. <<if $ValFlirt gte 1>>[[You've been flirting with Val for years, to no avail.]]<<else>>[[You've been flirting with Val for years, to no avail.]]<</if>> [[Your little crush is new, actually.]] [[Crush? You don't have a crush. Denial denial denial.]]

You've met Ira a total of twice, with less than an hour of time spent between you. And yet, here you are, thinking of messy curls and pearlescent skin, and a soft smile as bright as the moon. You were at ease in their presence, and something tells you there's nothing in Ira that could ever make you feel unsafe. They may be a little eccentric, but so are you. It's been a while since you've met someone who didn't sneer or cower at your oddness, but instead was just as excited to talk to you as you were to them. [[The thought of being one of their obsessions makes you blush.]] [[Sweet little thing. You almost want to eat them alive.]] [[They were just nice to you. That doesn't mean anything.]]

You seem to be utterly alone in this wing of the Palace of Saints; not even Constantine waits for you at the end of the hall. Even the smell of incense is faint. The doors here are not locked, and you slip into Klaus' empty quarters without a fuss. The pile of books and manuscripts you witnessed the other night has not been tidied; if anything, it's grown worse. A quick glance at the titles reveals little; most appear to be histories, and whatever notes the Handmaiden has made are indecipherable. It's an encoded language you don't recognize, though it has clear similarities to runes and wards. Like Magic without the… magic. The room is empty, the Palace silent. You probably have time for a little snooping, if you'd like. [[The desk, obviously.][$Bold +=1]] [[One of the nightstands should be interesting.][$Bold +=1]] [[What does a Handmaiden keep on his altar?][$Bold +=1]] [[Mind your own damn business.][$Bold -=1]]

The nightstands are a dark, solid wood, with lion's paws for feet. The farther one is the more used, judging by the series of water rings marring its surface. A shallow drawer with a gilt knob beckons to you, sliding open soundlessly at your touch. The first thing you see is a series of notes on varying kinds of paper, some folded, some torn, all in the same confident but ragged script. Most are crude cartoons of a stooped old man, or complaints about the length and dullness of some state affair or another. The most notable is the largest, on a piece of fine stationary. It reads "//Happy Birthday. Love you. Let's get drunk. -Dee//" A letter is tucked to one side, addressed to Klaus in faded ink. The wax seal is plain, unadorned, and perhaps more importantly, untouched. The paper is creased and soft, but this letter has remained unopened. Your attention catches on something small toward the back of the drawer that you would have missed entirely if it didn't glint merrily in the sunlight. On closer inspection, it's a golden charm in the shape of a dolphin with a tiny blue gem for an eye. <<if $Val gte 20>>It feels oddly familiar, and after a moment, you're able to place it. This is Val's. It belongs on one of the many bracelets that dangle off $vtheir wrist, perpetually jangling and catching flickers of light. $vTheir jewelry is cheap and prone to breaking, but it's odd to find a piece here.<<else>> It seems oddly familiar, but you can't place it.<</if>> //Footsteps.// Someone's coming. Curiosity barely sated, you replace what you found, close the drawer gingerly, and scurry back to the center of the room, the picture of innocence. A moment later, the door swings open silently, and Klaus steps into view, carrying a small wooden case under one arm. [[Continue.|4.klaus.0]]

Klaus' desk is a monstrous, dark and heavy wooden thing, but not a scrap of its surface isn't being used. Manuscripts and pages of bound notes and important-looking documents are scattered about, though you sense there is some kind of method to the madness. The tiny book of hours Val stole from the theatre those few days ago is perched atop a stack of handwritten notes in a handwriting that differs from Klaus' but is just as cryptic and nonsensical. You find three- no, four, seperate mugs, empty except for a sip or two of tea that's long gone cold. The drawers don't yield much, just a collection of fountain pens and several jars of ink, along with handful of different wax seals - not all of them belonging to the Acropolis. You're almost ready to give up when you finally find something not written in code. It's a folded note, soft with age, caught on the back panel of a drawer. <blockquote>//Holy Handmaiden, The dogs nip at my heels, driving me deeper into the lair of the Faithful, for there are very few sacred things left in this world and we must be hellbent on unearthing them. Willingly but warily I go into this nest of vipers, with the desperate hope that I will shake loose the divine. I will pray for your forgiveness of my sins only once, and then no more. - G. //</blockquote> The mention of the Faithful makes you pause, though the rest is meaningless. //Dogs?// Knowing the Religious, this could be literal or entirely metaphorical or some inane combination of the two. //Footsteps.// Someone's coming. Curiosity barely sated, you replace what you found, close the desk drawer gingerly, and scurry back to the center of the room, the picture of innocence. A moment later, the door swings open silently, and Klaus steps into view, carrying a small wooden case under one arm. [[Continue.|4.klaus.0]]

You're not in the habit of invading people's privacy, especially someone like Klaus. You aren't stupid. Instead, you take a beat to soak in the serenity of the near-silent room, the only sounds the faint twittering of birds in the garden, through some open window or balcony door. You've just gotten used to the quiet when the door swings open, and Klaus steps into view, carrying a small wooden case under one arm. [[Continue.|4.klaus.0]]

The altar is built into the wall between two large windows, draped with black fabric that provides a stark background to the candles, incense, and strange charms dotted across it. It's the most meticulous thing in the room, almost untouched in contrast, though not out of disuse, you think. You don't recognize this particular diagram that Klaus has laid out in crystal, but it's clearly some kind of ward. It vibrates when you look too closely, slightly sunken on the left; it must be experimental, the particulars not quite ironed out. A smear of dried blood taints one of the farther gems, and instinctively you know that splash of crimson is the only thing keeping this ward stable. It strains your eyes, but otherwise has no noticeable effect on you, even when you gently press a finger into a piece of rose quartz. Either Klaus hasn't yet woven a purpose into it, or it's not meant for the likes of you. The only other object on the altar is a rosary. It's not the pearl and opal string Val had stolen for you, but something much smaller and darker. The beads are wooden, worn smooth with years of use and the metallic threads tarnished. Whatever charm once dangled from the end is long gone. //Footsteps.// Someone's coming. Curiosity barely sated, you replace the rosary and scurry back to the center of the room, the picture of innocence. A moment later, the door swings open silently, and Klaus steps into view, carrying a small wooden case under one arm. [[Continue.|4.klaus.0]]

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His face falls flat again at your non-commital shrug, and he sighs in annoyance. "Never mind. So it's possible you're anointed. There'd be record of you somewhere. Have you ever used Magic?" "I have," you say. "when I need to. It's always been easy for me. It's never given me rot, though." "Really?" His fingers tap on the edge of his desk in thought. "Show me." [[Keep it small.][$Sanity -=1]] [[Not too little, not too much.][$Sanity -=2]] [[Oh, you're showing off.][$Sanity -=3]]

"Exploded?" you blurt. "What happened to it?" Klaus' jaw grinds in a way that you can't identify. "Ritual gone wrong on a High Holy Day. Half the Divine Theatre caved in and it's a miracle it didn't take the rest of the Acropolis with it. A lot of... //important// people died." "I didn't think rituals would go wrong at that level, with the High Priest and Priestess and all." "They don't," he says simply, and you doubt you'll get much more than that. "So it's possible that you're anointed, and you simply don't remember. Have you ever used Magic?" "I have," you say. "when I need to. It's always been easy for me. It's never given me rot, though." "Really?" His fingers tap on the edge of his desk in thought. "Show me." [[Keep it small.][$Sanity -=1]] [[Not too little, not too much.][$Sanity -=2]] [[Oh, you're showing off.][$Sanity -=3]]

Something's got to give. <<if $angel gte 2>>You've been bitten by one angel and ate another.<<else>>You've been bitten by an angel and your days are only getting weirder.<</if>> This isn't //normal//. Any second now a quest is going to pop out of the woodwork and you'll learn your deeper purpose, save the world, so on and so forth. Nothing's happening. That knot in the slat above your bed looks like a three-legged dog, though, so that's something. The nerves in your arm prickle uncomfortably, and you resist the urge to itch. It won't help, but more importantly, it feels like giving in. Instead, you finally kick off your blanket and roll to your feet. After fighting a brief wave of dizziness from standing too fast, you steady yourself and reach for your shoes. You've made a decision. You need to know more, and who better to bother than the experts? One priestess, or another. [[Klaus.|4.kl]] [[Ira.|4.i]]

<<set $four to "Ira">>Ira's theatre isn't far from your home, and is located fortunately close to the edge of the Theatre District, meaning you need waste no time getting lost in the labyrinth of streets the Religious constructed around their domain. All is quiet, far quieter than you'd expect for the middle of the afternoon, especially so close to a High Holy Day. The twice-a-year ritual less than a week away, as Val had reminded you recently, though $vthey certainly meant it as a warning and not a cause for excitement. Ritual days are always violent. And so you reach your destination quickly, with little difficulty. It's a serene, quiet street, all cobble and cracked stone. It's not a particularly large theatre, but its vaults and buttresses tower over you all the same, silent and intricate. Other than a trilling flock of pigeons, the only soul in sight is a young, dark-haired priest occupying a stone bench across the small square from the theatre. He's hunched over a thick book, leaning at an awkward angle to keep the sun's glare from the pages. He looks up at your approach, squinting slightly against the light and seeming neither annoyed nor interested. "I'm looking for a priestess named Ira." "Auclair?" he responds, flashing pearly white teeth. "They're not usually on duty until later, but I see them a lot in the cloister garden even on their off days. It's behind the theatre, back and to the left. Can't miss it." He points, then immediately returns to his studies without a second glance. You circle around the theatre, as instructed, past the stone steps up to the entrance and the ones leading down to the library. And there you find a a covered walkway fencing in a small garden, the only walls made of open archways and narrow pillars. [[And there, in the yard, is Ira.|4.ira]]

"That seems like an awfully big void to build your religion around." "And what the hell else is there to build a religion around?" he asks, somewhere between argumentative and asking for a debate. "If we knew the answers, it would just be history." This is probably not a good argument to have with a religious leader. Best change the subject. <<if not hasVisited ("4.klaus.3")>>[['"So what do you really do as a Handmaiden?"'|4.klaus.3]]<<else>>[['"So what do you really do as a Handmaiden?"'|4.klaus.3]]<</if>> <<if not hasVisited ("4.klaus.val")>>[['"What exactly is your deal with Val?"'|4.klaus.val]]<<else>>[['"What exactly is your deal with Val?"'|4.klaus.val]]<</if>> <<if hasVisited ("4.klaus.3") and hasVisited ("4.klaus.val")>>[['"Kat told me about a cult."']]<</if>>

<<set $ValCrush to "new">>You used to be //normal// about Val, or as normal as you can be about someone who raised you from total amnesia. But lately, every time $vthey stand$vs a little too close, you start feeling the need to squirm, like you just can't take it. And Saints help you when $vtheir attention is actually on you. <<if $sleep is "couch" and $vcuddle is false>>There's a //reason// you martyred yourself to the couch the other night, after all. You weren't sure you could stand it. What if you did something stupid? //What if you didn't?//<</if>> \<<if $sleep is "couch" and $vcuddle is true>>There's a //reason// you martyred yourself to the couch the other night, after all. The fact that you didn't stay there is just a sign of your apparently weakening resolve. The need to do something stupid is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. //"If you wanted to share, you could have just said so,"// $vthey teased, sending jitters through your skin. Not to mention a crippling wave of both courage and doubt. Val was difficult to understand at the best of times; something as high stakes as this was something else entirely.<</if>> \<<if $sleep is "bed" and $vcuddle is true>>There's a //reason// you crammed yourself into the couch next to $vthem the other night, even if it really was just to sleep. The fact that you didn't stay in bed is a sign of your apparently weakening resolve. The need to do something stupid is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. //"Didn't think you wanted the couch that badly,"// $vthey teased, sending jitters through your skin. Not to mention a crippling wave of both courage and doubt. Val was difficult to understand at the best of times; something as high stakes as this was something else entirely.<</if>> \<<if $sleep is "bed" and $vcuddle is false>>There's a //reason// you didn't take the opportunity to crawl into bed next to $vthem the other night, after all. You weren't sure you could stand it. What if you did something stupid? //What if you didn't?// <</if>> \<<if $sleep is "vbed">> There's a //reason// you crawled into $vtheir bed the other night, even if it really was just to sleep. The need to do something stupid is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.<</if>> You groan in frustration, roll onto your side, and force yourself to tamp down those thoughts and lock them away in a little Val-shaped box. The texture of the rug is pressing into your exposed skin; you're going to have livid red marks across your arms later. <<if $RO isnot "ValKlaus">>[[But the thoughts aren't done with you. Is there something between Val and Klaus?|Klaus.][$RO to "ValKlaus"]] <</if>>[[You need a distraction.]]

<<set $ValCrush to "denial">>You don't even think about Val all that much, and anyway it's //completely// normal for a friend to be the first thing on your mind when you wake and the last before you fall asleep, and a good portion of all the moments in between. Like, //of course//. Val's the majority of your social circle, who else would occupy your thoughts? And if those thoughts are more than passing, more than factual, maybe a little bit daydream-y, well that's just a fluke. Your brain's got to fill in the blanks with someone. It might just as well be a stranger, right? Right. <<if $sleep is "bedv">>Besides, you crawled into $vtheir bed the other night with a completely platonic agenda, so that's basically proof.<</if>> \<<if $sleep isnot "bedv" and $vcuddle is false>>Besides, you had an opportunity to sleep right next to $vthem the other night, and you didn't take it. So clearly, this is all nothing.<</if>> \<<if $sleep is "couch" and $vcuddle is true>>Besides, you had an opportunity to sleep right next to $vthem the other night, and you didn't take it. The fact that you didn't //stay// that way is irrelevant. Even if you had to bury your face in the blankets the next morning to hide your flushed skin when Val sleepily laughed in your ear at finding you wrapped up in $vtheir arms. //"If you wanted to share, you could have just said so,"// $vthey teased, sending jitters through your skin. Platonic jitters. <</if>> \<<if $sleep is "bed" and $vcuddle is true>>Besides, you had an opportunity to sleep right next to $vthem the other night, and you didn't take it. The fact that you didn't //stay// that way is irrelevant. Even if you had to bury your face in the blankets the next morning to hide your flushed skin when Val sleepily laughed in your ear at finding you wrapped up in $vtheir arms. //"Didn't think you wanted the couch that badly,// $vthey teased, sending jitters through your skin. Platonic jitters.<</if>> You groan in frustration, roll onto your side, and force yourself to tamp down those thoughts and lock them away in a little Val-shaped box. The texture of the rug is pressing into your exposed skin; you're going to have livid red marks across your arms later. <<if $RO isnot "ValKlaus">>[[But the thoughts aren't done with you. Is there something between Val and Klaus?|Klaus.][$RO to "ValKlaus"]] <</if>>[[You need a distraction.]]

<<set $ValCrush to "old">>Usually you get a laugh in return, like you're teasing, or $vthey ramp$vs up the ridiculousness like it's a joke. At first you assumed that, like most things you do, you just weren't doing it right. But you'd studied other people carefully, in bars and in the markets, and it seemed to work for //them//. By all rights, Val should be in love with you by now. <<if $sleep is "bedv">>There's a //reason// you crawled into $vtheir bed the other night, even if it really was just to sleep. Maybe you haven't been successful in getting the kind of attention you want from Val, but you can still be close to $vthem, you can still fall asleep with your brow buried in $vtheir shoulder and lungs breathing the same air.<</if>> \<<if $sleep is "couch" and $vcuddle is true>>There's a //reason// you crawled into $vtheir bed the other night, even if it really was just to sleep. Maybe you haven't been successful in getting the kind of attention you want from Val, but you can still be close to $vthem, you can still fall asleep with your brow buried in $vtheir shoulder and lungs breathing the same air. //"If you wanted to share, you could have just said so,"// $vthey teased the next morning, sending jitters through your skin. And you wanted to damn yourself to oblivion, for a moment. Did $vthey have to be so warm and sweet?<</if>> \<<if $sleep is "bed" and $vcuddle is true>>There's a //reason// you crammed yourself into the couch next to $vthem the other night, even if it really was just to sleep. Maybe you haven't been successful in getting the kind of attention you want from Val, but you can still be close to $vthem, you can still fall asleep with your brow buried in $vtheir shoulder and lungs breathing the same air. //"If you wanted the couch so badly, you could have just said so,"// $vthey teased the next morning, sending jitters through your skin. And you wanted to damn yourself to oblivion, for a moment. Did $vthey have to be so warm and sweet?<</if>> \<<if $sleep is "couch" and $vcuddle is false>>And you're not sure you can stand the uncertainty of knowing why you can't seem to get that attention from Val, which is why you do things like martyr yourself to the couch instead of seizing any opportunity to be close. //What if $vtheyre keeping you at a distance on purpose?// you can't help but ask yourself. //What if $vthey know$vs and $vthey $vdont want it?// So you maintain your space.<</if>> \<<if $sleep is "bed" and $vcuddle is false>>And you're not sure you can stand the uncertainty of knowing why you can't seem to get that attention from Val, which is why you refuse to fall asleep in the same bed instead of seizing any opportunity to be close. //What if $vtheyre keeping you at a distance on purpose?// you can't help but ask yourself. //What if $vthey know$vs and $vthey $vdont want it?// So you maintain your space.<</if>> \<<if $sleep is "home">>And you're not sure you can stand the uncertainty of knowing why you can't seem to get that attention from Val, which is why you refuse to fall asleep in the same bed instead of seizing any opportunity to be close. //What if $vtheyre keeping you at a distance on purpose?// you can't help but ask yourself. //What if $vthey know$vs and $vthey $vdont want it?// So you maintain your space.<</if>> You groan in frustration, roll onto your side, and force yourself to tamp down those thoughts and lock them away in a little Val-shaped box. The texture of the rug is pressing into your exposed skin; you're going to have livid red marks across your arms later. <<if $RO isnot "ValKlaus">>[[But the thoughts aren't done with you. Is there something between Val and Klaus?|Klaus.][$RO to "ValKlaus"]] <</if>>[[You need a distraction.]]

They've knelt on the ground and are using the bench as a table, taking notes small leather notebook as they study the pages of a worn red tome balanced in their lap. A black, wide-brimmed hat, the archetypal accessory of priestesses, lies on the bench at their elbow next to a mug billowing steam. Ira seems to be engrossed in their work and doesn't look up at your arrival, even when long-dead leaves crunch beneath your footsteps. You're barely three strides away before you think to warn them, unfortunately just as they reach for their mug. "Ira?" you call, gently as you can. But it's no use; the priestess startles, mug slipping out of their grasp and tumbling off the bench onto the stone below with a clatter. Ira looks up at you with all the panic of a child caught red-handed, though their eyes soften upon recognition. "$Name- //oh//," they say, taking a deep breath and hunching slightly. "Oh, that was embarrassing. You scared the hell out of me; we //must// get you a bell." "Sorry," you laugh, a little sheepish. "And sorry about your... tea?" "Yes, tea," confirms Ira, then their eyes go wide. "Oh, my //tea!//" They put their books to the side and sit up, leaning over the bench to recover their fallen cup. It's a sturdy ceramic thing, and seems to be unharmed, though their drink has long soaked into the ground. They give it a mournful look. "You aren't in a hurry, are you? I'm going to go make some more, and I'll bring you a cup of course-" Ira stands, and without waiting for your confirmation, hurries away into the theatre. You're left on your own in the chilly cloister, with nothing but the dead grass, Ira's hat, and their books. They've left their notebook standing open, and while their handwriting seems to be some sort of shorthand, a folded note sticks out from between the other pages. [[Quickly skim the note.]] [[Examine Ira's hat.]] [[Leave it.|4.ira.nosnoop]]

You pinch the note between two fingers and slide it from the folds of Ira's notebook and skim it quickly, not trusting your luck. The page is thin and flimsy, the script curling. <blockquote>//Ira, we expect to see you tomorrow night. I understand you are preparing for the Holy Day, but you're only a library priestess, and I can't imagine you're terribly necessary to the proceedings. Surely you can spare some time for your family and what's truly important? You know I worry, love, but I doubt that the Saint will forgive your absence much longer. -Mother //</blockquote> Without taking the time to process what you've read, you hurriedly tuck the page back inside Ira's notebook and replace it on the bench, hoping you've accurately recreated the exact angle it was lying on. You busy yourself looking at the central tree growing in the yard, now bereft of its leaves. The bark is chunky and rough, with an odd grayish tint, but is otherwise unremarkable. Ira returns a moment later, carrying two identical mugs of steaming hot tea. They nod to the tree and smile. "It's a little knobbly now, but it's lovely in the spring. Has these adorable white flowers." They extend your mug, and you take it in two hands, immediately grateful for the warmth that seeps through your skin. The tea inside is deep red and fruity-smelling. Something tells you it's too hot to drink just yet, so you just hold it, letting the steam curl across your chin. "It's hibiscus tea," Ira explains. "My favorite. It doesn't grow around here, so I have to wait for the riverboats to come in every season. I have a friend down there who picks it up for me straight from the dock." They drop their hat to the ground and pull their books into their lap, gesturing for you to sit next to them on the bench. [["I was hoping to ask you some questions," you say, taking your seat.|4.Ira.1]]

Ira beams like they've been waiting to hear that sentence all their life. "Of course!" they exclaim, setting down their mug and clutching their books close. "What would you like to know?" [['"Will you tell me more about the God Beneath?"'|Ira.GB]] [['"What are you reading?"'|Ira.HP]] [['"Do you know a priestess named Kat?"'|4.ira.kat]]

"Will you tell me more about the God Beneath?" you ask, expecting them to light up as they had the other night when you'd asked about their studies. But instead, Ira hesitates, genuinely hesitates, glancing about the cloister before slowly drags their eyes to meet yours. They stare at you for a moment, chewing their lip, clearly trying to decide how sincere they think you are. "Ira?" "It's heresy," they say finally, voice soft but grim. "We're not meant to acknowledge it, much less speak of it. I should never have mentioned it to you, I'm sorry, I really am." "Heresy?" you blurt, unable to mitigate your surprise. "You talked about it like it was common knowledge." And honestly, you didn't think the Religious cared that much what their priestesses believed, as long as they obeyed. Declaring something a sin or shameful isn't unheard of, but a dangerous untruth? A much rarer condemnation. Ira half-shrugs, uncertainty rolling past their teeth in the form of a frantic, darting tongue. "I did. I got excited, I guess; most people don't take the time to listen to me. But I'm just //studying// the concept and its history, I swear. Most Holy wouldn't go out of their way to declare it heresy if there wasn't something behind it, true or not." [['"There must be a good reason they banned it."'][$Ira +=3]] [['"I don't really care what the Acropolis says."']] [['"Anything you're told not to talk about should probably be talked about."'][$Ira +=2]]

"Doesn't it bother you that you don't even know what your religion is //for//?" you ask, before you can think it through. Klaus blinks at you, and there's an eerily calm light in his eyes that could truly be anything. "I know what it's //for//, $Name. It's for holding the world together with blood and nails and glue even when it wants to fly apart screaming. It's for imposing order even when it's not welcome, and inspiring chaos when there is stagnation. And most of all, it's for the unforgivable crime of wanting to believe in something." "Something, but not a god?" Carefully, you say the words. "//Never// a god," he answers without a second of hesitation, and perhaps a flash of anger. You're still not entirely convinced Klaus cares for the Religious at all, but it's probably better to change the subject than push this one too far. <<if not hasVisited ("4.klaus.3")>>[['"So what do you really do as a Handmaiden?"'|4.klaus.3]]<<else>>[['"So what do you really do as a Handmaiden?"'|4.klaus.3]]<</if>> <<if not hasVisited ("4.klaus.val")>>[['"What exactly is your deal with Val?"'|4.klaus.val]]<<else>>[['"What exactly is your deal with Val?"'|4.klaus.val]]<</if>> <<if hasVisited ("4.klaus.3") and hasVisited ("4.klaus.val")>>[['"Kat told me about a cult."']]<</if>>

Your eyes roll back far enough to see stars. "Such a pessimist." "Optimism's for laypeople and High Priests," he replies, eyes dark. "It's my job to be paranoid." <<if $AteFruit is false>>Klaus regards you for a moment, then breathes out a sigh, apparently putting the conversation to rest. "But anyway, did you come all the way here to tell me about Kat, or did you actually want something?" [['"I've got some questions, actually."'|4.klaus.2]] \<<else>>His words are wholly sincere, and you're starting to feel a bit like a pinned butterfly under his scornful gaze. [[You've a need to look anywhere but at Klaus.|4.fruit]]<</if>>

"We can hold hands if you want, Klaus." A charged moment of silence settles over you as Klaus looks you up and down. It's not a lascivious glance but rather a genuine study. He's taking stock of you, though his evaluation is nearly impossible to determine behind his absolute mask of an expression. What he //isn't//, you're sure, is annoyed. There's a challenging light in his gray eyes that shines just as brightly as the candles about the room. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he says after a long beat, voice dry and unaffected as usual. But his gaze is strong, intent. <<if $KlausCrush is "bold">>"Maybe I would, Handmaiden," you reply, tip of your tongue peeking out as you run it over your bottom lip. "I've heard touching holy things makes your hand a second-class relic." "Third-class," Klaus corrects without missing a beat. "Second-class is for things belonging to a holy person." Something in the little implication sends a thrill through you, and you smile, perhaps a little too sharply.<</if>> \<<if $KlausCrush is "shy">>"I... well-" you stammer, not entirely sure how you landed yourself in this situation. The words weren't even meant to come out of your mouth in the first place, and Klaus' response has a heat dusting your cheeks. You can only hope it's not too visible in the late-morning light, and you definitely try not to dwell on the almost imperceptable twitch that curves his lips.<</if>> \<<if $KlausCrush is "denial">>You grit your teeth and scoff, a little bit more bothered by the whole exchange than you'd like to admit. You hadn't //meant// it, and he knows that. You cross your arms and look away, and definitely don't notice or think about the tiniest twitch that curves his lips.<</if>> \<<if ndef $KlausCrush>>You grin fiercely at the Handmaiden, somehow both disappointed and enjoying his near-lack of response. "Of course," you say, "Would never have said it otherwise."<</if>> <<if $AteFruit is false>>Klaus regards you for a moment, then breathes out a sigh, apparently putting the conversation to rest. "But anyway, did you come all the way here to tell me about Kat, or did you actually want something?" [['"I've got some questions, actually."'|4.klaus.2]] \<<else>>[[You've a need to look anywhere but at Klaus.|4.fruit]]<</if>>

<<set $ConCrush to "old">><<set $Flirt to "bold">>Every time you manage to get a flicker of annoyance, or even better- rage, from $Connie, a satisfied little buzz spreads through your chest and quickens your breath. The way $chis hands tighten and jaw grinds at your presence makes your mind spin. Saints only know what the goal here is, but you're willing to irritate the $cman to death (your own, probably) just to chase that thrill. Maybe one day you'll even get some… //passionate// retaliation out of it. <<if $FightConnie is true>>Getting decked in the jaw by $chim outside a bar was a fun experiment. It's good to know how far you can push your luck. It's //very// good to know that you can inspire more than just annoyed indifference in $chim.<</if>> Feely oddly smug, you put those thoughts away in a little box and bury them once again inside yourself. You roll over onto your side, exposed skin pressing into the texture of the rug. You're going to have livid red marks on your arms, later. <<if $RO isnot "IraCon">>[[But the thoughts aren't done with you. Now Ira's on your mind.|You could listen to Ira's ramblings for hours.][$RO to "IraCon"]] <</if>>[[You need a distraction.]]

<<set $ConCrush to "denial">>And it is, it //absolutely// is, don't be ridiculous. Getting up in $Connies space and smirking at $chim from under your eyelashes is a //weapon//, nothing more, and you'll be damned if it cuts you, too. <<if $FightConnie is true>> $cHe hit you in the jaw outside a bar, for fuck's sake, and you hit back. That's not romantic at all. <</if>>Pissing $Connie off scratches a little itch in the back of your brain; it's an entirely selfish catharsis and even just suggesting you have ulterior motives is insane. Completely insane. Irritated and slightly unnerved, you put those thoughts away in a little box and bury them once again inside yourself. You roll over onto your side, exposed skin pressing into the texture of the rug. You're going to have livid red marks on your arms, later. <<if $RO isnot "IraCon">>[[But the thoughts aren't done with you. Now Ira's on your mind.|You could listen to Ira's ramblings for hours.][$RO to "IraCon"]] <</if>>[[You need a distraction.]]

<<set $ConCrush to "old">>You're not quite sure where the vitriol between Constantine and Val came from, but in the rare moments of peace a different version of $chim peeks through the grim-faced clouds. Loyal, hardy, and iron-willed, if a bit... unfriendly. Cracking that outer shell will be no easy task, but something tells you the reward will be worth it. <<if $bandage is "Con">>The bandages around your forearm still hold strong; Constantine knows what $ches doing, you'll give $chim that. And $che wasn't gentle with you, but you still remember the brief stroke of $chis fingers against your skin.<<else>>A chilly breeze passes over you and you shiver, pulling up your tangled blanket to fend it off. You've always run cold, your cheeks and hands practically turning to ice if not properly covered. Someone as big as Constantine probably radiates heat, and you idly wonder if //hot-headed// translates to //hot-blooded//. You could use some warmth.<</if>> Feeling oddly hopeful, you put those thoughts away in a little box and bury them once again inside yourself. You roll over onto your side, exposed skin pressing into the texture of the rug. You're going to have livid red marks on your arms, later. <<if $RO isnot "IraCon">>[[But the thoughts aren't done with you. Now Ira's on your mind.|You could listen to Ira's ramblings for hours.][$RO to "IraCon"]] <</if>>[[You need a distraction.]]

<<set $ConCrush to "denial">>Annoyed and slightly unnerved, you claw away the thoughts of Constantine and shove them to a deep, dark place inside you. You roll over onto your side, exposed skin pressing into the texture of the rug. You're going to have livid red marks on your arms, later. <<if $FightConnie is true>>Not unlike the solid bruise you earned from pushing $Connie too far. The colors have mostly faded to a sickly yellow, but the soreness is still there if you flex your jaw too far. The $cman is strong, you'll give $chim that. And lively, it turns out.<</if>> <<if $bandage is "Con">>The bandages around your forearm still hold strong; Constantine knows what $ches doing, you'll give $chim that. And $che wasn't gentle with you, but you still remember the brief stroke of $chis fingers against your skin.<<else>>A chilly breeze passes over you and you shiver, pulling up your tangled blanket to fend it off. You've always run cold, your cheeks and hands practically turning to ice if not properly covered. Someone as big as Constantine probably radiates heat, and you idly wonder if //hot-headed// translates to //hot-blooded//. You could use some warmth.<</if>> Dammit, you weren't supposed to be thinking about $Dane Constantine anymore. <<if $RO isnot "IraCon">>[[But the thoughts aren't done with you. Now Ira's on your mind.|You could listen to Ira's ramblings for hours.][$RO to "IraCon"]] <</if>>[[You need a distraction.]]

You come-to in a damp courtyard behind the Divine Theatre, bloodied nails clinging to the mossy stones with the sour taste of vomit in your mouth. Your palms are stinging; you must have fallen. A shiver runs through you, the warmth of the Theatre long dead and replaced by winter's chill. To make matters only more confusing, it's not Val that's hovering over you, but Constantine. Well, hovering probably isn't the right word. $cHe stands just outside your reach, arms crossed and frowning //almost// impassively- there's a slight shadow in $chis eyes that isn't entirely convincing. You would have expected $chim to be dressed in full uniform if not something ceremonial, but $ches in plain clothes, a jacket and dull pants, no symbols of authority to be seen. "Not out of your misery yet, Io?" $che asks dryly as you creep to a sitting position. [['"Where's Val?"'|5.DT.5]] [['"Fuck off."'|5.DT.5]] [["Always knew you cared." ♡|5.DT.5][$ConFlirt +=1]]

Your response is buried by the aggravated groan that escapes your lips, the world pitching diabolically around you. You've had hangovers with less bite than this. Your eyelids are leaden and your stomach an endless, frothing ocean. "You know it's liquor //before// beer, right?" Constantine adds, as if sensing your thoughts. "Not to mention it's only four in the afternoon, you fucking meatball." [[Head between your knees; breathe it out.]] [[You're not staying here, that's for damn sure.]]

You nearly fold in two tucking yourself into a safe little curl against the cool stone. The sound of your pulse drowns out the distant chanting still spilling from the theatre and the swimming in your vision abates, though if you move again you'll certainly regret it. "Hey-" barks Constantine, and you think $che means it to be snappish, but it sounds more like the kind of voice used to keep the dying awake. "If you pass out again, I'm //not// carrying you." <<if $Sarcastic gte 50 and $ConFlirt lte 2>>"Your concern is noted," you rasp, lip curling. "Did you get promoted to Royal Attack Dog by being this helpful?" Right now, you might wish you'd never been born, but that doesn't mean $Connie can't suffer, too. You can't see Constantine, but you can feel the air grow tighter than a string ready to snap. "Kicking you while you're down would be cruel, so I'll let that one slide. But watch yourself, Io. That mouth isn't doing you any favors." All you can do is cough in return.<</if>> \<<if $Sarcastic gte 50 and $ConFlirt gt 2>>"So if I stay conscious, you will carry me?" you rasp, unable to resist a jab even in this queasy moment. Right now, you might wish you'd never been born, but that doesn't mean $Connie can't suffer, too. "That loud mouth isn't doing you any favors, Io," $che says, tone just shy of threatening. A painful cough rips though your lungs before you can unwisely comment on the kinds of favors your mouth could do.<</if>><<if $Sarcastic lt 50>>"I'm //trying//," you all but whine. "It'd be easier without you yelling."<</if>> You hear Constantine sigh, and retreat a half-step. "Out with it, then. The fuck's wrong with you? You look like a seasick stoner." [['"None of your business, Constantine."'|DT.B.1][$Con -=2]] [['"The theatrics got to my head, is all."'|DT.B.2][$Con +=1]] [['"The ritual... did something to me."'|DT.B.3][$Con +=2]]

Shakily, you manage to crawl to your knees and then your feet, and take a few teetering steps before finding your footing. Without a word or so much as a glance at Constantine, you plunge yourself into the maze of paths and gardens around the Theatre. Distance from the ritual will save you. surely. "For //fuck's// sake," you hear from somewhere behind. A pause, then footsteps. The brute reluctantly follows, muttering under $chis breath. Even in winter, the gardens are lush. Your feet take you farther from the Theatre and its noise, the droning and singing of hymns fading with every step, greedily eaten up by the foliage. You've barely walked a minute before it diminishes entirely, the only sound the wind in the trees and the crunch of footsteps, both your own and Constantine's. You stop at the first bench you stumble across, brush aside the picturesque fallen leaves, and sit, huddled and shivering and desperately wishing for a better coat or a piping hot drink. A few seconds later, Constantine steps into view once more, $chis expression on the harrassed side of stony. $cHe comes to a halt a few feet in front of you, a welcome (or not) buffer against what little breeze has managed to navigate the maze. It's hard to look up into $chis face; even just keeping your head level is a monumental task sapping most of your strength. So you grip the edge of the bench with shaky fingers, and direct your gaze to the cobblestones, watching your breath fog as it leaves your lungs. "Out with it, then. The fuck's wrong with you? You look like a seasick stoner." [['"None of your business, Constantine."'|DT.A.1][$Con -=2]] [['"The theatrics got to my head, is all."'|DT.A.2][$Con +=1]] [['"The ritual... did something to me."'|DT.A.3][$Con +=2]]

"None of your business, Constantine," you grumble. "Actually, people of mysterious origin who've been bitten by angels are //exactly// my business," $che argues. "Especially if they're experiencing impossible things like second-hand Magic." You huff and shrug, entirely certain you're not interested in this conversation. But to your surprise, Constantine's tone drops to something softer. "What did it feel like?" $che asks, eyes focused not on you but on something distant in the trees. This keeps happening, doesn't it? You're used to people not looking you in the eyes, but they're not usually looking //at// something else. [['"Why does everyone keep looking over my shoulder?"'|DT.A.4a]] [[Snap your fingers. "Why does everyone keep looking over my shoulder?"|DT.A.4b][$Con -=1]]

"The theatrics got to my head, is all," you say weakly, acutely aware of how unconvincing you sound. Constantine frowns. "It can be intense, sure. You wouldn't be the first person to faint during a High Holy Day. But I've never seen it this bad." You huff and shrug, suddenly not sure if you're interested in this conversation. But to your surprise, Constantine's tone drops to something softer. "What did it feel like?" $che asks, eyes focused not on you but on something distant in the trees. This keeps happening, doesn't it? You're used to people not looking you in the eyes, but they're not usually looking //at// something else. [['"Why does everyone keep looking over my shoulder?"'|DT.A.4a]] [[Snap your fingers. "Why does everyone keep looking over my shoulder?"|DT.A.4b][$Charming -=2, $Con -=1]]

"The ritual.... did something to me," you wheeze. Constantine frowns. "Magic shouldn't affect you unless you're the one doing it, and doing it unordained." You huff and shrug, suddenly not sure if you're interested in this conversation. But to your surprise, Constantine's tone drops to something softer. "What did it feel like?" $che asks, eyes focused not on you but on something distant in the trees. This keeps happening, doesn't it? You're used to people not looking you in the eyes, but they're not usually looking //at// something else. [['"Why does everyone keep looking over my shoulder?"'|DT.A.4a]] [[Snap your fingers. "Why does everyone keep looking over my shoulder?"|DT.A.4b][$Charming -=2, $Con -=1]]

"None of your business, Constantine," you grumble. "Actually, people of mysterious origin who've been bitten by angels are //exactly// my business," $che argues. "Especially if they're experiencing impossible things like second-hand Magic." You huff and shrug, entirely certain you're not interested in this conversation. But to your surprise, Constantine's tone drops to something softer. "What did it feel like?" $che asks, eyes focused not on you but on something distant in the trees, beyond the walls of the Theatre courtyard. This keeps happening, doesn't it? You're used to people not looking you in the eyes, but they're not usually looking //at// something else. [['"Why does everyone keep looking over my shoulder?"'|DT.B.4a]] [[Snap your fingers. "Why does everyone keep looking over my shoulder?"|DT.B.4b][$Charming -=2, $Con -=1]]

"The theatrics got to my head, is all," you say weakly, acutely aware of how unconvincing you sound. Constantine frowns. "It can be intense, sure. You wouldn't be the first person to faint during a High Holy Day. But I've never seen it this bad." You huff and shrug, suddenly not sure if you're interested in this conversation. But to your surprise, Constantine's tone drops to something softer. "What did it feel like?" $che asks, eyes focused not on you but on something distant in the trees at the edge of the gardens. This keeps happening, doesn't it? You're used to people not looking you in the eyes, but they're not usually looking //at// something else. [['"Why does everyone keep looking over my shoulder?"'|DT.B.4a]] [[Snap your fingers. "Why does everyone keep looking over my shoulder?"|DT.B.4b][$Charming -=2, $Con -=1]]

"The ritual.... did something to me," you wheeze. You manage to stand with the words, stomach still queasy, but stable. Constantine frowns. "Magic shouldn't affect you unless you're the one doing it, and doing it unordained." You huff and shrug, suddenly not sure if you're interested in this conversation. But to your surprise, Constantine's tone drops to something softer. "What did it feel like?" $che asks, eyes focused not on you but on something distant in the trees. This keeps happening, doesn't it? You're used to people not looking you in the eyes, but they're not usually looking //at// something else. [['"Why does everyone keep looking over my shoulder?"'|DT.B.4a]] [[Snap your fingers. "Why does everyone keep looking over my shoulder?"|DT.B.4b][$Charming -=2, $Con -=1]]

And honestly, it's starting to unnerve you. You speak up, hoping to draw $chis attention back to you. "Why does everyone keep looking over my shoulder?" $cHe frowns, but doesn't change $chis eyeline. "Because you radiate suspicion, Io. Answer the question." "What are you //looking// at-" you blurt, whirling around to catch a glimpse of whatever seems to be haunting you. You see nothing. Shadows aplenty, but nothing lurking within them. You aren't fooled. You stand and take a step towards the trees, only to be stopped by a firm hand on your shoulder pulling you back into the alley. "Sit //down//," Constantine says, a note of warning in $chis voice that's far too concerned for you to be familiar with. You start to protest, but $che waves a hand to silence you. "When you passed out…" $che gestures expectantly. [['"It felt like being drugged."'|DT.B.5][$Con +=1]] [[Say nothing.|DT.B.5b]]

And honestly, it's getting on your nerves. You snap your fingers in front of Constantine's face to draw $chis attention back to you. "Stop that. Why does everyone keep looking over my shoulder?" $cHe scowls, but doesn't change $chis eyeline. "Because you radiate suspicion, Io. Answer the question." "//You// answer the fucking question-" you snap, whirling around to catch a glimpse of whatever seems to be haunting you. You see nothing. Shadows aplenty, but nothing lurking within them. You aren't fooled. You stand and take a step towards the trees, only to be stopped by a firm hand on your shoulder pushing you back onto the stone ledge. "Sit //down//," Constantine says, a note of warning in $chis voice that's far too concerned for you to be familiar with. You start to protest, but $che waves a hand to silence you. "When you passed out…" $che gestures expectantly. [['"It felt like being drugged."'|DT.B.5][$Con +=1]] [[Say nothing.|DT.B.5b]]

And honestly, it's starting to unnerve you. You speak up, hoping to draw $chis attention back to you. "Why does everyone keep looking over my shoulder?" $cHe frowns, but doesn't change $chis eyeline. "Because you radiate suspicion, Io. Answer the question." "What are you //looking// at-" you blurt, whirling around to catch a glimpse of whatever seems to be haunting you. You see nothing. Shadows aplenty, but nothing lurking within them. You aren't fooled. You stand and take a step towards the trees, only to be stopped by a firm hand on your shoulder pushing you back onto the stone bench. "Sit //down//," Constantine says, a note of warning in $chis voice that's far too concerned for you to be familiar with. You start to protest, but $che waves a hand to silence you. "When you passed out…" $che gestures expectantly. [['"It felt like being drugged."'|DT.A.5][$Con +=1]] [[Say nothing.|DT.A.5b]]

And honestly, it's getting on your nerves. You snap your fingers in front of Constantine's face to draw $chis attention back to you. "Stop that. Why does everyone keep looking over my shoulder?" $cHe scowls, but doesn't change $chis eyeline. "Because you radiate suspicion, Io. Answer the question." "//You// answer the fucking question-" you snap, whirling around to catch a glimpse of whatever seems to be haunting you. You see nothing. Shadows aplenty, but nothing lurking within them. You aren't fooled. You stand and take a step towards the trees, only to be stopped by a firm hand on your shoulder pushing you back onto the stone bench. "Sit //down//," Constantine says, a note of warning in $chis voice that's far too concerned for you to be familiar with. You start to protest, but $che waves a hand to silence you. "When you passed out…" $che gestures expectantly. [['"It felt like being drugged."'|DT.A.5][$Con +=1]] [[Say nothing.|DT.A.5b]]

"It felt like being drugged with enough tranquilizer to kill a horse." $cHe inclines $chis head, just slightly. "You didn't have any fig, did you? Drink any of the wine? I wouldn't put it past Klaus." <<if $AteFruit is true>>"Not today," you answer, and $che gives you a dead-eyed look before shaking $chis head and moving on. \<<else>>"I haven't even spoken to him. What fig?" "Snow fig," Constantine explains, holding up $chis curled hand. "About yea big. Reddish purple, despite the name. Grows in the Palace gardens." You shake your head, swallowing hard to choke back another wave of nausea.<</if>> "Well then, if you're not crashing off an accidental high, I don't know what's wrong with you. You need a doctor, probably. Or an exorcism." "Klaus knows," you suggest wearily. Constantine clicks $chis tongue. "Maybe, but he'll be busy for several hours yet, and not much help for a while after, besides. <<if hasVisited ("4.i.con.1")>>I could try to find Ira, they were planning on being here today."<<else>>But this //is// the Acropolis. Can't throw a rock without hitting a priestess."<</if>> You grunt in response, not entirely sure even yourself if it's meant as a yes or no. [[Continue.|DT.B.6]]

Fuck Constantine and $chis questions; there's no way in hell $che actually cares, anyway. You're too busy fighting off another surge of vomit to ponder any possible motives. "What did I //just// say-" Constantine gives your shoulder a light shove. It wakes you up a little, as you blink hard and stretch your eyes open. The fatigue is relentless, though thankfully your stomach seems to settle. "Shit," you say. "Fuck." "Very astute," $che replies, inexplicably unsarcastic. "Well, you don't look like you're rotting, and I doubt you've had any snow fig, so I don't know what's wrong with you. You need a doctor, probably. Or an exorcism." "Klaus knows," you suggest wearily. Constantine clicks $chis tongue. "Maybe, but he'll be busy for several hours yet, and not much help for a while after, besides. <<if hasVisited ("4.i.con.1")>>I could try to find Ira, they were planning on being here today."<<else>>But this //is// the Acropolis. Can't throw a rock without hitting a priestess."<</if>> You grunt in response, not entirely sure even yourself if it's meant as a yes or no. [[Continue.|DT.B.6]]

"It felt like being drugged with enough tranquilizer to kill a horse." $cHe inclines $chis head, just slightly. "You didn't have any fig, did you? Drink any of the wine? I wouldn't put it past Klaus." <<if $AteFruit is true>>"Not today," you answer, and $che gives you a dead-eyed look before shaking $chis head and moving on. \<<else>>"I haven't even spoken to him. What fig?" "Snow fig," Constantine explains, gesturing to the broad-leafed trees scattered about. Reddish-purple fruits the size of your fist drip from every branch, fat with nectar despite the lateness in the year. You can smell them now- a sweet and rich fetor that you don't know how you could have missed. "It's some kind of drug," $che continues. "Acropolis specialty. Wouldn't recommend." You shake your head, swallowing hard to choke back another wave of nausea.<</if>> "Well then, if you're not crashing off an accidental high, I don't know what's wrong with you. You need a doctor, probably. Or an exorcism." "Klaus knows," you suggest wearily. Constantine clicks $chis tongue. "Maybe, but he'll be busy for several hours yet, and not much help for a while after, besides. <<if hasVisited ("4.i.con.1")>>I could try to find Ira, they were planning on being here today."<<else>>But this //is// the Acropolis. Can't throw a rock without hitting a priestess."<</if>> You grunt in response, not entirely sure even yourself if it's meant as a yes or no. [[Continue.|DT.A.6]]

There's not an inch of space left untouched, gold and silver and brass and mother-of-pearl and more precious gems and minerals than you even knew existed. The marbled stonework is so fine and intricate that for a moment you think it's been fashioned from stalactites grown right out of the ceiling, frothy and textured like drizzled sand. Parts of the stone are carved into screens thin enough that you can see the flickering of candles on the other side; you keep your hands to yourself, frightened they could disintegrate from your touch alone. Above, beaten spears of gold radiate out from a central oculus, shining like a star that has crashed through the dome and burst across the ceiling. The open eye of a window lets in less light than you'd expect, tinted as it is by the colored glass and fractured by the strange angles of the Theatre. You are small and hideous in that resplendent light. Instead, you gravitate towards the hundreds if not thousands of candles lit throughout the Theatre, in lanterns and chandeliers and stacked in waxy pillars along the stage. A woody, cloying scent drifts among the flames with a sharpness that stings your nostrils; the smell will cling to you for days, no matter how vigorously you scrub your skin pink and raw. A raised platform occupies the central crossing, and directly behind it a massive altar, sculpted like a great, haunched beast and foamy with gold. From it rises a wooden frame, a miniature Divine Theatre in its own right, complete with arches and spires and vivid oil paintings between. The complexity almost hurts to look at; trying to pick apart how it was constructed would surely give you a migraine. If it takes the bones of a Saint to consecrate a normal theatre's stage, you can only wonder at the corpses this was built from. Beyond, the choir, then at the end of the apse, wreathed in velvet and dried pine, is <<if hasVisited ("Ira.HP")>>the towering glass and tile mosaic Ira had gushed over, sparkling like a vicious field of stars.<<else>>a towering glass and tile mosaic that sparkles like a vicious field of stars.<</if>> It forms no image, though if you relax your eyes and let your sight blur, you swear a pattern begins to emerge, just beyond the grip of your comprehension. Dimly you register the long brass gutters embedded into the floors, all leading to a circular drain at the back of the Theatre that's stained with something that flakes like rust, though you know it's anything but. A strange idea slides itself into your thoughts. //This is all for you.// With a start, you become aware again of Val, hovering next to you and wearing an expression you don't think you've ever seen on $vtheir face: discomfort. Your throat tightens involuntarily. You've seen Val laugh with a knife to $vtheir jugular, never doubting $vtheir command of a situation; but now $vtheir eyes dart about the cathedral, pupils small and black. [[Take Val's hand.][$Val +=2]] [['"You okay?"'][$Val +=2]] [[Find a seat.]]

Some vast part of yourself has been deadened with all the grace of a rotten tooth, the gaping socket still weeping blood and so numb it feels like a living thing has taken root in your jaw. You want to scream at its absence but you can't find your voice or your hands or your footing- And possibly worse, your eyes will not open nor will they close, instead remaining in an infuriating half-shuttered droop where what little of the world is available to you is obscured by your lashes. The impulse to reach up and rip your eyelids open flashes through you, if only you could burn through the crushing fatigue weighing you down. You beg, you plead, you //scream// for your eyes to open, but you are powerless here. And for a moment, you are [[nothing.|you come to]]

You scoff. "I don't really care what the Acropolis says." "That's fair. I can't blame you for mistrusting the Religious, many people do. But if a doctor told you something was dangerous, you'd listen to them, wouldn't you? Even if you didn't undestand." "A doctor won't punish me for drinking river water," you argue. Something about this conversation is putting you on edge. "They might tell me I'm stupid, but not //evil.//" Ira shrugs with a half smile just shy of a putting a dimple in their cheek. "But you still get sick, don't you? The consequences come all the same." There's a gentle sincerity to Ira that manages to sound as reassuring as it does naive. It's hard to imagine such blind faith. "And what are the consequences of acknowledging a forgotten myth?" Their sigh is patient, contained. "You must understand, $Name, it's not a secret out of jealousy, or fear of its power, but because it's a gateway to a world we've left behind, that was violently destroyed for reaching too far beyond its means. There are people who will take the idea of the God Beneath to extreme and dangerous conclusions." [['"You mean the Faithful?"'|4.faithful.ira]] [['"Ira, I've been down there."'|4.ira.tunnels]]

If you know one thing, it's that authority isn't to be blindly trusted. "Anything you're told not to talk about should probably be talked about." Ira's eyes go wide, their pale face blanching even further, and they almost raise a hand to your lips to shush you before pulling back and settling on a frantic head shake. "No, //Saints// no, don't say that. Usually I'd agree, but there are very few things the Acropolis forbids beyond normal laws, and this is one of them, and I trust their reasons for doing so. It's not a matter of propaganda, $Name, it's just what's //right.// I was a fool to have ever brought it up." Their tone is gentle, but their gaze stern. Either Ira is a very good liar, or they truly believe there's danger in speaking about the God Beneath. You wouldn't put censorship past the Religious; their laws are watertight. It's the //reason// that has you suspicious. "Why wouldn't they want people to think there's a powerful being they have to protect us from? Seems like the perfect boogeyman." Ira considers this, mouth twisted both thoughtfully and nervously. "Because of the Collapse, $Name. It's a gateway to a world we've left behind, that was violently destroyed for reaching too far beyond its means. There are people who will take the idea of the God Beneath to extreme and dangerous conclusions." [['"You mean the Faithful?"'|4.faithful.ira]] [['"Ira, I've been down there."'|4.ira.tunnels]]

"Surely they had good reason to make it taboo," you start thoughtfully, hoping to draw out something reasonable and reassuring from Ira. "Was it always this way?" The priestess fidgets a moment, fingers dancing across their own arms in clear anxiety as they weigh the consequences of this conversation. Fortunately for you, their academic side seems to win. "Yes, I think so," says Ira, slowly at first. "I've found references to a buried god going back almost to the Collapse, though they're obscure, and you have to know what to look for. As far as I can tell, it's always been considered a wicked idea..." They trail off for a moment, then nearly startle, refocusing on you all at once. "You must understand, $Name, it's not a secret out of jealousy, or fear of its power, but because it's a gateway to a world we've left behind, that was violently destroyed for reaching too far beyond its means. There are people who will take the idea of the God Beneath to extreme and dangerous conclusions." [['"You mean the Faithful?"'|4.faithful.ira]] [['"Ira, I've been down there."'|4.ira.tunnels]]

A so-called dangerous cult of heretics within the ranks of the Religious who'd like nothing more than to topple the power structure? If what Kat told you is true, the Faithful seem like a very likely answer to the question of //who// the Religious is trying to smother. "It's the Faithful, isn't it? That cult? They've got something to do with it," you say, watching Ira's reaction carefully. "The-" Their fingers twist as they pick at the underside of their nails. "The Faithful?" they repeat, the slightest wrinkle between their brows. "I thought they were a myth." "I've heard on good authority they're not," you continue. "What... myths have you heard about them?" Ira just shakes their head, what little color was in their skin long faded. "I'm sorry, I don't think we should talk about this anymore." <<if not hasVisited ("4.ira.tunnels")>>[['"Can I tell you about the tunnels instead?"'|4.ira.tunnels]] <<else>><<if not hasVisited ("4.ira.kat")>>[['"Do you know a priestess named Kat?"'|4.ira.kat]]<<else>>[['"Do you know a priestess named Kat?"'|4.ira.kat]]<</if>> [['"Why not?"'|'"What are you so afraid of?"'][$Ira -=2]] <<if not hasVisited ("Ira.HP")>>[[Change the subject. "What are you reading?"|Ira.HP][$Ira +=1, $Charming +=2]]<<else>>[[Continue.|4.Ira.2]]<</if>><</if>>

Ira brightens up immediately, the way you'd expected them to earlier, the almost apologetic slouch vanishing from their shoulders. "Kat Saxon?" they ask, and you nod, "I do! She's a friend of mine, actually. How do you know her?" "I don't, really. I met her down by the docks, same night I saw you in the library. She sort of... came out of nowhere." They laugh behind their hand. "Sounds about right. Kat's a bit of a skulker; I hope she didn't give you too hard of a time. She really is a delight when she's not being mysterious." Your eyes travel over Ira's tailored black clothing and wide hat that mark them as a member of the clergy. Soft, but clean-cut, and surely warm against the winter winds. A thin silver chain dangles from one wrist, matching the glinting stars dangling from their ears. "Is she really a priestess?" Ira bites back a snort, pearly white teeth digging into their fingertips. "That's not for me to share, is it? But you can trust her, if you have good intentions." [["Good intentions for what? You?" ♡][$IraFlirt +=1, $Ira +=3]] [[Cross your heart and wink. "The purest intentions only."][$Sarcastic +=1, $Ira +=3]] <<if hasVisited ("4.faithful.ira")>>[['"She's the one that told me about the Faithful."'][$Ira -=2]]<<else>> [['"She told me about this cult."'|4.ira.faithful.2]]<</if>>

You drag a finger over your chest and wink nigh-cartoonishly. "The purest intentions only, I swear." Ira snorts, covering their mouth with one hand. "That's good to hear," they say mirthfully. "I like you, $Name, it'd be a shame if Kat had to murder you for being mean to me. I'd attend your funeral, though, I promise." A playful threat and a morbid compliment all at once. It's no wonder Ira and Kat are friends. <<if hasVisited ("Ira.GB") and not hasVisited ("4.ira.tunnels")>>[[Something about it wants to make you spill secrets. Tell them about the tunnels.|4.ira.tunnels]] <<else>> <<if hasVisited ("4.faithful.ira")>>[['"She's the one that told me about the Faithful."'][$Ira -=2]]<<else>> [['"She told me about this cult."'|4.ira.faithful.2]]<</if>> <<if not hasVisited ("Ira.HP")>>[[Change the subject. "What are you reading?"|Ira.HP][$Ira +=1, $Charming +=2]]<<else>>[[Change the subject. "What are you reading?"|Ira.HP]]<</if>> <<if not hasVisited ("Ira.GB")>>[['"Will you tell me about the God Beneath?"'|Ira.GB]]<<else>>[['"Will you tell me about the God Beneath?"'|Ira.GB]]<</if>> <<if hasVisited ("Ira.GB") and not hasVisited ("4.ira.tunnels")>>[[Something about it wants to make you spill secrets. Tell them about the tunnels.|4.ira.tunnels]]<</if>> <<if hasVisited ("Ira.HP") and hasVisited ("4.ira.tunnels")>>[[Continue.|4.Ira.2]]<</if>> <</if>>

"Good intentions for what? You?" You see the pink flash of their tongue as a barely-contained smile crashes over Ira's face, almost in perfect harmony with the blush that heats their cheeks. A sunny laugh escapes them as they take a step to shrink the space between you. "//Good// isn't necessary for that," they reply, gray eyes hooked on yours, expression no longer innocent at all. <<if $IraCrush is "shy">>Your heart does a little flip-flop, mouth going dry and a need to squirm seizing your limbs. Whatever reply you had is lost in a stammer as you blink rapidly. You weren't expecting them to be this close, close enough to see a scattering of freckles across their nose and the stray wisps of golden hair that blow into their face. Ira's smile only deepens at your floundering, though it also comes with a flicker of a pleased surprise. <</if>> \<<if $IraCrush is "bold">>A little thrill goes through at Ira's immediate response to your flirting; you'd half expected to fluster them with the comment, but their bright gray eyes regard you with mischevious intention. "Good to know," you hum, taking in the new details revealed to you at this proximity- the scattering of freckles across their nose, the stray wisps of golden hair flickering into their face, the gleam of the golden droplet earrings that brush their jaw. Ira smiles again, and to your disappointment, steps back to a normal distance.<</if>> \<<if $IraCrush is "denial">>Your heart does a little flip-flop, mouth going dry and a need to squirm seizing your limbs. You //hadn't// meant it like that, at least you don't think so. Damn your stupid mouth getting ahead of its own brain. You weren't expecting them to be this close, close enough to see a scattering of freckles across their nose and the stray wisps of golden hair that blow into their face. Ira's smile only deepens at your floundering, though it also comes with a flicker of a pleased surprise.<</if>> \<<if ndef $IraCrush>>You were only teasing, and Ira apparently knows this, as they break character almost immediately with a uncontrollable snort. Their smile is infectious, and you grin back.<</if>> <<if hasVisited ("Ira.GB") and not hasVisited ("4.ira.tunnels")>>[[Something about it wants to make you spill secrets. Tell them about the tunnels.|4.ira.tunnels]] <<else>> <<if hasVisited ("4.faithful.ira")>>[['"She's the one that told me about the Faithful."'][$Ira -=2]]<<else>> [['"She told me about this cult."'|4.ira.faithful.2]]<</if>> <<if not hasVisited ("Ira.HP")>>[[Change the subject. "What are you reading?"|Ira.HP][$Ira +=1, $Charming +=2]]<<else>>[[Change the subject. "What are you reading?"|Ira.HP]]<</if>> <<if not hasVisited ("Ira.GB")>>[['"Will you tell me about the God Beneath?"'|Ira.GB]]<<else>>[['"Will you tell me about the God Beneath?"'|Ira.GB]]<</if>> <<if hasVisited ("Ira.GB") and not hasVisited ("4.ira.tunnels")>>[[Something about it wants to make you spill secrets. Tell them about the tunnels.|4.ira.tunnels]]<</if>> <<if hasVisited ("Ira.HP") and hasVisited ("4.ira.tunnels")>>[[Continue.|4.Ira.2]]<</if>> <</if>>

"She's the one that told me about the Faithful." A shadow passes over Ira's face as they turn, angling themselves away from you just slightly. "I'm sure she did. But I meant it when I said I don't want to talk about that. Please, $Name, ask me anything else." <<if hasVisited ("Ira.GB") and not hasVisited ("4.ira.tunnels")>>[[ Anything else? Tell them about the tunnels.|4.ira.tunnels]] <<else>> [['"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you."'][$Ira +=2, $Sarcastic -=2]] [['"What are you so afraid of?"'][$Ira -=3, $Bold +=2]] <<if not hasVisited ("Ira.HP")>>[[Change the subject. "What are you reading?"|Ira.HP][$Ira +=1]]<</if>><</if>>

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you." "Thank you," they say, gaze softening again as the tension melts slightly, but not completly. "Some things are just better off going undiscussed." "Understood." <<if not hasVisited ("Ira.HP")>>[[Change the subject. "What are you reading?"|Ira.HP][$Ira +=1, $Charming +=2]]<<else>>[[Continue.|4.Ira.2]]<</if>>

"What are you so afraid of?" Ira's expression turns sharp, and a little sour, the flicker of a storm in their eyes. "A forbidden cult within the faction that rules the world? A faction that //I// work for? Of //course// I'm afraid of that, $Name, and I don't appreciate you treating it so flippantly. I could lose my priesthood at the very least." [['"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you."'][$Ira +=1, $Sarcastic -=1]] [['"You shouldn't let them control you like that."'][$Ira -=3, $FoughtIra to true]]

You gesture at the heavy book in their arms. Its cover is faded and bindings loose, the once-painted title worn beyond readability at this angle. It's seen many pairs of hands turn its pages, some lovingly, others less so, judging by the slight tatter along the edge. "Oh, this?" they say, glancing at it like they'd forgotten they were holding it. "It's about the Divine Theatre. I'll finally be able to go to the Acropolis ritual this High Holy Day. I haven't been since I was a child, before the renovations, so I was reading up on the history and the architecture. Did you know there used to be a thirty foot tall mirror built into the wall behind the altar? I could never see it through the crowds when I was little. A senior priestess would paint runes on it every year with gold leaf and lapis lazuli- can you imagine? It shattered a few years ago, when the High Priestess left, and no one knew how to replace it. It's a mosaic of glass and tile now, apparently. //Oh//-" Ira stops, looking a little sheepish, and laughs. "I'm sorry, I'm rambling again. It's lovely, though. The Theatre, I mean. I wish I could stay there for hours." [['"What was that about the High Priestess?"']] [['"How did you say all that without breathing?"'][$Charming +=1]]

<<if $Sanity lt 50>>"I thought her name was Jacqueline."<<else>>"I thought her name was different. J-something."<</if>> "You're thinking of Jacqueline Alavet, her sister." Ira says with a nod. "Jacqueline's the acting High Priestess now, but she's really a Handmaiden. High Priestess Yve left years ago." Left? How the hell does a High Priestess //leave//? You put the question to Ira, who trails their fingertips over the cloth of the book they're holding. "I imagine it's a very long story, but the Acropolis hasn't shared it, even with the rest of the Religious. She destroyed part of the Divine Theatre on a holy day, then fled the country. A lot of people died, even some Saints." "Why the hell would she do that?" "The Acropolis says Yve was a traitor, other people say she was just insane. Though they think that of most priestesses," they add with a wry shrug. "She was excommunicated afterwards, and no one's seen her since." You've heard of excommunication. Frantic whispers, mostly; there's never been an official description of what it entails. Rumors propose everything from exile to soul-theft to being eaten alive by angels. You asked Val once or twice, but $vthey only shuddered and told you to think of better things. All you know for certain is that it's worse than a death sentence, and that no one ever comes back. [['"Why haven't they named a new High Priestess?"']] [['"And what do you think?"'][$Ira +=1]]

"They can't, as far as I know. It's impossible." replies Ira, voice soft. "There can only be one at a time, and Her Royal Holiness will be the High Priestess until the day she dies. Which means she's still alive somewhere, I suppose." "That doesn't sound like a great system," you reply. Your thoughts churn. The inability to //unname// someone holy is a daunting prospect. <<if $Sanity lte 50>>And how does a world function without its High Priestess, anyway? If what you've been told is true, the City would simply go to pieces without the Religious, and surely that applies to the living embodiment of divinity that they call Most Holy.<<else>>And the political implications are wild. Even a king can step down or be declared legally dead. But not a High Priestess, it seems.<</if>> "Maybe not, but it's the way things are. Most Holy is //everything//, the rest of us priestesses are just support. We haven't fallen into the sea yet, so I suppose Jacqueline must be able to perform most of the Priestess' duties well enough. But it hasn't been the same since she left." "In what way?" They shrug, eyes trained on something in the distance through the arches, just over your shoulder. "People trust the Acropolis a lot less, now, and the rest of the Religious by extention. There aren't as many holy day rituals, and you rarely see the High Priest or the Handmaidens anymore. He visited my theatre, once, the High Priest. He was so lovely and kind, but... I could tell he was tired. Very, very tired." [['"Have you met the Priest's Hand?"']] <<if not hasVisited ("Ira.GB")>>[['"Will you tell me more about the God Beneath?"'|Ira.GB]]<<else>>[['"Will you tell me more about the God Beneath?"'|Ira.GB]]<</if>> <<if not hasVisited ("4.ira.kat")>>[['"Do you know a priestess named Kat?"'|4.ira.kat]]<<else>>[['"Do you know a priestess named Kat?"'|4.ira.kat]]<</if>> <<if hasVisited ("Ira.GB") and hasVisited ("4.ira.kat")>>[[Continue.|4.Ira.2]]<</if>>

"I think divinity does strange things to a person," the priestess answers, their expression as grave as you've ever seen it. "Brings parts of you to life that shouldn't be, and deadens the rest. Maybe that counts as being insane, I don't know." "But you don't think she was a traitor?" "How could she be? She's the High Priestess, //Most// Holy. And what's holy can't betray you. Though it hasn't been the same since she left." <<if $Sanity gte 45>>Chilling words, especially from someone as devout as Ira seems to be. You can only wonder at what lengths they would go to for what they think is holy.<<else>>Any alarm such devout words should bring you is lost beyond a wall of haze, and you can't bring yourself to disagree. It's a fearful truth, but your heart tells you Ira is right.<</if>> "How have things changed?" They shrug, eyes trained on something in the distance, just over your shoulder. "People trust the Acropolis a lot less, now, and the rest of the Religious by extention. There aren't as many holy day rituals, and you rarely see the High Priest or the Handmaidens anymore. He visited my theatre, once, the High Priest. He was so lovely and kind, but... I could tell he was tired. Very, very tired." [['"Have you met the Priest's Hand?"']] <<if not hasVisited ("Ira.GB")>>[['"Will you tell me more about the God Beneath?"'|Ira.GB]]<<else>>[['"Will you tell me more about the God Beneath?"'|Ira.GB]]<</if>> <<if not hasVisited ("4.ira.kat")>>[['"Do you know a priestess named Kat?"'|4.ira.kat]]<<else>>[['"Do you know a priestess named Kat?"'|4.ira.kat]]<</if>> <<if hasVisited ("Ira.GB") and hasVisited ("4.ira.kat")>>[[Continue.|4.Ira.2]]<</if>>

"How did you say all that without breathing?" you ask, a little mystified, a little teasing. A light pink colors Ira's cheeks, and they snort, eyes half closed. "Practice," they say with a smile. "My mother says she doesn't know what my first words were because I simply never shut up. You can cut me off though, if you need to. I don't mind." [[Match their smile. "I would never."][$Charming +=2, $Ira +=3]] [["Why would I ever do that?" ♡][$IraFlirt +=1, $Ira +=3, $Bold +=2]] [['"What was that about the High Priestess?"']]

<<set $IraKnows to false>>"No, I'm..." you search for the right words. "Not from around here." Ira processes the information with a small frown, then runs their tongue along the edge of their teeth before continuing. "Well, you've heard of the High Priestess, Her Royal Holiness Yve Alavet, I'm sure?" That's not right, is it? The High Priestess isn't named Yve. [[Continue.|4.yve.ira]]

<<set $IraKnows to true>>"I have amnesia, actually," you say simply. Ira blinks in surprise before breathing a small laugh. "Oh, //okay//," they reply, the absurdity of it all brightening their eyes. "That's interesting. Well, um. Sorry, is it rude if I ask?" You wouldn't have mentioned it if you weren't prepared to explain. "I sort of...showed up five years ago. You remember Val, the $vperson who was with me when we met? $vThey took me in, and I don't remember anything before that." "Uh, right, Val... the nervous one?" says Ira, and you nearly laugh. //Val, the nervous one.// "I remember. Five years ago, you said?" You nod. "Well, that's ironic, really. The High Priestess- what I was saying was- the High Priestess, Yve Alavet. It must have been //just// before your memories, then, if you don't remember. It'd be hard to forget, otherwise. Or so I imagine." Wait, that isn't right, is it? The High Priestess isn't named Yve. [[Continue|4.yve.ira]]

"What was that about the High Priestess?" you ask, hoping you don't look too lost. "Oh, you know, when she-" Ira pauses, then cocks their head at you, a little furrow forming between their eyebrows. "Are you not from the Holy City? I thought everyone would know, even out in the country." You haven't the faintest idea what they could be referring to. [['"No, I'm... not from around here."']] <<if not hasVisited ("4.ira.tunnels")>>[['"I have amnesia, actually."']]<<else>>[["'Amnesia, remember?"]]<</if>>

The High Priest's Hand is an entirely foolish person to be thinking about, for any reason or another, but especially in a way that makes your face grow warm. Anyone in his position would be, but something about Klaus himself makes it seem like an even riskier gamble. It's a tool he would never let go of, and who knows what he could do with it- with //you.// Not that //that// particular thought helps, any. [[He needs a reason to smile.]] [[This is absolutely a competition and you're going to win.]] [[You will not give Klaus the satisfaction of liking him.]]

"I would //never//," you insist, beaming at them almost conspiratorially. "You're so kind to me, $Name, I could swoon," they reply, putting the back of their hand daintily to their forehead as if they would do just that. [['"You mentioned the High Priestess, earlier?"'|'"What was that about the High Priestess?"']]

"Why would I ever do that?" <<if $IraCrush is "shy">>The words fall from you softly, sincere and genuine. You don't know who's interrupted Ira in the past or told they them talk too much, but it hurts your heart to think about. Their keen eyes go wide for a moment before settling smoothly back into a satisfied half-lid as their tongue darts between their lips, a tiny motion that is suddenly capitalizing on your entire headspace. "What a lovely thing to say, $Name," Ira replies, their voice a soothing balm. "Not everyone is as welcoming of my ramblings as you are. It's a nice change of pace." "I wouldn't call them ramblings," you nearly mumble; their attention is making your mind fog up. "I like hearing you talk. You're very smart." You shuffle your feet and grasp for a distraction.<</if>> \ \<<if $IraCrush is "bold">>The words come slowly, like sweet syrup. You don't know who's interrupted Ira in the past or told them they talk too much, but you're going to far outshine them. Their keen eyes go wide for a moment before settling smoothly back into a satisfied half-lid as their tongue darts between their lips, a tiny motion that you can't help but lock onto. And you don't mind if they notice. "What a lovely thing to say, $Name," Ira replies, their rich tone matching yours. "Not everyone is as welcoming of my ramblings as you are. It's a nice change of pace." "I wouldn't call them ramblings," you smile. "But I woudn't stop you even if they were. I like it when you talk. Speaking of which..."<</if>> \ \<<if $IraCrush is "denial">>The words fall from you softly, sincere and genuine. You don't know who's interrupted Ira in the past or told they them talk too much, but it hurts your heart to think about. Their keen eyes go wide for a moment before settling smoothly back into a satisfied half-lid as their tongue darts between their lips, a tiny motion that captures your full att- no, no it doesn't. You force yourself to look them in the eyes, like a normal person. "What a lovely thing to say, $Name," Ira replies, their voice a soothing balm. "Not everyone is as welcoming of my ramblings as you are. It's a nice change of pace." "I wouldn't call them ramblings," you manage, only stumbling a little; why can't you focus? "And I don't mind, anyway." You shuffle your feet and grasp for a distraction.<</if>> \ \<<if ndef $IraCrush>>The words fall from you softly, sincere and genuine. You don't know who's interrupted Ira in the past or told they them talk too much, but you'd like to have a word or two with them. Their keen eyes go wide for a moment before settling back into a content half-lid as their tongue darts between their lips playfully. "What a lovely thing to say, $Name," Ira replies, and you can tell they mean it. "Not everyone is as welcoming of my ramblings as you are. It's a nice change of pace." "I wouldn't call them ramblings. You just.... stuff a lot of information into a small space. Very quickly. Anyone who's rude about it is just too dumb to keep up. Speaking of which..."<</if>> [['"You mentioned the High Priestess, earlier?"'|'"What was that about the High Priestess?"']]

<<set $IraCrush to "bold">>It's been a while since you've met someone as gentle and unassuming as Ira seems to be. And smart, too- you don't doubt the priestess could more than hold their own in a battle of wits. Oh, to wind them up and watch them go. You've half a mind to crawl to your feet right now and hunt Ira down, tell them how lovely they are and how you'd work yourself to the bone to earn their favor. Would it fluster them? Or would their eyes light up? Or both? You're not sure which is more enticing. Something tells you Ira has long lacked someone in their corner; you wouldn't mind being the feral shadow over their shoulder that snaps at anyone more cruel than curious. You curl slightly, shifting further into your makeshift bed, and allow yourself to dwell in the warm haze for a few more moments. <<if $RO isnot "IraCon">>[[But there's another shadow in your thoughts, suspiciously Constantine-shaped.|Constantine.][$RO to "IraCon"]] <</if>>[[You need a distraction.]]

<<set $IraCrush to "denial">>You bite the inside of your cheek and mentally chastise yourself; Ira was kind to you, a near complete stranger, and here you are obsessing over the smallest of interactions. How pathetic can you be to be unravelled by simple politeness? Your thoughts threaten to turn dark, only tempered by the bright halo of silvery curls that lurk at the edge of your thoughts, and a priestess' smile that refuses to fade. <<if $bandage is "Ira">>Ira was so gentle with you and your ugly wound and your clumsy attempts to bandage it. Many priestesses are trained in first aid, so that's not even worth thinking about. It was simply their duty, and had nothing to do with you. Right?<<else>>If anything, you can simply befriend them. They seemed lonely, only too eager to share their interests and be earnestly listened to. Perhaps you can content yourself with that.<</if>> You force the light in your mind to shutter, pushing Ira to the shadows. <<if $RO isnot "IraCon">>[[But there's another shadow in your thoughts, suspiciously Constantine-shaped.|Constantine.][$RO to "IraCon"]] <</if>>[[You need a distraction.]]

<<set $IraCrush to "shy">>Even from just the few moments you've spent with them, you can tell that Ira has few half-hearted interests. They dive deep, turning everything in their mind and exploring every angle until they'd know it by touch alone. What if it was for //you//? The thought sends goosebumps dancing across your skin, making you want to bury your face in your pillow. There's no one here to see the pink in your cheeks, but it burns hot all the same. You remember Ira's smile as you asked them about their research, and you imagine it turned toward you and all your obscure little facets. And maybe you can pick them apart in return. The arcane history of the Religious is tough competition, but only one of you can love Ira back. Probably. You curl slightly, sliding farther into your makeshift bed, and wonder what parts of you can be more interesting than divinity itself. <<if $RO isnot "IraCon">>[[But there's another shadow in your thoughts, suspiciously Constantine-shaped.|Constantine.][$RO to "IraCon"]] <</if>>[[You need a distraction.]]

<<set $KatCrush to "bold">>Some part of you knows it's a trap and the spider lurks just around the corner. Kat certainly //wants// something, and it probably isn't to make new friends or lovers. Well, you won't let that stop you. Kat's been asking around about you, maybe even following you. It makes your breath stutter, and only half in trepidation. She'll probably make you cry, but maybe you'd thank her. Maybe you'd weep her an entire ocean if she asked, salt and tidal waves all. Maybe she'd paint your nails. You groan in frustration, roll onto your side, and force yourself to tamp down those thoughts and lock them away in a dark little box. The texture of the rug is pressing into your exposed skin; you're going to have livid red marks across your arms later. [[You need a distraction.]]

<<set $KatCrush to "denial">>The prickles that pass through you are only a shudder; a completely natural reaction to someone whose stare looks like it can burn away your soul and a tongue so sharp it stings even when the words are sweet. You're mixing up your emotions again, you idiot. Shouldn't you know better than this by now? Fear and infatuation are not the same thing, even if they might be different kinds of obsession. What? Obsession? Who said anything about anything so strong? Kat //unnerved// you. //Saints,// you have to calm down. You're not a teenager with a cru- no, don't even think the word. Besides, she was practically stalking you. You ought to distance yourself, if anything. You groan in frustration, roll onto your side, and force yourself to tamp down those thoughts and lock them away in a dark little box. The texture of the rug is pressing into your exposed skin; you're going to have livid red marks across your arms later. [[You need a distraction.]]

<<set $KatCrush to "sincere">>You have to wonder how much of Kat's disquieting behavior is an act meant to throw people off and confuse them into saying too much. She never did tell you what exactly she works for, but maybe her razor-edged grins were more defensive than anything else. Kat's confident, you can tell that much. Magnetically so. But //then what?// That she could be hollow is an impossible thought; there's far, far more beneath the surface. That smile isn't bait, it's a promise. Your mind whirls with possibilities. Once you've been reeled in, will she be soft and thoughtful? Or does the charisma go all the way down? Or is she something else entirely, that you could never hope to imagine? Well, you'll have to bite the hook to find out. You groan in frustration, roll onto your side, and force yourself to tamp down those thoughts and lock them away in a dark little box. The texture of the rug is pressing into your exposed skin; you're going to have livid red marks across your arms later. [[You need a distraction.]]

<<set $KlausCrush to "denial">>Absolutely not. This is what he wants- you can see it in the smug smile and the subtle condescension. Maybe it's not a direct intention, but you don't doubt the Handmaiden would use something like a crush against you. Not that you have one. You're too smart for that. Doubtless he knows exactly what effect he can have on people, but still never intends to follow through, instead stringing such fools along as long as he needs their loyalty. And in turn, you've no intention of falling prey to those dark, calculating eyes and wispy hair, even if it's undoubtably soft and would part easily under your fingers- For fuck's sake. You turn your mind to something softer, kinder. A faceless person whose words are gentle and warm, someone entirely un-Klaus. <<if $RO isnot "ValKlaus">>[[But of course Val has managed to weasel into even these thoughts.|Surely wanting more from Val is a sin.][$RO to "ValKlaus"]] <</if>>[[You need a distraction.]]

<<set $KlausCrush to "shy">>A nervous prickle runs across your skin as Klaus comes to mind. Even elite status aside, you know Klaus could grind you and your emotions into dust with little-to-no effort, just for the fun of it. You wouldn't call //gentleness// his first trait (or second, or third), but that doesn't mean it's his last. You haven't forgotten the dark circles under his eyes, or the tired way he chastised Val and Constantine for arguing. Not to mention that he could have sent you away for a lack of time or empathy; a Handmaiden has much bigger things to spend his time on. But he let you stay, and spent precious energy on soothing your burn. Does Klaus have happy distractions, you find yourself wondering. When was the last time the politics of the Religious wasn't the only thing on his mind? And to be trusted by Val of all people, who'd normally rather stab $vthemself in the foot than even look in the Acropolis' direction? That's no small feat, and gives you hope that you aren't entirely doomed. <<if $RO isnot "ValKlaus">>[[But of course Val has managed to weasel into even these thoughts.|Surely wanting more from Val is a sin.][$RO to "ValKlaus"]] <</if>>[[You need a distraction.]]

<<set $KlausCrush to "bold">>Klaus' pointed smile is a game of chicken, and you'll be damned if you balk first. <<if $AteFruit is true>>Stealing forbidden fruit from his garden was only the first move, even if you hadn't known yet that you were playing.<</if>> The Religious may not worship anything, but that doesn't mean you can't change that. Klaus seems dedicated to his vocation, but something tells you his devotion is still ripe for the taking. Maybe you can seduce him, or just bother him to death. The possibilities are endless. The only requirement: let him think he's got the upper hand, got you wrapped around his fingers. Nevermind if you are, a little bit. The point is to push back; it'll be fun, you think, to rebel against a Handmaiden. You don't doubt he'll make it complicated, but you've always been good at chess. The clock started the moment Val led you to the Acropolis. <<if $RO isnot "ValKlaus">>[[But of course Val has managed to weasel into even these thoughts.|Surely wanting more from Val is a sin.][$RO to "ValKlaus"]] <</if>>[[You need a distraction.]]

"You shouldn't let them control you like that," you say firmly. Religion or not, this is strange. Concerning, even. Ira gives you a chill look, returning their hat to their head and gathering their belongings close to their chest. "You aren't listening to me, $Name, and you're being rude. Maybe we can continue this conversation again when you've learned better. Enjoy your tea." The priestess rises from the stone bench and picks up their mug before tossing its contents into the nearest patch of dirt. They frown at you one last time before leaving the small yard and disappearing into the theatre, the heavy wooden door firmly closed behind them. Well. You finally take a sip of the warm red tea. It's rich and fruity, and just sweet enough for you to appreciate its tartness. The warmth seeps through your hands, but you swallow too much too fast and it burns, scraping down your throat. You cough, your eyes watering, then finish the rest in one scalding swig. You leave the empty mug on your seat and exit the cloister, back into the windy streets. [[You need a new plan.]]

"I was a few days outside the City, transporting a relic found out in the country. It was //supposed// to be kept quiet, but apparently word reached someone with enough money to hire mercenaries. I only had a handful of the Blessed Guard with me, and none of us were in uniform, so I'm sure Val had no idea what $vthey $vwere getting into. $vThey managed to sneak into camp. $vThey did not make it back out." "You caught $vthem?" "In my tent. First $vthey tried to flirt $vtheir way out, then fight, neither of which went well, though I'll admit $vthey did get a few hits in." Klaus pushes his collar aside to reveal a thin, ragged scar across his neck. It's a sloppy thing, not what you'd expect from Val, who's usually so neat with $vtheir knifework. "$vThey surrendered the second $vthey realized I was halfway through calling an angel." Klaus drops his collar and focuses on you, brow heavy and gaze angled. "Said $vthey would do anything, tell me everything, if I kept //those things// away from $vthem." That's //also// unlike Val. $vThey would do a lot of things for money, and even more for survival, but $vtheir reputation as a mercenary would go up in smoke if $vthey ratted out $vtheir employer, especially if it was to the Acropolis. Your skepticism must be plain on your face, because Klaus huffs a laugh. "No, I didn't believe $vthem, either," he continues. "So I gave $vthem the relic. $vTheir first job was to fulfill their contract, then steal it back." Which would preserve Val's reputation, and get Klaus the name of the buyer. Smart, you suppose. It still doesn't sit right. "That would have been months ago. What are $vthey still doing here?" you ask, only half to Klaus. He peers at you. "I offered, $vthey stayed. //Why//, you'd have to ask $vthem yourself." He pauses again, seemingly assessing something. "You care a lot about Val, don't you?" It's not entirely a question. [['"I don't exist without Val."'][$Val +=2, $Klaus +=1, $Sarcastic -=2]] [['"Val saved my life; it's only deserved."'][$Val +=1, $Charming -=2]] [['"I'm just asking questions. Don't read into it."'][$Klaus -=1, $Charming -=2]]

The fig is as rich and delicious as you remember, leaving a thick, syrupy taste on your lips and a reddish stain on your fingertips. You finish it in three bites, unable to force yourself to make it last any longer, and suck the final droplets of juice from your thumb. Klaus watches with a faintly-amused expression from the first bite to the last. "If you're done making a mess," he says, returning once again to his dryer self. "Did you actually want something?" [['"I've got some questions, actually."'|4.klaus.2]]

You pivot and throw the fig out the nearest window with all your might, and Klaus laughs again as it sails away into the gardens below. When you turn back to the priest, you think you see a sparkle of genuine joy at your reaction. His smile is brighter than you expected, despite the dark circles under his eyes. "If you're done making a mess," he says, returning once again to his dryer self. "Did you actually want something?" [['"I've got some questions, actually."'|4.klaus.2]]

<<set $IraTunnels to true>>"Ira, I've been down there," you say, perhaps a little too quickly and before you can stop to think about it. "In the tunnels beneath the city." There's a shift in the air, like the wind changes direction by a fraction of a degree, almost whistling through the arches of the cloister. Ira's eyes widen and they lean closer. "What? How?" There's something in their voice, the way one hand is suddenly threaded through the buttonholes of their coat, a flicker you can't quite name. A breeze rushes past, making you shiver; Ira does not. "It's sort of a long story," you say, feeling a sudden need to retreat from the cold. "And I don't know, really. Waking up down there is the oldest memory I have." Gentle concern creeps into Ira's expression, bringing you an inexplicable relief as whatever emotion came before slowly fades. Their gray eyes glance over you, as if they'll find mud on your boots and bruises from the narrow tunnels. "It was five years ago," you offer, and Ira relaxes slightly. "You remember Val, the $vperson who was with me when we met? $vThey took me in, and I don't remember anything before that." "Uh, right, Val... the nervous one?" says Ira, and you nearly laugh, but contain it to a nod. //Val, the nervous one.// "And you don't know anything? How you got there, where you came from before?" [[You shake your head.]] [[Mention the strange dreams.]]

"I don't exist without Val," you say. You can't even pretend to lie about that. You almost expect a scathing comment, or even a light teasing, but Klaus just nods thoughtfully, as if it was an obvious statement and he suspected all along. Silence falls, and after a moment you realize it's up to you to fill it. <<if not hasVisited ("4.klaus.3")>>[['"So what do you really do as a Handmaiden?"'|4.klaus.3]]<<else>>[['"So what do you really do as a Handmaiden?"'|4.klaus.3]]<</if>> <<if not hasVisited ("4.klaus.gb")>>[['"I need to know more about the God Beneath."'|4.klaus.gb]]<<else>>[['"I need to know more about the God Beneath."'|4.klaus.gb]]<</if>> <<if hasVisited ("4.klaus.3") and hasVisited ("4.klaus.gb")>>[['"Kat told me about a cult."']]<</if>>

"Val saved my life," you say solemnly. "It's only deserved." Klaus nods, inclining his head. "Fair enough," he says, voice even and distant. Silence falls, and after a moment you realize it's up to you to fill it. <<if not hasVisited ("4.klaus.3")>>[['"So what do you really do as a Handmaiden?"'|4.klaus.3]]<<else>>[['"So what do you really do as a Handmaiden?"'|4.klaus.3]]<</if>> <<if not hasVisited ("4.klaus.gb")>>[['"I need to know more about the God Beneath."'|4.klaus.gb]]<<else>>[['"I need to know more about the God Beneath."'|4.klaus.gb]]<</if>> <<if hasVisited ("4.klaus.3") and hasVisited ("4.klaus.gb")>>[['"Kat told me about a cult."']]<</if>>

"I'm just asking questions. Don't read into it." Your tone is not unlike the scathing comments Klaus himself has made over the smallest things, so his stern frown comes as a surprise. He says nothing, only looks at you with that reproachful gaze. Silence falls, and after a moment you realize it's up to you to fill it. <<if not hasVisited ("4.klaus.3")>>[['"So what do you really do as a Handmaiden?"'|4.klaus.3]]<<else>>[['"So what do you really do as a Handmaiden?"'|4.klaus.3]]<</if>> <<if not hasVisited ("4.klaus.gb")>>[['"I need to know more about the God Beneath."'|4.klaus.gb]]<<else>>[['"I need to know more about the God Beneath."'|4.klaus.gb]]<</if>> <<if hasVisited ("4.klaus.3") and hasVisited ("4.klaus.gb")>>[['"Kat told me about a cult."']]<</if>>

Suddenly, Ira snaps their fingers. "Frostbite!" they exclaim. "Maybe it's like frostbite." They seem to have a habit of not saying the first half of their thoughts out loud. "What is?" "The bite- or the burn, whichever. Your arm." Ira leans toward you and takes your limb in one hand once again, peering closely at the discoloration. "I know you're not a $priestess, but have you ever been annointed? It innoculates you against Magical rot, like a vaccine. But it could have been done improperly, or more likely, direct contact from an angel just overpowered it. Or you could always have the genetic immunity, I suppose, and maybe it's not foolproof. Are you the lost child of a noble house, by any chance?" You're almost positive the last part was a joke, but in all fairness, you //don't// know. Maybe you //were// a $priestess; maybe you //were// annointed. Maybe you're one of the lucky few with that precious DNA. Either way, there's one thing you know: Magic has never made you ill. [[Shake your head. "Not that I know of."]] [['"I can use Magic just fine."']]

<<set $IraKnows to true>>You tap the side of your head. "Amnesia, remember?" Ira blinks, then laughs, shoulders shrunken apologetically. "Right, of course, that was a silly question. Five years ago, you said?" You nod. "Well, that's ironic, really. The High Priestess- what I was saying was- the High Priestess, Yve Alavet. It must have been //just// before your memories, then, if you don't remember. It'd be hard to forget, otherwise." Wait, that isn't right, is it? The High Priestess isn't named Yve. [[Continue|4.yve.ira]]

You only shake your head; you may be willing to tell Ira some things, but not all. Not yet. "Well," they say with a chuckle, "That really narrows it down, doesn't it? How about the tunnels themselves? Do you remember anything about that? Were they cave-like or more man-made? Were there... rats or anything?" "It was too dark to see much of anything." Dark, and winding, and endless, and mind-numbing. Silent, completely silent. And cold. You suppress a shudder and take a moment to savor the sunlight on your skin. "That's okay, it's probably not important. I was just curious." [[Their eyes fall to your bandages.|4.ira.arm]]

"I don't have memories," you explain, "but I do have dreams. Recently, anyway. They feel real, but I know they can't be; I'm never myself, always someone else. Some//thing// else." Ira brings one thumbnail to their lips, biting down on it absently. "What do you dream of? If you don't mind sharing." You recount your dreams and visions for Ira, including anything that seems relevant, if perhaps toning down some of the intensity. The out-of-body sensation you felt while falling asleep after dinner with Val is much harder to describe, and you find your tongue stumbling to find apt metaphors. Ira listens closely, nodding along thoughtfully and never interrupting<<if hasVisited ("And what a moth you are.")>>, until you reach the sword-wielding figure in the chapel, circled by black hounds. "//Hounds//," echoes Ira, their focus suddenly different, their shoulders set. The fingers of their right hand curl around the opposite forearm, light but tense. [['"Does that mean something to you?"']] \<<else>>. When you finish, Ira continues to stare into the middle distance, thoughts practically playing across the inside of their irises. After a thick silence, their attention finally turns back to you. [[Their eyes fall to your bandages.|4.ira.arm]]<</if>>

<<if $bandage is "Ira">>"Can I see your arm again, $Name? If you don't mind?" You agree almost without thought, and stretch out your forearm to their waiting hands, so they can deftly unwind the bandage they'd tied just days before. <<else>>They point politely to your bandaged arm. "Is that from the angel? Could I see the wound, if you don't mind?" You agree almost without thought, and stretch out your forearm to their waiting hands. They deftly unwind the bandage with nimble fingers.<</if>> It comes away easily, the burn having apparently healed well. There's a pale, misshapen scar across your wrist with jagged, puckered edges, but it seems clean and you feel no pain even when Ira's fingers lightly brush the surface of the scar tissue. The esoteric markings, however, are as dark and clear as ever, still a winding forest of lines and circles that marr your skin. Ira traces one with the edge of a fingernail, summoning goosebumps and a shudder to the surface. <<if $RO is "Ira" or $RO is "IraCon">> You can only hope your reaction hasn't made it to your cheeks. <</if>> "I've seen designs like these before," they say, following a line like it's the path through a maze. "But I don't know where. A book somewhere in the libraries, probably. It seems more like a pattern than anything else." Their eyes trail down past your wrist to your palm and fingers, and that bizarre, lifeless ash tone that's slowly eating up the warmest hues of your $skin_color skin. "//This// is even stranger, though," Ira continues. "It's like you're becoming a marble statue, or an artist left you half colored-in. So," they say, meeting your eyes. "Are you unfinished or turning into something?" Are they //trying// to give you an existential crisis? Your eyes must have glazed over, because Ira laughs. "I'm sorry, that was an intense question for this early in the week. We can talk about something else, if you'd like." <<if hasVisited ("Ira.HP") and hasVisited ("4.ira.kat")>>[[Actually, you're stuck on this now.|4.ira.2a]]<</if>> <<if not hasVisited ("Ira.GB")>>[['"Will you tell me more about the God Beneath?"'|Ira.GB]]<<else>>[['"Will you tell me more about the God Beneath?"'|Ira.GB]]<</if>> <<if not hasVisited ("Ira.HP")>>[["What are you reading?"|Ira.HP][$Ira +=1, $Charming +=2]]<<else>>[["What are you reading?"|Ira.HP]]<</if>> <<if not hasVisited ("4.ira.kat")>>[['"Do you know a priestess named Kat?"'|4.ira.kat]]<<else>>[['"Do you know a priestess named Kat?"'|4.ira.kat]]<</if>>

"Have you met the Priest's Hand?" They reply with a simple shake of their head, curls swishing. "Klaus Kirkhall? No, I haven't. I haven't heard much about him at all, really, though I suppose no news is good news when it comes to Handmaidens. Business with them usually means someone's in trouble. Why do you ask?" "No reason," you reply, remembering Klaus' stern warning to Val to not share anything else. "I was just curious." Ira smiles. "Nothing wrong with curiousity, though that's one of the more dangerous ones, I imagine." <<if not hasVisited ("Ira.GB")>>[['"Will you tell me more about the God Beneath?"'|Ira.GB]]<<else>>[['"Will you tell me more about the God Beneath?"'|Ira.GB]]<</if>> <<if not hasVisited ("4.ira.kat")>>[['"Do you know a priestess named Kat?"'|4.ira.kat]]<<else>>[['"Do you know a priestess named Kat?"'|4.ira.kat]]<</if>> <<if hasVisited ("Ira.GB") and hasVisited ("4.ira.kat")>>[[Continue.|4.Ira.2]]<</if>>

"Does that mean something to you?" Your question seems to rouse Ira from the daydream they were stuck in. They blink, almost surprised, then drop their hand, burying it deep in the pockets of their coat while the other tightens around their book. "No," they say, nudging at a pebble with their foot. "I mean, yes, there's lots of symbolism involving dogs. Fidelity and loyalty on the one hand, animalism and violence on the other. Sometimes they're an omen of death. In literature and art, anyway, I haven't seen many dogs mentioned in Religious writings. Though-" Ira pauses again, and looks back at you, trepidation tensing their face. "People say demons remind them of dogs. Bloodhounds, or wolves sometimes. But..." they trail off, and with a shiver, shrug off whatever cloud had possessed them. [[Their eyes fall to your bandages.|4.ira.arm]]

You busy yourself looking at the central tree growing in the yard, now bereft of its leaves. The bark is chunky and rough, with an odd grayish tint, but is otherwise unremarkable. Ira returns barely a moment later, carrying two identical mugs of steaming hot tea. You can only assume they must have already had a whole pot brewed to have produced it so quickly. They nod to the tree and smile. "It's a little knobbly now, but it's lovely in the spring. Has these adorable white flowers." They extend your mug, and you take it in two hands, immediately grateful for the warmth it sends seeping through your skin. The tea inside is deep red and fruity-smelling. Something tells you it's too hot to drink just yet, so you just hold it, letting the steam curl across your chin. "It's hibiscus tea," Ira explains. "My favorite. It doesn't grow around here, so I have to wait for the riverboats to come in every season. I have a friend down there who picks it up for me straight from the dock." They drop their hat to the ground and pull their books into their lap, gesturing for you to sit next to them on the bench. [["I was hoping to ask you some questions," you say, taking your seat.|4.Ira.1]]

These black hats are a signature look of the Religious, something that no one else would wear without the intent of appearing pious. They're always wide enough to obscure the wearer's face, the effect being that a priestess can only be looked at face-on, where she can gaze back just as thoroughly as you look at her. Between the hats and their featureless black coats, the Religious have always appeared to you as a writhing mass of crows, each indistinguishable from another. And perhaps that's how they like it. Upon touching Ira's hat, the first thing you notice is that it's softer than it looks, but still stiff, like an inky black halo. There's a slight texture to it, felted wool, most likely, though the inside is something smoother and sleeker. It's light, but thick, and probably goes a long way to shield them from the bitter cold. A loose strand of long, twisting blonde hair is stuck to the inside, caught on the snags of felt. You pluck it loose and release it, watching it sail away into the wind, a part of Ira that will always exist here in this garden. Ira themself returns a moment later, carrying two identical mugs of steaming hot tea. They see their hat in your hands and smile. "Do you like it? I've always liked the hats, makes me feel like a real priestess. Sometimes I wish we could decorate them; a little brooch on the band, or a delicate chain across the brim. It would be fun. Here-" They extend your mug, and you take it in two hands, immediately grateful for the warmth it sends seeping through your skin. The tea inside is deep red and fruity-smelling. Something tells you it's too hot to drink just yet, so you just hold it, letting the steam curl across your chin. "It's hibiscus tea," Ira explains. "My favorite. It doesn't grow around here, so I have to wait for the riverboats to come in every season. I have a friend down there who picks it up for me straight from the dock." They drop their hat to the ground and pull their books into their lap, gesturing for you to sit next to them on the bench. [["I was hoping to ask you some questions," you say, taking your seat.|4.Ira.1]]

The building sits oddly quiet, stony, and you can't help but be reminded of a carcass, the yawning cavern of a ribcage made petrified over centuries of neglect. How you missed it before is baffling: this theatre is well and truly abandoned, devoid of even the buzz of ambient Magic. A chalky scorch mark stains the front staircase, and the wide wooden doors still hang open. Only darkness lies beyond. You peek at Ira to see if their thoughts echo yours, and find them with a glazed look in their eye, staring at the theatre like they wish they could see straight through it. Their frown is tight. The bleak wind plays at the tips of their curls, and you catch them shudder. Behind you, Constantine makes a discontented noise. "Of course it'd be something as horrifying as this," $che complains. You glance back and see that while $chis arms are crossed in indifference, $chis eyes scan the building hawkishly. [['"Have you been here before?"'|4.i.con have you been]] [['"We can hold hands if you're scared."' ♡|4.I.Con hold hands][$ConFlirt +=1]] [['"I didn't realize how bad it was."'|4.i.con i didnt realize]]

"Have you been here before?" you ask Constantine. "I haven't been inside, no," $che replies, eyeing the building's corners and eaves and archways. "I've walked past, seen it from a distance. It's been empty as long as I can remember. Can't blame them for giving up on this one." Interesting choice of words. "Them? Aren't you one of //them//?" you ask. "It's been empty for a long time," interjects Ira, covering for Constantine's silence as $che vanishes into the darkness beyond the double doorway. "When I was little, my sisters always said it was haunted." [['"You have sisters?"'|4.i.con sisters][$Ira +=2]] [['"Do you believe in ghosts?"'|4.i.con ghosts][$Ira +=1]] [['"Why is it empty?"'|4.i.con empty]]

You give Constantine your least predatory smile. "We can hold hands if you're scared." $cHe doesn't humor you with a response beyond a withering, dead-eyed glare, and instead pushes past you towards the dilapidated theatre. "Is that a no on the hand holding, then?" you call, a faint grin gracing your features. Constantine remains silent, and vanishes into the darkness beyond the double doorway. "It's been empty for a long time," interjects Ira. "When I was little, my sisters always said it was haunted." [['"You have sisters?"'|4.i.con sisters][$Ira +=2]] [['"Do you believe in ghosts?"'|4.i.con ghosts][$Ira +=1]] [['"Why is it empty?"'|4.i.con empty]]

"It's worse than I remember," you admit, almost meekly. "Though to be fair, it was very dark last time, and I was busy being mauled by an angel." "Should have been busier." <<if $Charming gte 50>>You can't help the frown that errs on the pathetic side of a pout, though it's very much on purpose that you aim it at Constantine. $cHe regards your kicked-puppy eyes with an unimpressed flare of $chis nostrils, and shakes $chis head. <<else>>All you can manage in relatiation is a disgruntled scowl that would looks suspiciously at home on $chis own face.<</if>> $cHe remains silent, and vanishes into the darkness beyond the double doorway. "It's been empty for a long time," interjects Ira. "When I was little, my sisters always said it was haunted." [['"You have sisters?"'|4.i.con sisters][$Ira +=2]] [['"Do you believe in ghosts?"'|4.i.con ghosts][$Ira +=1]] [['"Why is it empty?"'|4.i.con empty]]

"You have sisters?" you ask, attempting to steer their attention from the grimness of the place. They nod. "Two- Ophelia and Manon. I'm the youngest." "Are they priestesses, too?" It takes Ira a beat to answer, and you swear you catch the ghost of a satisfied smile on their face. "No. Shall we go in?" With a final rallying breath, you steel yourself and follow Constantine into the gaping throat, Ira trailing your footsteps. $cHes nowhere to be seen in the interior hallway, though you can track $chis bootprints in the dust, leading down the corridor and through an archway to the right. If you remember correctly, that's the way to the main auditorium. "I'll follow your lead," Ira says softly. Their voice seems oddly at home in this old place. [[To the study.|4.I.Study]] [[Follow Constantine to the stage.|4.I.Con.Stage]]

"No," says Ira, distantly. "But I do believe in hauntings." With that encouraging thought, you steel yourself and follow Constantine into the gaping throat, Ira trailing your footsteps. $cHes nowhere to be seen in the interior hallway, though you can track $chis bootprints in the dust, leading down the corridor and through an archway to the right. If you remember correctly, that's the way to the main auditorium. "I'll follow your lead," Ira says softly. Their voice seems oddly at home in this old place. [[To the study.|4.I.Study]] [[Follow Constantine to the stage.|4.I.Con.Stage]]

They shrug, and pull their coat tighter around their shoulders. "I don't know. Structural damage, probably; that's usually what gets the old theatres. They survived the Collapse but the millenia of neglect is just too much. They're very hard to rebuild." "There were people inside last time I was here," you say distantly, thinking of the two priestesses who spotted you and Val and chased you right into the angel's arms. Though, now that you think about it, you're not sure they followed you past the first hallway. "Just paying their respects, probably, or searching for old documents or relics," explains the priestess. "You'd be surprised at the kinds of things you can find in a theatre basement that should have turned to dust centuries ago." With that in mind, you steel yourself and follow Constantine into the gaping throat, Ira trailing your footsteps. $cHes nowhere to be seen in the interior hallway, though you can track $chis bootprints in the dust, leading down the corridor and through an archway to the right. If you remember correctly, that's the way to the main auditorium. "I'll follow your lead," Ira says softly. Their voice seems oddly at home in this old place. [[Follow Constantine to the stage.|4.I.Con.Stage]] [[To the study.|4.I.Study]]

<<set $fourStage to true>>Following the trail of Constantine's footsteps takes you to the largest room of the theatre, as you suspected, depositing you in a cramped aisle between shattered wooden pews. It's almost as dark as you remember, only a narrow beam of light filtering through a broken patch of roof to light your way. An earthy must fills the air and puddles of dirty rainwater lap at your feet. You've barely a chance to register Constantine's bulky form before you and Ira are both pushed backwards into a tiny chapel and crowded against the walls. You start to protest, but are cut off by Ira's hand against your mouth. They look to Constantine, who inclines $chis head towards the open space beyond. A thin, oily smudge wanders the edges of the room, erratically pacing back and forth and back again seemingly without thought or hesitation, as if lost in some time loop. It carries only the suggestion of a head, shoulders, and limbs, and a shift of light for the eyes. If you weren't built to recognize patterns, it would never occur to you as humanoid. A primal anxiety knocks at your heart as the demon nears your perch. Its limbs all end in razor-sharp points, and while it has no mouth, you don't doubt it has teeth. You shrink back into your little alcove, waiting for it to notice you and unhinge its jaw. Constantine's arm is against your chest, simultaneously shielding you and barring your means of escape. It's close now, almost within reach, the air smelling of dust and ozone- And it pays you no mind. Heat seeps from your skin as it passes, muttering darkly under its breath. Its voice is like the roaring of the ocean, powerful and textured, but utterly incomprehensible even to you. More importantly, it either didn't notice you, or doesn't care. You breathe a sigh, lungs aching, and slowly, you feel Constantine relax. Ira's gasp of relief is but a puff of air. The demon moves away from you and across the stage in its strange trance, stopping and starting again at nothing at all, or something long extinct. "Can you control a demon?" you ask softly, eyeing the rosary looped through Constantine's belt. The creature may have moved away, but you doubt your luck. "Not as well as a priestess could," $che replies, finally dropping $chis arm and putting a few paces worth of space between you, though you don't miss the way $che continues to hover near Ira. "Especially not one as cracked as that. It's usually better to just leave them be." "Demons are tricky," Ira adds. Their gray eyes track the hazy beast as it ambles about the room like a sad puppet. "The best I can do is turn one away. At least this one is peaceful." [[You feel sorry for the poor creature.|4.i.con you feel sorry][$Sanity -=2]] [[It's a demon, there's nothing to pity.|4.i.con its a demon][$Sanity +=2]]

<<set $fourStudy to true>><<if $fourStage is true>><> <<if $fourtheatre is "Con">>You make your intentions to seek out the study once again, and Ira perks up immediately at the sound. Constantine nods, then grunts something about staying to watch the demon a little longer.<</if>> <<if $fourtheatre is "Kat">>You make your intentions to seek out the study once again, and Ira perks up immediately at the sound. Kat waves you off, saying something about wanting to explore the nooks and crannies of the stage a little better.<</if>> <<if $fourtheatre is "Val">>You make your intentions to seek out the study once again, and Ira perks up immediately at the sound. Val glances between you and the priestess, intrepidation evident on $vtheir face, though $vthey seem$vs to quickly come to a decision. $vThey nod$vs, and claim something about wanting to keep an eye on the wandering demon a little longer.<</if>><> <</if>>You make your way back to the study carefully, taking the long way 'round and finding it eerily easy to orient yourself to this strange, rotting building. Ira shadows you quietly, never once questioning your routes or reasoning. You find the correct hallway within minutes, even though most of the gas lamps are now flickering or dead; the wooden door is just as forbidding as it always was, and swings open quietly to allow you into the study. It's not as you left it. The room has been torn to shreds, its furnishings and contents tossed about like the whole thing was raised by the hand of God and upended onto itself. The bookshelves have been ripped from the wall, now lying in awkward, sharp piles, and their contents are strewn about, bindings shredded and pages in tatters. No matter how carefully you place your steps, broken glass crunches under your feet; not an inch of space is left intact. Someone was looking for something, and guessing by the rage with with they searched, they did not find it. You have a pretty good guess as to what; who knew that unassuming little book of hours was in such high demand? "Oh-" gasps Ira, though you're not sure if its surprise at the mess or a verbal cringe at the sight of so many ruined books. They step around you and into the room, and gingerly pluck a torn tome from the floor. It's small and plain, and the pages crinkle as Ira smoothes them with a delicate hand. "It wasn't me, I swear," you say emphatically, not wanting to risk Ira's sure wrath. But they barely spare you a glance. "No, I'm sure you'd never..." they reply, their voice trailing off as they reach out to right another stack. You could spend a few minutes in here, poking about and digging through the violated remains of the library, but you'll probably find more splinters than answers. Though... It's hard to see behind a fallen shelf, but the strange mirror set into the wall still remains. [[Second time's the charm.|4.i Second time's the charm.][$Sanity -=3]] [[Absolutely not.|4.i Absolutely not.][$Sanity +=3]]

<<set $fourStorage to true>>"I want to check out the chapel, actually," you say, pointing in its general direction. An inner sanctum may hold important mysteries. <<if $four is "Klaus">>"You two go ahead," says Ira, "I want to observe this demon a little longer."<<else>>"Go on ahead," says Klaus, "I'll catch up."<</if>> The chapel is near the edge of the theatre, a rounded blip attached to the shorter side of the building. The hall is long and dark, and the door heavy, though its hinges move without a sound. You step through, eyes quickly adjusting to the dim light, only to be immediately struck by a sense of deja vu; there's a familiarity to the chapel, as in many Religious places. There may be hundreds, thousands of theatres, but they're all one in the end. The room is barren and not much more than a closet, but an echo of past glory still remains- details in the smogged-out window panes, a scrap of blue paint still clinging to the vaulted ceiling. Instinct tells you there was once a vivid field of stars above your head, now lost to time and neglect. The floor is swept, clean stone, better cared for than much of the theatre. Which leaves you to wonder what could have possibly caused the dark stain smeared across the flagstones that made it so impossible to remove. It isn't blood, and it isn't ash, though a smoky smell does hang in the air. You could perhaps blame the trio of stunted candles or charred silver censer, but the tang is far closer to that of the demon in the next room. Constantine is the first to say it. "Something died here," $che states tonelessly. Something defensive and raw within you wants to argue, to deny it, but you know $ches right. "Another demon?" you ask, though it's not much of a question. And as if in answer, a prickle crawls up your neck; you glance over your shoulder, sure something will be watching you from the doorway. But there's nothing. Constantine gives you a strange look, eyes flicking to the empty space behind you, staring for a moment before frowning and turning back to the floor. "More importantly, someone's been here recently. There's not nearly enough dust, and-" $che kneels and presses a hand to the nearest candle. "The wax is still soft." [['"Why would someone kill a demon?"'|4.con.storage2]]

It continues to haunt the edges of the theatre hall, and you spend a moment wondering if it can think, and if it knows how dismal and limited its existence is. //A ghost following a lost path//, Klaus had said, and you can see it plainly now. No one has ever doubted the power of an angel or a demon, but nothing can be said for their freedoms. "I feel sorry for it," you all-but-whisper, following its movements warily. "Doomed to walk in circles for all eternity." Impotent. Abandoned. "I wish I knew how to put it to rest," Ira replies, and for a moment you imagine yourself opening your arms to the shadowy figure and drawing it into an embrace. It would be soft, you think, but staticy like the air before a storm. It would melt into your skin, hot on your tongue, the synapses of your brain alight- "What would that take?" you ask Ira. They simply shake their head. "I don't know, but I imagine it would help to know its purpose. Some ancient priestess told it to wander these halls, but why?" "The Religious have already spent a millennia trying to answer that question," Constantine interrupts. "I don't think you'll solve it today." Ira looks up at the $cman, having to tilt their head back almost comically to make eye contact. Their eyes narrow slightly, just a silver of pearly teeth visible through their smile. "Is that so?" they say, drawing out the syllables long enough to make sure Constantine is paying attention. And $che is. "I don't like our chances, then, since you said I was the smartest priestess you've ever met." Constantine stiffens, absolutely caught in Ira's gaze and, you think, a little too aware of your additional presence. $cHis chest rises and falls carefully. "I'm not ruling out tomorrow," $che finally answers, earning a pleased smile from Ira in return. <<if $RO is "Ira">>[[A jealous knife twists in your gut. ♡|4.jealous.ira][$IraFlirt +=1]]<</if>> \<<if $RO is "Con">>[[A jealous knife twists in your gut. ♡|4.jealous.con][$ConFlirt +=1]]<</if>> \<<if $RO is "IraCon">>[[A jealous knife twists in your gut, but you're not sure who's holding it. ♡|4.jealous.ic][$ConFlirt +=1, $IraFlirt +=1]]<</if>> [[Hold on. This is a new feeling. ♡|4.poly.ic][$IraFlirt +=1, $ConFlirt +=1]] [[Now wait a damn minute.|4.ic]] [[Well that's none of your business.|4.i.con.stage.2]]

You can't feel bad for a demon any more than you can a stream, or a gust of wind. It isn't alive; it's barely even a //thing//. Even the most devout would be hard-pressed to call a demon, or even an angel, more than an accident of particles caught together. "I wish I could know its purpose," says Ira, watching the shadow continue its sloppy march. "Some ancient priestess told it to wander these halls, but why?" "The Religious have already spent a millennia trying to answer that question," Constantine interrupts. "I don't think you'll solve it today." Ira looks up at the $cman, having to tilt their head back almost comically to make eye contact. Their eyes narrow slightly, just a silver of pearly teeth visible through their smile. "Is that so?" they say, drawing out the syllables long enough to make sure Constantine is paying attention. And $che is. "I don't like our chances, then, since you said I was the smartest priestess you've ever met." Constantine stiffens, absolutely caught in Ira's gaze and, you think, a little too aware of your additional presence. $cHis chest rises and falls carefully. "I'm not ruling out tomorrow," $che finally answers, earning a pleased smile from Ira in return. <<if $RO is "Ira">>[[A jealous knife twists in your gut. ♡|4.jealous.ira][$IraFlirt +=1]]<</if>> <<if $RO is "Con">>[[A jealous knife twists in your gut. ♡|4.jealous.con][$ConFlirt +=1]]<</if>> <<if $RO is "IraCon">>[[A jealous knife twists in your gut, but you're not sure who's holding it. ♡|4.jealous.ic][$ConFlirt +=1, $IraFlirt +=1]]<</if>> [[Hold on. This is a new feeling. ♡|4.poly.ic][$IraFlirt +=1, $ConFlirt +=1]] [[Now wait a damn minute.|4.ic]] [[Well that's none of your business.|4.i.con.stage.2]]

With some effort, you're able to pick your way across the wrecked room with minimal snagging, and arrive in front of the shelf blocking the mirror. It's made of a thick, sturdy wood that seems almost to be made of ages long past, the kind of thing that lasts generations and generations. Nigh immovable, heavy as fuck. It groans under your touch, making Ira finally look up. [[Plant your feet and push.|4.i plant your feet and push][$Charming -=2]] [[Magic will make this easy.|4.i magic will make][$Sanity -=1]] [[Ask Ira for help.|4.i ask ira for help][$Ira +=2]]

<<if hasVisited ("Place your hand on the glass.")>>Nothing particularly interesting happened last time, unless, of course- the thought now occurs to you - that your encounter with the angel may have been a product of your messing around with strange artifacts. Either way, you have something to lose. Best leave it be. \<<else>>You weren't tempted the first time and you won't be tempted a second. If the universe wants to trick you into something it's going to have to try at lot harder than that. You'd appreciate even a shred of an effort to disguise such a trap.<</if>> Instead, you turn to Ira, who is gingerly lifting books off the floor from amid the rubble and inspecting them for damage. Or, perhaps, for anything //not// damaged. The library has become nigh-on confetti. Hopefully nothing important was recorded here. Though if anyone could make sense of the mess, it would be the priestesss, Your first converstation with Ira comes back to mind, and their enthusiastic explanation of what you now know to be heresy. According to Klaus, anyway. Briefly you consider that Ira might not know, or that Klaus was lying, but you dismiss both ideas almost as quickly as they occur. Better to ask Ira outright. [['"Will you tell me more about the God Beneath?"'|4.i.gb]]

The building sits oddly quiet, stony, and you can't help but be reminded of a carcass, the yawning cavern of a ribcage made petrified over centuries of neglect. How you missed it before is baffling: this theatre is well and truly abandoned, devoid of even the buzz of ambient Magic. A chalky scorch mark stains the front staircase, and the wide wooden doors still hang open. Only darkness lies beyond. You peek at Klaus to see if his thoughts echo yours, and find him with a stern look on his face, staring at the theatre like he could demand it give up all its secrets. Behind you, Constantine makes a discontented noise. "Of course it'd be something as horrifying as this," $che complains. You glance back and see that while $chis arms are crossed in indifference, $chis eyes scan the building hawkishly. [['"Have you been here before?"'|4.k.con have you been here before]] [['"We can hold hands if you're scared."' ♡|4.k.con we can hold hands][$ConFlirt +=1]] [['"I didn't realize how bad it was."'|4.k.con i didnt realize how bad]]

"Have you been here before?" you ask Constantine. "I haven't been inside, no," $che replies, eyeing the building's corners and eaves and archways. "I've walked past, seen it from a distance. It's been empty as long as I can remember. Can't blame them for giving up on this one." Interesting choice of words. "Them? Aren't you one of //them//?" you ask. "Only when I'm paid to be," $che replies, earning a snort from Klaus. Without another word, Constantine marches forward and vanishes into the darkness beyond the double doorway. "The theatre's wards have failed," remarks Klaus. "The sanctifying ones at least, which probably means the structural ones have been neglected, too." He doesn't sound worried, his tone instead closer to scientific interest. [['"Is that safe?"'|4.k.con safe]] [['"Why would it be empty?"'|4.k.con empty]]

You give Constantine your least predatory smile. "We can hold hands if you're scared." $cHe doesn't humor you with a response beyond a withering, dead-eyed glare, and instead pushes past you towards the dilapidated theatre. "Is that a no on the hand holding, then?" you call, a faint grin gracing your features. Constantine remains silent, and vanishes into the darkness beyond the double doorway. "If $che throws you in the river, I'm not saving you," says Klaus dryly, though from the brightness in his eyes you know this isn't a real scolding. "The theatre's wards have failed," he continues with a sigh. "The sanctifying ones at least, which probably means the structural ones have been neglected, too." [['"Is that safe?"'|4.k.con safe]] [['"Why would it be empty?"'|4.k.con empty]]

"It's worse than I remember," you admit, almost meekly. "Though to be fair, it was very dark last time, and I was busy being mauled by an angel." "Should have been busier." <<if $Charming gte 50>>You can't help the frown that errs on the pathetic side of a pout, though it's very much on purpose that you aim it at Constantine. $cHe regards your kicked-puppy eyes with an unimpressed flare of $chis nostrils, and shakes $chis head. <<else>>All you can manage in relatiation is a disgruntled scowl that would looks suspiciously at home on $chis own face.<</if>> $cHe remains silent, and vanishes into the darkness beyond the double doorway. "The theatre's wards have failed," remarks Klaus. "The sanctifying ones at least, which probably means the structural ones have been neglected, too." He doesn't sound worried, his tone instead closer to scientific interest. [['"Is that safe?"'|4.k.con safe]] [['"Why would it be empty?"'|4.k.con empty]]

"Is that safe?" Your eyes scan over the great stone blocks of the building agian, imagining them shaking apart and collapsing, trapping you inside the once-holy ruin. "It's not safe at all," the priest replies," but we should be fine as long as there's no quakes. It's lasted this long, it can manage another hour." Reassuring. Leaving no room for your fears, Klaus climbs the steps and enters the theatre, leaving you alone in the cold, empty street. The air out here suddenly feels far more haunted than anything you could experience in a ruin, so you take a final rallying breath, and step into the gaping throat. Neither of your companions are anywhere to be seen in the interior hallway, though you can track their bootprints in the dust, one pair leading down the corridor to the study, and the other through an archway to the right. If you remember correctly, that's the way to the main auditorium. [[To the stage.|4.k.Con.Stage]] [[To the study.|4.k.Study]]

"Why would it be empty? Are there really enough theatres going around to just let some rot?" "There's more than you'd think," Klaus replies, his own gaze caught in the edges and corners of the great stone building. "But no, not really. Theatres are a finite resource. Dilapidation ought to be a sin." Leaving no room for your thoughts, Klaus climbs the steps and enters the theatre, leaving you alone in the cold, empty street. The air out here suddenly feels far more haunted than anything you could experience in a ruin, so you take a final rallying breath, and step into the gaping throat. Neither of your companions are anywhere to be seen in the interior hallway, though you can track their bootprints in the dust, one pair leading down the corridor to the study, and the other through an archway to the right. If you remember correctly, that's the way to the main auditorium. [[To the stage.|4.k.Con.Stage]] [[To the study.|4.k.Study]]

Wiggling yourself between the shelf and its neighbor, you plant your feet against the only bare spots of flooring you can find and brace your shoulder against the wood. You breathe in, bracing for the worst, and //shove//. And you stumble- either the shelf isn't nearly as heavy as you expected, or you're stronger than you thought. The bookshelf falls to the ground with an earth-shaking crash, tossing dust and splinters into the air like confetti. A painting across the room finally drops from its nail in response, crashing against the tiles. Ira's muffled gasp is barely audible over the cacophony, but their wide-eyed expression could be seen a mile away. "Be //careful//, $Name," they chide, rubbing dust from the corners of their eyes. "And quieter, if you don't mind. We're trying to not draw attention to ourselves, remember?" You ignore the remark in favor of gesturing at the now-revealed mirror. "It's one of those scrying things," you explain. "I noticed it last time I was here. There's something wrong with it, though." "You mean a dark mirror?" offers Ira, tilting their head just a fraction. "You're probably right, but it's not a normal one. It's so... simple." They step around what's left of the bookshelf and up to the mirror, crowding in the space beside you. They raise a finger, a strange glimmer gathering about their movements as they tap each corner of the mirror in turn; after a moment, it flares to life. And just as before, amid a soft, cerulean glow, is the outline of a hand. <<if hasVisited ("Place your hand on the glass.")>>And once again, it's perfectly sized to your own fingers and palm.<<else>>Your fingers line up perfectly; a strange thought flashes through your mind that it was made for you.<</if>> [[Something coils in your stomach like a snake.|4.i.mirror]]

You call over to Ira, running your fingers over the wood. It's splintered in places, but still seems mostly solid. "Can you move this?" you ask. "Magic it away?" "I suppose," they say, scanning it with a critical eye. "But why?" "There's something behind it that I saw last time I was here. One of those scrying things." "You mean a dark mirror?" offers Ira, tilting their head just a fraction. "This is an odd place for one to be, but-" They raise a hand and tap their fingers against the wood. With an audible creak, the material dissolves like sand and gathers in a pile at your feet, gritty and heavy. The mirror is revealed, just as dark and awkward-looking as you remember it. Ira makes an unconvinced noise and runs their hand over the surface. "Are you //sure//? I've never seen one so... simple." "There's something wrong with it," you admit, "maybe it's missing a piece." "They shouldn't have pieces to miss. I just mean it's not very ornate. Something as expensive as a dark mirror is usually all gilded and fancy." They flex their fingers, a strange glimmer gathering about their movements as they touch each corner of the mirror in turn; after a moment, it flares to life. And just as before, amid a soft, cerulean glow, is the outline of a hand. <<if hasVisited ("Place your hand on the glass.")>>And once again, it's perfectly sized to your own fingers and palm.<<else>>Your fingers line up perfectly; a strange thought flashes through your mind that it was made for you.<</if>> [[Something coils in your stomach like a snake.|4.i.mirror]]

You run your hand over the wood once more, feeling its knots and grooves, then will a spike of energy through your veins. Your fingers dig into the wood as if it was wet sand, and it crumbles just as easily, dissolving into thousands of grains of splintered wood that pile up around your feet. Maybe it's the theatre, but Magic is suddenly feeling easier than ever. You turn back to briefly catch Ira's curious frown, though you can't be sure what it's directed at. "It's one of those scrying things," you explain, gesturing at the now-revealed mirror. "I noticed it last time I was here. There's something wrong with it, though." "You mean a dark mirror?" offers Ira, tilting their head just a fraction. "You're probably right, but it's not a normal one. It's so... simple." They step around what's left of the bookshelf and up to the mirror, crowding in the space beside you. They raise a finger, a strange glimmer gathering about their movements as they tap each corner of the mirror in turn; after a moment, it flares to life. And just as before, amid a soft, cerulean glow, is the outline of a hand. <<if hasVisited ("Place your hand on the glass.")>>And once again, it's perfectly sized to your own fingers and palm.<<else>>Your fingers line up perfectly; a strange thought flashes through your mind that it was made for you.<</if>> [[Something coils in your stomach like a snake.|4.i.mirror]]

The building sits oddly quiet, stony, and you can't help but be reminded of a carcass, the yawning cavern of a ribcage made petrified over centuries of neglect. How you missed it before is baffling: this theatre is well and truly abandoned, devoid of even the buzz of ambient Magic. A chalky scorch mark stains the front staircase, and the wide wooden doors still hang open. Only darkness lies beyond. You peek at Ira to see if their thoughts echo yours, and find them with a glazed look in their eye, staring at the theatre like they wish they could see straight through it. Their frown is tight. The bleak wind plays at the tips of their curls, and you catch them shiver. It's like Val reads your mind. "//Fuck//," $vthey say$vs with a shudder. "Why is it more creepy in the daytime? Ugly fucking thing." "It's been empty for a long time," interjects Ira, tucking a lock of hair behind one ear. "When I was little, my sisters always said it was haunted." [['"You have sisters?"'|4.i.val sisters][$Ira +=2]] [['"Do you believe in ghosts?"'|4.i.val ghosts][$Ira +=1]] [['"Why is it empty?"'|4.i.val empty]]

"You have sisters?" you ask, attempting to steer their attention from the grimness of the place. They nod. "Two- Ophelia and Manon. I'm the youngest." "Are they priestesses, too?" It takes Ira a beat to answer, and you swear you catch the ghost of a satisfied smile on their face. "No. Shall we go in?" With a final rallying breath, you steel yourself and take the first step into the dark, gaping throat, your two companions not far behind - though Val does mutter some curse or another under $vtheir breath. The interior is dustier than you remember, almost enough to soften your footsteps in the gloom. A light pattern of disturbances in the near-silt leads down the corridor and through an archway to the right. Those must be your own frantic footprints from a few nights before. Val also notices the tracks, and announces $vtheyre going to check out the main auditorium. "I'll follow your lead," Ira says softly. Their voice seems oddly at home in this old place. [[Go with Val to the stage.|4.I.Val.Stage]] [[To the study.|4.I.Study]]

"Do you believe in ghosts, Ira?" "No. But I do believe in hauntings." With that encouraging thought, you steel yourself and take the first step into the dark, gaping throat, your two companions not far behind - though Val does mutter some curse or another under $vtheir breath. The interior is dustier than you remember, almost enough to soften your footsteps in the gloom. A light pattern of disturbances in the near-silt leads down the corridor and through an archway to the right. Those must be your own frantic footprints from a few nights before. Val also notices the tracks, and announces $vtheyre going to check out the main auditorium. "I'll follow your lead," Ira says softly. Their voice seems oddly at home in this old place. [[Go with Val to the stage.|4.I.Val.Stage]] [[To the study.|4.I.Study]]

"Why was it abandoned?" They shrug, and pull their coat tighter around their shoulders. "I don't know. Structural damage, probably; that's usually what gets the old theatres. They survived the Collapse but the millenia of neglect is just too much. They're very hard to rebuild." "There were people inside last time we were here," you say distantly, thinking of the two priestesses who spotted you and Val and chased you right into the angel's arms. Though, now that you think about it, you're not sure they followed you past the first hallway. "Just paying their respects, probably, or searching for old documents or relics. You'd be surprised at the kinds of things you can find in a theatre basement that should have turned to dust centuries ago." With a final rallying breath, you steel yourself and take the first step into the dark, gaping throat, your two companions not far behind - though Val does mutter some curse or another under $vtheir breath. The interior is dustier than you remember, almost enough to soften your footsteps in the gloom. A light pattern of disturbances in the near-silt leads down the corridor and through an archway to the right. Those must be your own frantic footprints from a few nights before. Val also notices the tracks, and announces $vtheyre going to check out the main auditorium. "I'll follow your lead," Ira says softly. Their voice seems oddly at home in this old place. [[Go with Val to the stage.|4.I.Val.Stage]] [[To the study.|4.I.Study]]

<<set $fourStorage to true>>"I want to check out the chapel," you say, pointing in its general direction. An inner sanctum may hold important mysteries. <<if $four is "Klaus">>"You two go ahead," says Ira, "I want to observe this demon a little longer."<<else>>"Go on ahead," says Klaus, "I'll catch up."<</if>> The chapel is near the edge of the theatre, a rounded blip attached to the shorter side of the building. The hall is long and dark, and the door heavy, though its hinges move without a sound. You step through, eyes quickly adjusting to the dim light, only to be immediately struck by a sense of deja vu; there's a familiarity to the chapel, as in many Religious places. There may be hundreds, thousands of theatres, but they're all one in the end. The room is barren and not much more than a closet, but an echo of past glory still remains- details in the smogged-out window panes, a scrap of blue paint still clinging to the vaulted ceiling. Instinct tells you there was once a vivid field of stars above your head, now lost to time and neglect. The floor is swept, clean stone, better cared for than much of the theatre. Which leaves you to wonder what could have possibly caused the dark stain smeared across the flagstones that made it so impossible to remove. It isn't blood, and it isn't ash, though a smoky smell does hang in the air. You could perhaps blame the trio of stunted candles or charred silver censer, but the tang is far closer to that of the demon in the next room. "Eugh," Val groans. "What crawled in here and died?" Something defensive and raw within you wants to argue, to deny the obvious corpse, but you know $vtheyre right. "Another demon?" you ask, though it's not much of a question. And as if in answer, a prickle crawls up your neck; you glance over your shoulder, sure something will be watching you from the doorway. But there's nothing. Val furrows their brow and follows your gaze, searching the dark alongside you. $vThey make$vs a show of it once $vtheyre satisfied the space is empty, you think. But surely you aren't supposed to realize that. Once $vtheyve demonstrated $vtheir watchfulness, Val turns back to the mess on the floor, crouching down to poke at the incense. "//Shudder// to think what else it could be," $vthey murmur$vs. "Incense is still warm... someone must have been here recently." [['"Why would someone kill a demon?"'|4.val.storage.2]]

<<set $fourStage to true>>The trail of Val's footsteps leads you to largest room of the theatre, $vtheir chosen path depositing you in a cramped aisle between shattered wooden pews. It's almost as dark as you remember, only a narrow beam of light filtering through a broken patch of roof to light your way. An earthy must fills the air and puddles of dirty rainwater lap at your feet. You've barely a chance to squint into the dark before you and Ira are both pushed backwards into a tiny chapel and crowded against the walls, Val's bracelets clinking in your ear. You start to protest, but are cut off by a frantic //ssh// from Val, who then gestures toward the open space beyond. A thin, oily smudge wanders the edges of the room, erratically pacing back and forth and back again seemingly without thought or hesitation, as if lost in some time loop. It carries only the suggestion of a head, shoulders, and limbs, and a shift of light for the eyes. If you weren't built to recognize patterns, it would never occur to you as humanoid. A primal anxiety knocks at your heart as the demon nears your perch. Its limbs all end in razor-sharp points, and while it has no mouth, you don't doubt it has teeth. You shrink back into your little alcove, waiting for it to notice you and unhinge its jaw. Val is pressed so close you nearly can't breathe, though you can feel $vtheir heart beating like a drum. It's close now, almost within reach- And it pays you no mind. Heat seeps from your skin as it passes, muttering darkly under its breath. Its voice is like the roaring of the ocean, powerful and textured, but utterly incomprehensible even to you. More importantly, it either didn't notice you, or doesn't care. You breathe a sigh of relief, lungs aching, and slowly, you feel Val relax. Ira's gasp of relief is but a puff of air. The demon moves away from you and across the stage in its strange trance, stopping and starting again at nothing at all, or something long extinct. "Always with the fucking demons," Val hisses. It's far too dark to see, but you know the hairs on the back of $vtheir neck are raised. "Demons are tricky," Ira adds. Their gray eyes track the hazy beast as it ambles about the room like a sad puppet. "The best I can do is turn one away. At least this one is peaceful." [[You feel sorry for the poor creature.|4.i.val you feel sorry][$Sanity -=2]] [[It's a demon, there's nothing to pity.|4.i.val its a demon][$Sanity +=2]]

It continues to haunt the edges of the theatre hall, and you spend a moment wondering if it can think, and if it knows how dismal and limited its existence is. //A ghost following a lost path//, Klaus had said, and you can see it plainly now. No one has ever doubted the power of an angel or a demon, but nothing can be said for their freedoms. "I feel sorry for it," you all-but-whisper, following its movements warily. "Doomed to walk in circles for all eternity." Impotent. Abandoned. "I wish I knew how to put it to rest," Ira replies, and for a moment you imagine yourself opening your arms to the shadowy figure and drawing it into an embrace. It would be soft, you think, but static-charged like the air before a storm. It would melt into your skin, hot on your tongue, the synapses of your brain alight- "What would that take?" you ask Ira. They simply shake their head. "I don't know, but I imagine it would help to know its purpose. Some ancient priestess told it to wander these halls, but why?" Val grimaces. "Does it matter? You can't do anything with that information except let it take up space in your brain." "Of course it matters. It's history. We could learn so much." "The present's enough work," "It's the present, too," Ira murmurs, but Val doesn't seem to be listening, if $vthey ever $vwere. $vThey appear$vs to be trying very hard not to. Val's been half out the door the entire excursion, ready to bolt at any moment and put as much distance between $vthemself and the theatre as possible. You can see it in the way $vtheir gaze scans the entrances and exits and any possible routes obsessively, the lightness in $vtheir feet and the -admittedly minute - bubble of space $vtheyre maintaining around $vthemself. You've rarely seen $vthem like this, even when you were in this exact building not a week ago. Maybe it's the demon, maybe it's Ira. Maybe it's something else entirely. Either way, the best way to cater to $vtheir jumpiness is to simply move on. There's nothing to find in this part of the theatre but a delirious ghost. <<if not hasVisited ("4.I.Study")>>[[To the study.|4.I.Study]] \<<else>>[['"I want to check out the inner chapel."'|4.Val.Storage]]<</if>>

You can't feel bad for a demon any more than you can a stream, or a gust of wind. It isn't alive; it's barely even a //thing//. Even the most devout would be hard-pressed to call a demon, or even an angel, more than an accident of particles caught together. "I wish I could know its purpose," says Ira, watching the shadow continue its sloppy march. "Some ancient priestess told it to wander these halls, but why?" Val shakes $vtheir head. "Does it matter? You can't do anything with that information except let it take up space in your brain." "Of course it matters. It's history. We could learn so much." "The present's enough work," "It's the present, too," Ira murmurs, but Val doesn't seem to be listening, if $vthey ever $vwere. $vThey appear$vs to be trying very hard not to. Val's been half out the door the entire excursion, ready to bolt at any moment and put as much distance between $vthemself and the theatre as possible. You can see it in the way $vtheir gaze scans the entrances and exits and any possible routes obsessively, the lightness in $vtheir feet and the -admittedly minute - bubble of space $vtheyre maintaining around $vthemself. You've rarely seen $vthem like this, even when you were in this exact building not a week ago. Maybe it's the demon, maybe it's Ira. Maybe it's something else entirely. Either way, the best way to cater to $vtheir jumpiness is to simply move on. There's nothing to find in this part of the theatre but a delirious ghost. <<if not hasVisited ("4.I.Study")>>[[To the study.|4.I.Study]] \<<else>>[['"I want to check out the inner chapel."'|4.Val.Storage]]<</if>>

"Will you tell me more about the God Beneath?" you ask, expecting them to light up as they had the other night when you'd asked about their studies. But now Ira hesitates as if sensing your thoughts, and slowly drags their eyes to meet yours. They stare at you for a moment, chewing their lip, clearly trying to decide how sincere they think you are. "It's heresy," they say finally, voice soft but grim. "We're not meant to acknowledge it, much less speak of it. I should never have mentioned it to you, I'm sorry, I really am." "So I've heard," you continue, softly so as not to scare the priestess off, "But you told me about it //joyfully//, like it was something that mattered to you." Ira half-shrugs, uncertainty rolling past their teeth in the form of a frantic, darting tongue. "I did. I got excited, I guess; most people don't take the time to listen to me. But I'm just //studying// the concept and its history, I swear. Most Holy wouldn't go out of their way to declare it heretical if there wasn't something behind it, true or not." [['"There must be a good reason they banned it."'|4.i banned][$Ira +=3]] [['"I don't really care what the Acropolis says."'|4.i dont care]] [['"Anything you're told not to talk about should probably be talked about."'|4.i anything youre told][$Ira +=2]]

"Surely they had good reason to make it taboo," you start thoughtfully, hoping to draw out something reasonable and reassuring from Ira. After all, if Klaus' reaction had been anything to go off of, it was a serious matter. "Was it always this way?" The priestess fidgets a moment, fingers dancing across their own arms in clear anxiety as they weigh the consequences of this conversation. Fortunately for you, their academic side seems to win. "Yes, I think so," says Ira, slowly at first. "I've found references to the God going back almost to the Collapse, though they're obscure, and you have to know what to look for. As far as I can tell, it's always been considered a wicked idea..." They trail off for a moment, then nearly startle, refocusing on you all at once. "You must understand, $Name, it's not a secret out of jealousy, or fear of its power, but because it's a gateway of thought to a world we've left behind, that was violently destroyed for reaching too far beyond its means. There are people who will take the idea of the God Beneath to extreme and dangerous conclusions." [['"You mean the Faithful?"'|4.i.faithful]] [['"Ira, I've been down there."'|4.i.tunnels]]

You can only shake your head. "I don't really care what the Acropolis approves and disapproves of." "That's fair. I can't blame you for mistrusting the Religious, many people do. But if a doctor told you something was dangerous, you'd listen to them, wouldn't you? Even if you didn't understand." "A doctor won't punish me for drinking river water," you argue. Something about this conversation is putting you on edge. "They might tell me I'm stupid, not but //evil.//" Ira shrugs with a half smile just shy of a putting a dimple in their cheek. "But you still get sick, don't you? The consequences come all the same." There's a gentle sincerity to Ira that manages to sound as reassuring as it does naive. It's hard to imagine such blind faith. "And what are the consequences of acknowledging a forgotten myth?" Their sigh is patient, contained. "You must understand, $Name, it's not a secret out of jealousy, or fear of its power, but because it's a gateway of thought to a world we've left behind, that was violently destroyed for reaching too far beyond its means. There are people who will take the idea of the God Beneath to extreme and dangerous conclusions." [['"You mean the Faithful?"'|4.i.faithful]] [['"Ira, I've been down there."'|4.i.tunnels]]

If you know one thing, it's that authority isn't to be blindly trusted. "Anything you're told not to talk about should probably be talked about." Ira's eyes go wide, their pale face blanching even further, and they almost raise a hand to your lips to shush you before pulling back and settling on a frantic head shake. "No, //Saints// no, don't say that. Usually I'd agree, but there are very few things the Acropolis forbids beyond normal laws, and this is one of them, and I trust their reasons for doing so. It's not a matter of propaganda, $Name, it's just what's //right.// I was a fool to have ever brought it up." Their tone is gentle, but their gaze stern. Either Ira is a very good liar, or they truly believe there's danger in speaking about the God Beneath. You wouldn't put censorship past the Religious; their laws are watertight. It's the //reason// that has you suspicious. "Why wouldn't they want people to think there's a powerful being they have to protect us from? Seems like the perfect boogeyman." Ira considers this, mouth twisted both thoughtfully and nervously. "Because of the Collapse, $Name. It's a gateway of thought to a world we've left behind, that was violently destroyed for reaching too far beyond its means. There are people who will take the idea of the God Beneath to extreme and dangerous conclusions." [['"You mean the Faithful?"'|4.i.faithful]] [['"Ira, I've been down there."'|4.i.tunnels]]

Klaus had all but admitted he was working to silence the Faithful, whether for reasons righteous or tyrannical. And while he never told you what they believed in, it's not a huge leap. "It's the Faithful, isn't it? That cult? They've got something to do with it," you say, watching Ira's reaction carefully. They nearly startle, a chill coming over them. "The-" Their fingers twist as they pick at the underside of their nails. "The Faithful?" they repeat, the slightest wrinkle between their brows. "I thought that was a myth." "I've heard on good authority they're not," you continue. "What... myths have you heard about them?" Ira just shakes their head, what little color was in their skin long faded. "I'm sorry, I don't think we should talk about this anymore. Especially not here, in a theatre." [[A distraction, then. "Have I told you I've been in the tunnels?"'|4.i.tunnels]] [['"Why not?"'|4.i.afraid][$Ira -=2]]

<<set $IraTunnels to true>>"Ira, I've been down there," you say, perhaps a little too quickly and before you can stop to think about it. "In the tunnels beneath the city." There's a shift in the air, like a window somewhere in the theatre has been opened, and you almost swear you can hear the wind whistle through the corridors. Ira's eyes widen and they take a step closer. "What? How?" There's something in their voice, the way one hand is suddenly threaded through the buttonholes of their coat, a flicker you can't quite name. You shiver along with the gaslamps; Ira does not. "It's sort of a long story," you say, feeling a sudden need to retreat from the shadows. "And I don't know, really. Waking up down there is the oldest memory I have." Gentle concern creeps into Ira's expression, bringing you an inexplicable relief as whatever emotion came before slowly fades. Their gray eyes glance over you, as if they'll find mud on your boots and bruises from the narrow tunnels. "It was five years ago," you offer, and Ira relaxes slightly. "You remember Val, the $vperson who was with me when we met? $vThey took me in, and I don't remember anything before that." "Uh, right, Val... the nervous one?" says Ira, and you nearly laugh, but contain it to a nod. //Val, the nervous one.// "And you don't know anything? How you got there, where you came from before?" [[You shake your head.|4.i.shake head]] [[Mention the strange dreams.|4.i.dreams]]

"I don't have memories," you explain, "but I do have dreams. Recently, anyway. They feel real, but I know they can't be; I'm never myself, always someone else. Some//thing// else." Ira brings one thumbnail to their lips, biting down on it absently. "What do you dream of? If you don't mind sharing." You recount your dreams and visions for Ira, mention anything that seems relevant, if perhaps toning down some of the intensity. The out-of-body sensation you felt while falling asleep after dinner with Val is much harder to describe, and you find your tongue stumbling to find apt metaphors. Ira listens closely, nodding along thoughtfully, and never interrupting<<if hasVisited ("And what a moth you are.")>>, until you reach the sword-wielding figure in the chapel, circled by black hounds. "//Hounds//," echoes Ira, their focus suddenly different, their shoulders set. The fingers of their right hand curl around the opposite forearm, light but tense. [['"Does that mean something to you?"|4.i.dogs]] \<<else>>. When you finish, Ira continues to stare into the middle distance, thoughts practically playing across the inside of their irises. After a thick silence, their attention finally turns back to you. [[Their eyes fall to your bandages.|4.i.arm]]<</if>>

<<if $bandage is "Ira">>"Can I see your arm again, $Name? If you don't mind?" You agree almost without thought, and stretch out your forearm to their waiting hands, so they can deftly unwind the bandage they'd tied just days before. \<<else>>They point politely to your bandaged arm. "Is that from the angel? Could I see the wound, if you don't mind?" You agree almost without thought, and stretch out your forearm to their waiting hands. They deftly unwind the bandage with nimble fingers.<</if>> It comes away easily, the burn having apparently healed well. There's a pale, misshapen scar across your wrist with jagged, puckered edges, but it seems clean and you feel no pain even when Ira's fingers lightly brush the surface of the scar tissue. The esoteric markings, however, are as dark and clear as ever, still a winding forest of lines and circles that marr your skin. Ira traces one with the edge of a fingernail, summoning goosebumps and a shudder to the surface. <<if $RO is "Ira" or $RO is "IraCon">> You can only hope your reaction hasn't made it to your cheeks. <</if>> "I've seen designs like these before," they say, following a line like it's the path through a maze. "But I don't know where. A book somewhere in the libraries, probably. It seems more like a pattern than anything else." Their eyes trail down past your wrist to your palm and fingers, and that bizarre, lifeless ash tone that's slowly eating up the warmest hues of your $skin_color skin. "//This// is even stranger, though," Ira continues. "It's like you're becoming a marble statue, or an artist left you half colored-in. So," they say, meeting your eyes. "Are you unfinished or turning into something?" Are they //trying// to give you an existential crisis? <<if hasVisited ("4.i Second time's the charm.")>>Your eyes must have glazed over, because Ira laughs. "I'm sorry, that was an intense question for this early in the week. At least it's looking better than your forehead is, right now. But we can talk about something else, if you'd like."<<else>>Your eyes must have glazed over, because Ira laughs. "I'm sorry, that was an intense question for this early in the week. We can talk about something else, if you'd like."<</if>> [[Actually, you're stuck on this now.|4.ira.2arm]] <<if $fourtheatre is "Con">>[['"Let's go find Constantine."'|4.I.Con.Stage]]<</if>> \<<if $fourtheatre is "Val">>[['"Let's go find Val."'|4.I.Val.Stage]]<</if>> \<<if $fourtheatre is "Kat">>[['"Let's go find Kat."'|4.I.Kat.Stage]]<</if>>

Your question seems to rouse Ira from the daydream they were stuck in. They blink, almost surprised, then drop their hand, burying both deep in the pockets of their coat. "No," they say, nudging at a dustbunny with their foot. "I mean, yes, there's lots of symbolism involving dogs. Fidelity and loyalty on the one hand, animalism and violence on the other. Sometimes they're an omen of death. In literature and art, anyway, I haven't seen many dogs mentioned in Religious writings. Though-" Ira pauses again, and looks back at you, trepidation tensing their face. "People say demons remind them of dogs. Bloodhounds, or wolves sometimes. But..." they trail off, and with a shiver, shrug off whatever cloud had posessed them. [[Their eyes fall to your bandages.|4.i.arm]]

"What are you so afraid of?" Ira's expression turns sharp and a little sour, the flicker of a storm in their eyes. "A forbidden cult within the faction that rules the world? A faction that //I// work for? Of //course// I'm afraid of that, $Name, and I don't appreciate you treating it so flippantly. I could lose my priesthood at the very least." [['"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you."'|4.i.apologize][$Ira +=1, $Sarcastic -=1]] [['"You shouldn't let them control you like that."'|4.i.control][$Ira -=3, $FoughtIra to true]]

"Good intentions for what? You?" You see the pink flash of their tongue as a barely-contained smile crashes over Ira's face, almost in perfect harmony with the blush that heats their cheeks. A sunny laugh escapes them as they take a step to shrink the space between you. "//Good// isn't necessary for that," they reply, gray eyes hooked on yours, expression no longer innocent at all. <<if $IraCrush is "shy">>Your heart does a little flip-flop, mouth going dry and a need to squirm seizing your limbs. Whatever reply you had is lost in a stammer as you blink rapidly. You weren't expecting them to be this close, close enough to see a scattering of freckles across their nose and the stray wisps of golden hair that fall across their face. Ira's smile only deepens at your floundering, though it also comes with a flicker of a pleased surprise. <</if>> \<<if $IraCrush is "bold">>A little thrill goes through at Ira's immediate response to your flirting; you'd half expected to fluster them with the comment, but their bright gray eyes regard you with mischevious intention. "Good to know," you hum, taking in the new details revealed to you at this proximity- the scattering of freckles across their nose, the stray wisps of golden hair falling into their face, the gleam of the golden droplet earrings that brush their jaw. Ira smiles again, and to your disappointment, steps back to a normal distance.<</if>> \<<if $IraCrush is "denial">>Your heart does a little flip-flop, mouth going dry and a need to squirm seizing your limbs. You //hadn't// meant it like that, at least you don't think so. Damn your stupid mouth getting ahead of its own brain. You weren't expecting them to be this close, close enough to see a scattering of freckles across their nose and the stray wisps of golden hair that blow into their face. Ira's smile only deepens at your floundering, though it also comes with a flicker of a pleased surprise.<</if>> \<<if ndef $IraCrush>>You were only teasing, and Ira apparently knows this, as they break character almost immediately with a uncontrollable snort. Their smile is infectious, and you grin back.<</if>> <<if $RO is "IraCon" or $RO is "Con">>You nearly miss the frown that darkens Constantine's face as $chis flicker between you and the priestess. It's hardly a change from $chis usual expression, but something about it seems... tighter.<<else>>You don't miss the way Constantine rolls $chis eyes, though you're almost entirely sure it's directed at you, not the priestess.<</if>> "Anyway," $che interrupts with a grunt, "I'm half convinced the Faithful just want an excuse to spill priestess blood- either for the fun of it or to eliminate the competition. They're probably still riding the Yve Alavet high." [['"Who's Yve Alavet?"'|4.i.con.yve]]

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you." "Thank you," they say, gaze softening again as the tension melts slightly, but not completly. "Some things are just better off going undiscussed." "Understood." [[A distraction, then. "Have I told you I've been in the tunnels?"'|4.i.tunnels]]

"You shouldn't let them control you like that," you say firmly. Religion or not, this is strange. Concerning, even. Ira gives you a chill look, dusting off their black coat and turning towards the study door. "I think we're finished in here. <<if $fourtheatre is "Val">>Let's go find your friend<</if>><<if $fourtheatre is "Kat">>Let's go find Kat<</if>><<if $fourtheatre is "Con">>Let's go find $Dane<</if>>." They brush past you before you can speak. <<if ndef $fourStage>> \<<if $fourtheatre is "Con">>[[Continue.|4.I.Con.Stage]]<</if>> \<<if $fourtheatre is "Val">>[[Continue.|4.I.Val.Stage]]<</if>> \<<if $fourtheatre is "Kat">>[[Continue.|4.I.Kat.Stage]]<</if>> \<<else>> \<<if $fourtheatre is "Con">>[[Continue.|4.Con.Storage]]<</if>> \<<if $fourtheatre is "Val">>[[Continue.|4.Val.Storage]]<</if>> \<<if $fourtheatre is "Kat">>[[Continue.|4.Kat.Storage]]<</if>> <</if>>

"A priestess named Kat told me about the cult. She said they were dangerous." Constantine groans. "Saxon? I'll admit she's effective at what she does, but //Saints// is she a pain in the ass. Goes out of her way to be irritating." $cHe rolls $chis neck to glare at you. "Kindred spirit of yours, I imagine." "How do you know Kat?" comes Ira's bright voice, though you're not sure if the question is directed at you or Constantine. The mercenary levels a stern eye at them. "How do //you// know her?" Constantine asks thinly. "You're not my only friend, $Dane," replies Ira with what might be the ghost of a smirk, earning a huff in return. "Believe it or not. But you, $Name?" "I don't know her, really," you explain. "I met her down by the docks, same night I saw you in the library. She sort of... came out of nowhere." They laugh behind their hand. "Sounds about right. Kat's a bit of a skulker; I hope she didn't give you too hard of a time. She really is a delight when she's not being mysterious." Your eyes travel over Ira's tailored black clothing and wide hat that mark them as a member of the clergy. Soft, but clean-cut, and surely warm against the bite of winter. A thin silver chain hangs from one wrist, matching the glinting stars dangling from their ears. "Is she really a priestess?" "No," says Constantine with finality. Ira bites back a snort, pearly white teeth digging into their fingertips. "That's not for me to share, is it? But you can trust her, if you have good intentions." [["Good intentions for what? You?" ♡|4.i.con.flirt1][$IraFlirt +=1, $Ira +=3]] [[Cross your heart and wink. "The purest intentions only."|4.i.con.pure][$Sarcastic +=1, $Ira +=3]]

Constantine looks down at you like you're a bug with its guts smeared across the floor. $cHis expression is almost perplexed, like $che isn't quite sure what to do with your patheticness. "Yve Alavet," $che says again, as if repeating the words will make it any clearer. "The High Priestess," adds Ira, their voice much kinder than Constantine's. The High Priestess? Her name is //Jacqueline// Alavet, not Yve. For a moment you're sure you've stepped into an alternate timeline. Then Constantine rolls $chis eyes. "Do you //ever// pay attention to the world around you, Io? Or do you spend all your focus on being an absolute gnat?" $cHe sighs at Ira's chastising frown, and pinches $chis nose. "Don't answer that. Short version: Yve's the High Priestess, she disappeared years ago, allegedly due to that cult you're so obsessed with. Jacqueline Alavet, her Handmaiden and younger sister, is the acting High Priestess, until the actual one is found or dies." You can only blink at this wave of information. It's the first you've heard of any of this; you didn't think a High Priestess //could// disappear, and you definitely didn't think the Holy City could function without her, even with someone running things in her absence. "Short version's too short, $Connie," you say with an incredulous huff. "Gonna need more details." "Genuinely, how do you not know this? Did you know the earth is round, Io? That the place you're standing in is called the Holy City? Sky's blue, too, you hear about that one?" <<if not hasVisited ("4.i.tunnels")>>Ira places a hand on Constantine's elbow. "$Dane, calm down," they say, then turn to you. "Though, it //is// surprising you haven't heard. Are you not from the City? I thought everyone would know, even out in the country."<<else>>Ira places a hand on Constantine's elbow. "$Dane, calm down," they say, then turn to you, gaze intent, and for a moment you wonder if you were right to trust them with your secrets. "Not everyone's life revolves around the Acropolis as much as ours do."<</if>> [['"I ever mention I have amnesia?"'|4.i.con.amnesia][$Con +=2, $Bold +=2, $ConKnows to true]] [['"I have other things going on."'|4.i.con.lie][$Con -=1, $Sarcastic +=2, $ConKnows to false]]

They reply with a simple shake of their head, curls swishing. "No, I haven't. I haven't heard much about him at all, really, though I suppose no news is good news when it comes to Handmaidens. Business with them usually means someone's in trouble. Why do you ask?" "No reason," you reply, Constantine eyeing you stonily. "I was just curious." Ira smiles. "Nothing wrong with curiosity, though that's one of the more dangerous ones, I imagine. Not that I can say anything; I did follow you in here." They glance about the chapel once more, then focus on the horrible stain at your feet. "That's a binding ritual, by the way. If you were wondering." "It is?" You study it once more, frowning. Rituals and wards usually have a pattern to them, some kind of geometric form. But the arrangement of candles and incense here looks like little more than a vague circle. And more importantly, there's always a buzz to them, a magnetism that hovers about the lines and angles like a living energy. But there's nothing here but the fading scent of incense. "It's not a very good one," they explain, with half a shrug. "Someone must have been practicing. At least I hope. If there was an actual demon involved it'd be like trying to catch a tiger with a mousetrap." An unfair queasiness rises in your gut at the idea. Not at the potential failure or the following consequences, but- is that all it would take? A circle set in haste, sloppy, even, to bind a heavenly creature to one's will? "We should leave," you say finally. You wait a moment for Ira's agreement, then a moment longer. It takes a third to make you tear your eyes away from the floor. [[No answer comes.|4.i.con.3]]

"How long has Val known about the Faithful?" you ask. A brow raised, a slight frown. "Thought that little demon tells you everything. $vTheyve spent the last six months scraping the streets looking for the cult." "I still don't understand why $vthey brought me along but didn't tell me why," you say distantly. You didn't think Constantine's eyebrows could go higher, but they do. <<if $RO is "Val" or $RO is "ValKlaus">>"Don't get me involved in this. That's between you two lovebirds." \<<if $ValCrush is "denial">>You feel the heat rush to your cheeks almost instantly. "We're not- there's-," your tongue fumbles the words. "We're just friends," you manage to insist. Constantine actually rolls $chis eyes this time, then lifts $chis hands in surrender. "Whatever you say." You bite back a response and focus on unravelling the sudden knot in your chest.<</if>> \<<if $ValCrush is "old" or $ValCrush is "new">>You frown at $chim, hoping it disguises the sudden warmth in your cheeks. "We're not //lovebirds//," you protest. Constantine actually rolls $chis eyes this time, then lifts $chis hands in surrender. "Whatever you say."<</if>><</if>> \<<if $RO isnot "Val" and $RO isnot "ValKlaus">>"Don't drag me into this. Ask your fellow pest yourself."<</if>> "Anyway," $che continues with a grunt, "I'm half convinced the Faithful just want an excuse to spill priestess blood- either for the fun of it or to eliminate the competition. They're probably still riding the Yve Alavet high." [['"Who's Yve Alavet?"'|4.i.con.yve]]

<<set $IraKnows to true>><<set $ConKnows to true>><<if not hasVisited ("4.ira.tunnels")>>Ira blinks in surprise before breathing a small laugh. "Oh, //okay//," they say, the absurdity of it all brightening their eyes. "That's interesting. Well, um. Sorry, is it rude if I ask?" You wouldn't have mentioned it if you weren't prepared to explain. "I sort of...showed up five years ago. You remember Val, the $vperson who was with me when we met? $vThey took me in, and I don't remember anything before that." "Uh, right, Val... the nervous one?" says Ira, and you nearly laugh. //Val, the nervous one.// "I remember."<<else>>"I've got a pretty severe case of amnesia, did I ever mention that?" you say nonchalantly. "I don't remember anything from before five years ago, when I showed up in the City. Val's the one who found me, and helped me relearn everything."<</if>> Constantine is quiet for a long moment, just blinking, expression entirely unreadable. "I've never heard a sentence that made so much sense," $che replies finally. "Explains everything about you. Val should //never// be in charge of reshaping someone's brain putty." <<if $ConFlirt gte 2>>"You can reshape it, if you want. However you like," you offer, then laugh at Constantine's grimace. Impossible to resist.<<else>>"My brain putty is shaped //just fine//-" you retort, barely catching the edge of Ira's smile in the corner of your vision.<</if>> "Anyway," Constantine interrupts, cutting you off. "You said five years ago? That would be why you didn't know; it must have happened just before you crawled out of hell." [['"So what happened?"'|4.i.con.yve.2]]

"I have other things going on," you scoff, with a cocked eyebrow for emphasis. Constantine rolls $chis eyes.<<if hasVisited ("4.ira.tunnels")>> You glance at Ira for a moment, but they hold firm, and say nothing.<<else>> Ira looks equally as unconvinced, but they stay politely quiet.<</if>> [['"So what happened?"'|4.i.con.yve.2]]

"So what happened?" Constantine exhales, tapping $chis fingers against $chis collarbone. "It's complicated. It's all rumors, and I wouldn't trust any story from someone who wasn't there. The //facts// are that during a High Holy Day ritual, High Priestess Yve set off an explosion in the Divine Theatre and blew half of it to bits. She then fled the City and hasn't been seen since." <<if hasVisited ("4.klaus.amnesia") or hasVisited ("Tell him the truth.")>>The Divine Theatre? Klaus mentioned something about that, didn't he? <</if>>"Why the hell would she do that?" "The Acropolis says Yve was a traitor, other people say she was just insane. Though they think that of most priestesses," Ira adds with a wry shrug. "She was excommunicated afterwards, and no one's seen her since." You've heard of excommunication. Frantic whispers, mostly; there's never been an official description of what it entails. Rumors propose everything from exile to soul-theft to being eaten alive by angels. You asked Val once or twice, but $vthey only shuddered and told you to think of better things. All you know for certain is that it's worse than a death sentence, and that no one ever comes back. "Then who the hell is Jacqueline?" you ask. "That's who I was told is the High Priestess." "Her sister," Ira explains, "She's the acting High Priestess, but she's really just a Handmaiden, like Klaus Kirkhall." "Klaus-" you start to say, then stop dead in your tracks at a hard stare and an almost imperceptible shake of Constantine's head. Which can only mean one thing: Ira doesn't know who Constantine mercenaries for, and $ches asking you to keep it quiet. From the desperation in $chis eyes, this might be the closest to begging you'll ever get. [[Pivot. "Ira, have you met the other Handmaiden?"|4.i.con.klaus][$Con +=3]] [[Should have asked nicer. "Well Connie, why haven't you just asked Klaus?"][$Con -=3, $Ira -=1]]

<<set $fourStage to true>>Following the trail of Constantine's footsteps takes you to the largest room of the theatre, as you suspected, depositing you in a cramped aisle between shattered wooden pews. It's almost as dark as you remember, only a narrow beam of light filtering through a broken patch of roof to light your way. An earthy must fills the air and puddles of dirty rainwater lap at your feet. You've barely a chance to register Constantine's bulky form before you and Klaus are both pushed backwards into a tiny chapel and crowded against the walls. You start to protest, but are cut off by a stern hand from Klaus, who then looks to Constantine questioningly. The mercenary inclines $chis head towards the open space beyond. A thin, oily smudge wanders the edges of the room, erratically pacing back and forth and back again seemingly without thought or hesitation, as if lost in some time loop. It carries only the suggestion of a head, shoulders, and limbs, and a shift of light for the eyes. If you weren't built to recognize patterns, it would never occur to you as humanoid. A primal anxiety knocks at your heart as the demon nears your perch. Its limbs all end in razor-sharp points, and while it has no mouth, you don't doubt it has teeth. You shrink back into your little alcove, waiting for it to notice you and unhinge its jaw. Constantine's arm is against your chest, simultaneously shielding you and barring your means of escape. It's close now, almost within reach- And it pays you no mind. Heat seeps from your skin as it passes, muttering darkly under its breath. Its voice is like the roaring of the ocean, powerful and textured, but utterly incomprehensible even to you. More importantly, it either didn't notice you, or doesn't care. You breathe a sigh of relief, lungs aching, and slowly, you feel Constantine relax. The demon moves away from you and across the stage in its strange trance, stopping and starting again at nothing at all, or something long extinct. "Can you control a demon?" you ask softly, eyeing the rosary wrapped around Klaus' wrist. The creature may have moved away, but you doubt your luck. "Yes," he replies quietly, watching it amble about the room like a sad puppet, "But this one looks fucked in the head. There's no telling how it would respond to being given new guidelines." [[You feel sorry for the poor creature.|4.k.con you feel sorry][$Sanity -=2]] [[It's a demon, there's nothing to pity.|4.k.con its a demon][$Sanity +=2]]

<<set $fourStudy to true>><<if $fourStage is true>><> <<if $fourtheatre is "Con">>You make your intentions to seek out the study once again, much to Klaus' immediate interest. Constantine nods, then grunts something about staying to watch the demon a little longer.<</if>> <<if $fourtheatre is "Kat">>You make your intentions to seek out the study once again, much to Klaus' immediate interest. Kat waves you off, saying something about wanting to explore the nooks and crannies of the stage a little better.<</if>> <<if $fourtheatre is "Val">>You make your intentions to seek out the study once again, much to Klaus' immediate interest. Val glances between you and the priest, intrepidation evident on $vtheir face, though $vthey seem$vs to quickly come to a decision. $vThey nod$vs, and claim something about wanting to keep an eye on the wandering demon a little longer.<</if>><> <</if>>You make your way back to the study carefully, taking the long way 'round and finding it eerily easy to orient yourself to this strange, rotting building. You find the correct hallway within minutes, even though most of the gas lamps are now flickering or dead; the wooden door is just as forbidding as it always was, though now its frame contains Klaus' silhouette. You step up behind him and peer <<if $height is "tall">>over<<else>>around<</if>> his shoulder to see what's stopped him in his tracks. The room is not as you left it. The study's been torn to shreds, its furnishings and contents tossed about like the whole thing was raised by the hand of God and upended onto itself. The bookshelves have been ripped from the wall, now lying in awkward, sharp piles, and their contents are strewn about, bindings shredded and pages in tatters. Not an inch of space is left intact. Someone was looking for something, and guessing by the rage with with they searched, they did not find it. You have a pretty good guess as to what; who knew that unassuming little book of hours was in such high demand? "Did you and Val do this?" asks Klaus evenly, the level of accusation in his voice impossible to gauge. You shake your head. "We were barely in here for five minutes," you reply. Klaus hums noncommitally in response. He steps further into the room, moving in a slow circle as broken glass crunches under his shoes. You could spend a few minutes in here, poking about and digging through the violated remains of the library, but you'll probably find more splinters than answers. Though... It's hard to see behind a fallen shelf, but the strange mirror set into the wall still remains. <<if hasVisited ("Place your hand on the glass.")>>[[Second time's the charm.|4.k Second time's the charm.][$Sanity -=1]]<<else>> [[Might as well.|4.k Second time's the charm.][$Sanity -=1]]<</if>> [[Absolutely not.|4.k Absolutely not.][$Sanity +=3]]

You can't feel bad for a demon any more than you can a stream, or a gust of wind. It isn't alive; it's barely even a //thing//. Even the most devout would be hard-pressed to call a demon, or even an angel, more than an accident of particles caught together. You move foward a dozen or so paces further into the dust-choked orchestra seating, following it without thought, some part of you searching for a sign of life, a gust of wind left in its wake. The air crackles, but it's just the static of your sleeves against the worn velvet seating. You make it halfway down a pew before stopping dead in your tracks, letting the demon continue its march without you. Reluctantly, you turn back to your companions. "Val didn't mention seeing any demons here last time," says Klaus the moment you make eye contact. "No," comes your reply, "But I wasn't paying much attention. We were in here less than a second." "And the angel came afterwards?" You nod. "Out on the steps." "Well, you couldn't have //missed// it," he muses. "You'd have to be literally blind, which you don't seem to be. It must have been somewhere in the theatre you didn't see..<<if not hasVisited ("4.k.Study")>>Though I'm more interested in wherever Val found that book of hours. Could be context there." [[To the study, then.|4.k.Study]] \<<else>> Though I can't imagine there's much more to this place; it isn't large. A sanctuary or chapel, perhaps." [['"I think I saw a small chapel off the stage."'|4.Con.Storage]]<</if>>

With some effort, you're able to pick your way across the wrecked room with minimal snagging, and arrive in front of the shelf blocking the mirror. It's made of a thick, sturdy wood that seems almost to be made of ages long past, the kind of thing that lasts generations and generations. Nigh immovable, heavy as fuck. It groans under your touch, making Klaus's head swivel. [[Plant your feet and push.|4.k plant your feet and push][$Charming -=2]] [[Magic will make this easy.|4.k magic will make][$Sanity -=1]] [[Ask Klaus for help.|4.k ask klaus for help][$Klaus +=2]]

Wiggling yourself between the shelf and its neighbor, you plant your feet against the only bare spots of flooring you can find and brace your shoulder against the wood. You breathe in, bracing for the worst, and //shove//. And you stumble- either the shelf isn't nearly as heavy as you expected, or you're stronger than you thought. The bookshelf falls to the ground with an earth-shaking crash, tossing dust and splinters into the air like confetti. A painting across the room finally drops from its nail in response, crashing against the tiles. //"Saints,"// breathes Klaus the moment the dust settles. "Summon the entire city, why don't you?" You return his remark with an impassive stare, only vaguely wondering what anyone could do to a Handmaiden, even if he //was// trespassing. But his disapproving frown falls away as he takes in what you've uncovered. "It's one of those scrying things," you explain. "I noticed it last time I was here. There's something wrong with it, though." "A dark mirror?" Klaus says, brows knit. "I've never seen one like this." He steps around the downed bookshelf and up to the mirror, crowding into the space along side you. A distorted shimmer gathers about his fingers as he taps each corner of the mirror in turn; after a moment, it flares to life. And just as before, amid a soft, cerulean glow, is the outline of a hand. <<if hasVisited ("Place your hand on the glass.")>>And once again, it's perfectly sized to your own fingers and palm.<<else>>Your fingers line up perfectly; a strange thought flashes through your mind that it was made for you.<</if>> [[Something coils in your stomach like a snake.|4.k.mirror]]

You run your hand over the wood once more, feeling its knots and grooves, then will a spike of energy through your veins. Your fingers dig into the wood as if it was wet sand, and it crumbles just as easily, dissolving into thousands of grains of splintered wood that pile up around your feet. Maybe it's the theatre, but Magic is suddenly feeling easier than ever. You turn back to briefly catch a strange look on Klaus' face that you can't quite parse. Wary curiosity, perhaps. "It's one of those scrying things," you explain, gesturing at the now-revealed mirror. "I noticed it last time I was here. There's something wrong with it, though." "A dark mirror?" Klaus says, his frown deepening. "I've never seen one like this." He steps around the downed bookshelf and up to the mirror, crowding into the space along side you. A distorted shimmer gathers about his fingers as he taps each corner of the mirror in turn; after a moment, it flares to life. And just as before, amid a soft, cerulean glow, is the outline of a hand. <<if hasVisited ("Place your hand on the glass.")>>And once again, it's perfectly sized to your own fingers and palm.<<else>>Your fingers line up perfectly; a strange thought flashes through your mind that it was made for you.<</if>> [[Something coils in your stomach like a snake.|4.k.mirror]]

You call over to Klaus, running your fingers over the wood. It's splintered in places, but still seems mostly solid. "Can you move this?" you ask. "Magic it away?" "Why?" "There's something behind it, that I saw last time I was here. One of those scrying things." This seems to catch his interest, and the priest picks his way across the room to you. "A dark mirror?" he says, leaning around you to catch a glimpse. "Could be interesting." Before you can agree, Klaus moves his right hand in a strange, contorted gesture; without so much as a whisper, the bookshelf caves inward and crunches itself into a pile of debris not much higher than your knee. The speed of it makes you blink; it's almost jarring. Rarely have you seen such concise, efficient Magic. Klaus ignores your temporary stupor and focuses on the now-revealed mirror, his brows furrowing. "I've never seen one like this," he says. Again, a distorted shimmer gathers about his fingers as he taps each corner of the mirror in turn; after a moment, it flares to life. And just as before, amid a soft, cerulean glow, is the outline of a hand. <<if hasVisited ("Place your hand on the glass.")>>And once again, it's perfectly sized to your own fingers and palm.<<else>>Your fingers line up perfectly; a strange thought flashes through your mind that it was made for you.<</if>> [[Something coils in your stomach like a snake.|4.k.mirror]]

"The tunnels?" asks Klaus. His voice is even as ever, but something in stare is a little too intense. It makes your heart hammer<<if $RO is "Klaus" or $RO is "ValKlaus">>, and not in a fun way<</if>>. You want to dip your head, stare at your shoes or your hands or the walls. Anywhere to escape Klaus' gaze, somehow chill despite the warmth of his brown eyes. But you swallow the impulse and straighten your shoulders. <<if $KlausKnows is true>>"I told you I don't know where I came from," you begin. Or at least, you mean to. \<<else>>"I've been down there," you begin. Or at least, you mean to.<</if>> But you open your mouth and no sound comes out. \>//DON'T.// [[Never mind.|4.k.Never mind.]] [[Tell him.|4.kTell him.][$Sanity +=2]]

<<if $RO is "Klaus" or $RO is "ValKlaus">>The smog in your mind clears and feeling returns to your limbs; which, of course, makes you suddenly all-too-aware of how close Klaus is. One hand is on your arm, thumb pressed against your shoulder. "Are you feeling alright, $Name?" he asks, an ounce of stray concern pulling at the corners of his frown. There's no warmth in his words, but heat skitters across your skin all the same. \<<else>>"You alright there, $Name?" Klaus loosely waves a hand in front of your face, an ounce of stray concern pulling at the corners of his frown. You shake your head like you're clearing cobwebs and assure Klaus that you're fine. Whatever that was, it's gone now. You're probably just tired. <</if>>[["So what did cause the Collapse, then?"'|4.k.collapse]]

\>//DO NOT.// There's a voice in your head and you're only mostly sure it's your own. A beat of sweat rolls down your back, and you still cannot speak. Your jaw grinds. \>//NO////.// Close as he is already, Klaus takes a half step toward you, the strange, stern expression on his face having evolved into alarm. [[You're fine.|4.k.Never mind.]] [[Tell. Him. |4.k.Tell. Him.][$Core -=5, $Sanity +=2]]

"Not that I know of." <<if $IraKnows is true>>"I suppose you wouldn't, would you?" replies Ira with a sigh before flashing you an encouraging smile.<<else>>"That's too bad," replies Ira with a sigh before flashing you an encouraging smile.<</if>>"Either way, this is a mystery that //begs// to be solved. I'd like to look into it more, if you're comfortable with that. There's got to be something useful in all these old books and records, and no one knows the libraries better than I do. Uhm-" they pause again, and frown. "That's not a brag. I really do know them well." They take your arm again and quickly, deftly, rewrap the bandage around your burn. You doubt it'll do you much good, but keeping it away from curious eyes never hurts. "The angel's corpse is long gone- I walked by just this morning. But you could go back to the place you first saw it. You said it was a theatre, right? Which one was it?" "I don't know," you admit. "It's in the Common District, but it was pretty abandoned. I didn't see a name." Ira fumbles with the final knot of the bandage, their fingers slipping and grazing against your wrist. They barely make contact, but it's enough to make you wince and hiss through your teeth. "Sorry-! Sorry," they gasp, tying off the knot gingerly. "I think I know the one. But you should be careful in places like that. They're not safe." "What do you mean? Physically unsafe?" They nod, and release your arm to put their hands in their pockets. "Yes, physically. Especially if the wards have expired. Could fall through a floorboard and break your leg, you know," they say with a weak laugh. [['"Then I won't go alone."'|4.Ira.4]]

"I can use Magic just fine." Ira cocks their head, bouncing on their toes once, twice. "Really?" they say softly. "Will you show me? There's a few different styles, maybe the way you cast could narrow things down." [[Keep it small.|4.imagicsmall][$Sanity -=1]] [[Not too little, not too much.|4.imagicmed][$Sanity -=2]] [[Oh, you're showing off.|4.imagicbig][$Sanity -=3]]

"She told me about this cult," you start, watching Ira's reaction carefully. Would they know? "Something called the Faithful?" "The-" Ira's fingers twist as they pick at the underside of their nails. "The Faithful?" they repeat, the slightest wrinkle between their brows. "I thought they were a myth." "I've heard on good authority they're not," you continue. "What... myths have you heard about them?" Ira just shakes their head, what little color was in their skin long faded. "I'm sorry, I- I'd rather talk about something else." <<if not hasVisited ("Ira.HP")>>[[Change the subject. "What are you reading?"|Ira.HP][$Ira +=1]]<<else>>[[Change the subject. "What are you reading?"|Ira.HP][$Ira +=1]]<</if>> <<if not hasVisited ("Ira.GB")>>[['"Will you tell me more about the God Beneath?"'|Ira.GB]]<<else>>[['"Will you tell me more about the God Beneath?"'|Ira.GB]]<</if>> <<if hasVisited ("Ira.GB") and hasVisited ("Ira.HP")>>[[Continue.|4.Ira.2]]<</if>>

There's no need to go overboard. <<if hasVisited ("4.ira.nosnoop")>>You turn around once more to the tree in the middle of the courtyard, in all its twisting, half-dead glory. Ira had mentioned the white flowers that bloom in spring.<<else>>You turn around to face the central tree growing in the yard, bereft of its leaves this time of year. The bark is chunky and rough, with an odd grayish tint, but is otherwise unremarkable. It looks almost half-dead, but maybe a part of it can still bloom.<</if>> You flip to the part of your brain that likes to reach out into the world and curl around points of Magic. It's like rearranging letters on a page. The tree knows it's wintertime, but you can tell it otherwise. With an almost audible groan, the branches burst to life, pale blossoms erupting across the tree's frame in less than a second. The air is pleasantly warm, and a gentle wind stirs your work, shaking the flowers loose from their newborn stems. An odd sense of pride bubbles up in your chest as the flowers fill the air like a flurry of snow. It's a comforting kind of quiet, you find, one that beckons you to relax. There's no expectations here- there's nothing at all- the world cut off and its troubles muffled in the petal cascade. <<if $angel lt 2>>And //fuck// do you need the moment to recover in silence. The burst of Magic took far more out of you than you'd expected. You're not used to such bold displays of Magic, and your muscles are already feeling sore. A dull headache surely isn't far behind.<</if>><<if $angel gte 2>>Not that you're particularly hurting for a moment to recover. The Magic came easily, far more easily than you expected, leaving you almost lightheaded with giddiness. The potential for //more// is buzzing at your fingertips, perched on the edge of your tongue.<</if>> "$Name?" You slowly swim back to your senses as you realize Ira's hands are on your shoulder, tugging on your sleeve gently but with increasing urgency. With a thought, you kill the flow of Magic, bringing winter flooding back into the garden. The flowers continue to float to the ground, but no more bloom. Ira shudders at the sudden chill, gripping their coat closely around their frame. "Too much?" you ask, <<if $Sarcastic gt 50>>a little<</if>> regretful. Ira makes a disbelieving noise and gestures, still shivering. Or trembling, you realize. "How did you //do// that?" You shrug. "It's just Magic. I've always been good at it." "But without moving? No gestures, no runes? I can't do that. The //High Priest// can't do that. That's like... like..." They make a grabbing motion with their hands as they search for the right metaphor. "Okay, I don't know what it's like. But it shouldn't be //possible//." [['"I didn't think you cared about what should and shouldn't be possible."'][$Bold +=1]] [[Shrug. "It's just the way it is."'][$Bold -=1]]

You shuffle your feet, entirely at a loss. You've never been able to focus when Constantine is in the room, no matter how snappish and unapproachable $che is. Unfortunately for you, you've never been in the same room as $chim without Val, eliminating any chance of a more... friendly conversation. Not that you'd be brave enough to start one. Val frowns at your hestiation, and elbows you in the side just hard enough to make you cough. "This-" you blurt, holding up your charred hand. //Eloquent.// Constantine takes one look at your hand and crosses $chis arms. "Go see a doctor." Val takes your elbow and holds it a little higher. "An angel did this, then self-destructed in the middle of the street. We //need// to talk to Klaus." $cHe doesn't look impressed. "There aren't angels in the Common District, which is where you're supposed to be right now." "You'd think so, wouldn't you," retorts Val, dropping your arm, but before $vthey can continue, the door swings open soundlessly. "Val, quit harrassing Constantine." The new voice comes from within the room, tired but firm. Val grins triumphantly at Constantine's annoyed sigh, and pulls you through the empty doorway. Constantine follows, arms crossed and barring your way back out. [[Continue|klaus intro]]

"I didn't think you cared about what should and shouldn't be possible," you argue, not entirely unrudely. "You're full of unlikely ideas." "I-" Ira makes a frustrated noise and blows a few stray curls out of their face. "Well, okay. That's a good point. But still! Magic's not a natural force we barely understand, like gravity or magnetics. You can't take a train off its tracks and expect it to still run!" It's probably not a good moment to point out that derailed trains can still get pretty far. The priestess settles back into the seat on the stone bench with a huff. "Sorry, I don't mean to yell. You just caught me off guard; I've never seen Magic like that." [[Continue.|4.Ira.3]]

You shrug as apologetically as you can, hands splayed and empty. "I don't know what else to say. That's just how it's always been for me. No one taught me, I figured it out on my own." Ira's eyes boggle, and for a moment they almost look feral in their disbelief. "Well that's //worse!// What the hell am I supposed to do with that information, $Name? //'That's just the way it is'// isn't a valid source!" You think they might be two seconds away from stomping their feet, but instead the priestess settles back into the seat on the stone bench with a huff. "Sorry, I don't mean to yell. You just caught me off guard; I've never seen Magic like that." [[Continue.|4.Ira.3]]

<<set $fourtheatre to "Con">>Fortunately, you know where Constantine lives, having followed Val out of sheer curiosity on one of their mysterious outings. Whether or not Val knew you were there is debatable, but it only took you one trip to memorize the path. You were always good with directions. You head for the quiet end of the Common District, to a sensible two-story townhouse with a scraggly garden that certainly wasn't planted by Constantine. The brick is worn and the steps steep, but having a house all to $chis own is still an acheivement in the Holy City, where functional space is often at a premium. Or, perhaps, it's a testament to how well Klaus pays. You climb the seven or eight steps - only slightly winded, thank you very much - and come face-to-face with a sturdy green door with a tarnished brass knob. A trio of small holes are visible where there had once been a knocker, which goes well with the lack of welcome mat. With a breath, you rap your knuckles against the door, as loudly as you can. Knowing Constantine works at night, you can only hope $ches awake. Rousing a sleeping bear isn't on your to-do list for the day. A moment or two passes before you here a faint shuffle, a creak of footsteps on old wood. The door creaks open by just a gap, and you see a flash of olive skin and dark hair before- It's slammed in your face, the rush of wind ruffling your shirt and wood nearly scraping your nose. [[Knock again. Louder.]] [['"Just hear me out!"']] [['"Aww, Connie, don't be like that!"'][$Con -=1]] <<if $FightConnie is true>>[['"You can hit me again, if you want."']]<<else>>[['"You can hit me again, if you want."']]<</if>>

You press up against the door, one hand on the knob. "Oh come //on//, Connie. You can't still be mad at me," you call, not an ounce of sincerity in your voice. "Tell you what, you can hit me again, if you want." Silence. You raise your voice. "I won't even bite back. I mean, unless you //want//-" "Io, if you don't shut the //fuck// up-" You don't have a moment to marvel at how easily Constantine was provoked before the door opens with such violence that you stumble forward, barely catching your balance before you spill across the step. One hand is clutched against the doorframe, an act which has surely earned you a splinter or two. Oh well. You put on your most innocent face and smile up at your... host. "Hi." Constantine snorts and moves to slam the door on you again, but you stop it with a foot and a strength you didn't know you had. That, or the $cman isn't as strong as $che looks. Which, doubtful. "Just- give me a minute, won't you?" you plead, the picture of reasonableness. And miracle of miracles, Constantine grants you your request, and you finally get a chance to look at $chim. $cHis hair is loose - you've never seen it un-braided before - and damp, falling like a velvet curtain to the middle of $chis torso. The curls are a surprise, too<<if ndef $ConCrush>>.<<else>>, as are the freckles, and- oops, you're staring.<</if>> The new hairstyle does nothing to conceal the barely-restrained loathing in Constantine's eyes, however. Or $chis nose, if that nostril flare is any indication. "The fuck do you want?" $che demands, arms crossed and actively threatening you just by their existence. Your earlier offer wasn't //really// serious, but it's looking like Constantine might just take you up on it anyway. <<if $four is "Klaus">>[['"Klaus said you have to hang out with me."'|4.con.1k]]<<else>>[['"Klaus said you have to hang out with me."'|4.con.1k]]<</if>> <<if $four is "Ira">>[['"I need a favor. Pretty please?"'|4.con.1.i]]<<else>>[['"I need a favor. Pretty please?"'|4.con.1.i]]<</if>>

"Why would someone kill a demon?" you ask, unable to take your eyes off the stain. It wasn't like you cut that angel down yourself- it enacted its own demise. Right? Constantine replies with a snort. "They wouldn't. Demons don't exactly spring out of holes in the ground." -debatable, you think- "The damn things are far too valuable to just burn through like lab rats." "The point still stands. Stronger, if anything," you counter. "What's good enough to kill a demon over?" $cHe lets out a deep breath and flicks back the long braid that's fallen over $chis shoulder, standing to full height with a look that means business. "You tell me. Why are we here, Io?" [['"Do you know anything about something called the God Beneath?"'|4.con.gb]] <<if $four is "Klaus">>[['"I heard about a cult called the Faithful."'|4.i.con.faith]]<<else>>[['"I heard about a cult called the Faithful."'|4.k.con.faith]]<</if>>

"It's just down the street. I don't know the name." Ira follows your line of sight, then does a double-take, a tiny frown appearing between their eyebrows. "That- that one? Are you sure?" You nod, positive. Ira's frown deepens. "Well, you shouldn't- you shouldn't have been in there," they continue. "It's been condemned. I doubt it's even sanctified anymore." "Is that bad?" you ask, eyes flicking to the silhouette of the theatre in the distance. Constantine chimes in in response, $chis voice gruffer than usual. "Depends on how long it's been. We probably won't see anything worse than water damage and mildew in this part of town. You made it out in one piece last time, anyway." You can't be too sure of that, but there's not much to argue. "We'd better get going then." "Wait, $Dane-" chirps Ira; it takes you a moment to realize they're talking to Constantine, as infrequently as you use $chis first name. The burly $cman gives them a patient look. "I'd like to come with you. You'll be safer with a priestess, and besides... you know I can't resist poking around in old places." Picturing tiny, gentle Ira protecting Constantine is enough to make you bite back a giggle. There's a strange expression on $chis face that if you didn't know better you'd almost call soft. "Seeing as we're not welcome there, either," $che starts, "Doubt there's much I can do to stop you." Ira beams in response. [[To the theatre.|4.I.Con.3]]

<<set $fourtheatre to "Val">>You've been living on your own for a few years now, but you remember the day you made the decision like it was yesterday. [[You needed your space, and Val did too.]] [[You left on a whim and never knew how to admit it was a mistake.]] [[You thought it'd make you feel more real.]]

You were - //are// - eternally grateful to Val for everything $vthey did for you, but you couldn't take up $vtheir couch forever. You needed a chance to show your independence, and perhaps more importantly, you could tell your presence was slowly wearing on Val. How could $vthey ever find a moment for $vthemself when an otherwise homeless drifter relied on $vthem for everything? So you announced one day you wanted space of your own. When you broke the news, $vthey just studied you for a moment, then nodded, and in a jolly voice said $vthey missed apartment hunting, but that you'd better pick someplace furnished. $vThey $vwere //not// about to carry any more bed frames up a staircase, $vthey said. Having your own four walls with a lock and key that no one would intrude upon without permission was almost immediate balm for your soul. It may have taken you longer than it should have to adjust to life on your own, but to be fair, you were never truly alone. Val's door would always open for you, and you knew it better than you knew your own name. [[You find the path to Val's with the ease of an often-recited memory.|4.val.1]]

Every once in a while it felt like you unlocked a new emotion, a new state of being. Val called them //phases// but it always seemed more like a new layer to your consciousness. A realization, a branching path. A complication, welcome or not. One of these layers was a sudden need for independence, when you'd declared you were ready for your own space. You had your own money now, and a legal citizenship- which is more than Val could say for $vthemself. And you were proud, and sure of the decision, but even right then some part of you wanted Val to laugh so you could lie and say it was all a bluff. But $vthey didn't. When you broke the news, $vthey just studied you for a moment, then nodded, and in a jolly voice said $vthey missed apartment hunting, but that you'd better pick someplace furnished. $vThey $vwere //not// about to carry any more bed frames up a staircase, $vthey said. The stubborn self-confidence gave you plenty of fight to forge onward, but apparently none to turn around and beg for mercy. Not that Val would ever say you needed forgiving, but you know a sin when you see it. [[You find the path to Val's door with the ease of an often-recited memory.|4.val.1]]

//Real// people don't exist in permanent limbo on someone else's couch, or so you'd convinced yourself. You needed roots, your //own// roots, not Val's, and having your name on a lease seemed like an easy way to legitimize yourself. It never did the trick. Your apartment always seemed cluttered and strange, cavernously empty no matter how much or how little actual furniture occupied it. It started to feel like a puppet show after a while, or a set built for one of the theatre shows you've heard took place long before the priestesses claimed the stages for their own. [[You find the path to Val's door with the ease of an often-recited memory.|4.val.1]]

You don't even have to knock on the worn red door before it swings open almost violently, and you come face to face with Val. As always, $vtheir eyes light up at the sight of you and $vthey smile$vs broadly. "Well if it isn't my favorite $Name. Fancy meeting you here, eh?" You raise an eyebrow<<if $RO is "Val" or $RO is "ValKlaus">>, trying to ignore the way your heart flutters in your chest.<<else>>.<</if>> "Your favorite?" "Very favoritest," Val says, pulling $vtheir door closed behind $vthem. You notice now that $vtheyre wearing $vtheir scarf and coat, the latter of which is stained and patched with years of mischevious mishaps. Though Val //insists// the dark one on the sleeve is wine, not blood. "Where are you headed to?" you ask, distracted for a half-second by your breath clouding the air and the strangely unbidden thoughts of Val's coat. "Market; ran out of eggs. Wanna come with?" "Actually," you counter, before Val can barrel through your chance to answer. "I wanted to ask a favor. Will you come with me to the theatre?" Val only blinks and shakes $vtheir head slightly, as if trying to bounce around a reason you'd ask such a thing. "The theatre? You mean f-for the High Holy Day, or...?" "The abandoned theatre you took me to. With the angel." "Oh," says Val, though your request isn't any clearer. "Why, though?" [['"I need to know what's going on with me."']] [['"Just... please, Val?"'|4.val.2]]

They take your arm again and quickly, deftly, rewrap the bandage around your burn. You doubt it'll do you much good, but keeping it away from curious eyes never hurts. "Well," the priestess says softly, "Maybe there's other avenues to explore. The angel's corpse is long gone- I walked by just this morning. But you could go back to the place you first saw it. You said it was a theatre, right? Which one was it?" "I don't know," you admit. "It's in the Common District, but it was pretty abandoned. I didn't see a name." Ira fumbles with the final knot of the bandage, their fingers slipping and grazing against your wrist. They barely make contact, but it's enough to make you wince and hiss through your teeth. "Sorry-! Sorry," they gasp, tying off the knot gingerly. "I think I know the one. But you should be careful in places like that. They're not safe." "What do you mean? Physically unsafe?" They nod, and release your arm to put their hands in their pockets. "Yes, physically. Especially if the wards have expired. Could fall through a floorboard and break your leg, you know," they say with a weak laugh. [['"Then I won't go alone."'|4.Ira.4]]

<<set $four to "Ira">><<if not hasVisited ("4.ira.tunnels")>>HELLO THIS IS A SECRET MESSAGE FROM THE AUTHOR, IF YOU'RE SEEING THIS THERE'S AN ERROR. YOU'RE GOOD TO KEEP PLAYING BUT PLEASE LET ME KNOW AT SENTIENCE-IF.TUMBLR.COM OR IN THE COMMENTS ON ITCH.IO thanks :) <</if>>"In that case," you reply, twisting your arm and checking for any holes in the bandage. There are none, of course, Ira's done a fine job<<if $bandage is "Ira">>once again<</if>>. "I won't go alone." "Good to know you're responsible enough to drag someone else down with you," Ira replies, their tone noticeably lighter and faint smile returning. "If you'd like, I can see what I can find in the libraries. By which I mean, I //will// see what I can find, and I'll share if you're curious." You give Ira your thanks and make your way out of the cloister, leaving the little garden behind. You look back just in time to see Ira pour out their still-hot tea into the dirt before rushing back into the looming building, black hat hastily placed atop their head. Strange little priestess. You put it out of your mind and turn instead to the current problem: deciding who will accompany you into the abandoned theatre. [[Val's going to love this.|4.val][$Val +=2]] [[Maybe Constantine will help, if you ask nicely.|4.con][$Con +=2]] [[This is exactly the kind of thing Kat was asking about.|4.kat][$Kat +=2]]

Heat floods your cheeks, entirely unbidden. It wasn't a compliment or an invitation, but honestly, how the hell are you meant to take it any other way? Any response is dead in your mouth, caught on your cotton tongue. This, of course, does not escape Klaus' notice. Of course it doesn't. He pauses, stares a moment like he's making sure he's seeing what he's seeing, and smiles, just slightly. "There doesn't have to be a hymn," he adds. Of course he does. <<if $AteFruit is false>>Klaus lets the words burn in the air for a moment before straightening his shoulders and sighing, apparently putting the conversation to rest. "But anyway, did you come all the way here to tell me about Kat, or did you actually want something?" [['"I've got some questions, actually."'|4.klaus.2]] \<<else>>[[You've a need to look anywhere but at Klaus.|4.fruit]]<</if>>

//Plan// being a loose term, of course, but apparently you're no good at talking to priestesses, even the most eager and forgiving ones. Simply asking for answers isn't going to get you anywhere. Maybe it's better to dig them up with your bare hands, instead. You may not have been paying much attention the first time, but the abandoned theatre shouldn't be hard to find. And it's where your problems started, after all. That angel had to have come from somewhere. But going alone probably isn't a good idea, even if your people skills are a little rusty today. [[Val's going to love this.|4.val][$Val +=2]] [[Maybe Constantine will help, if you ask nicely.|4.con][$Con +=2]] [[This is exactly the kind of thing Kat was asking about.|4.kat][$Kat +=2]]

<<set $fourtheatre to "Kat">>You turn your feet towards the wharf, where you saw Kat last. She'd only promised she would be there at night, but you feel confident you can find a trace of her to follow. The river is much livlier, and louder, during the day- as is to be expected. You're smacked in the face with the chill winds coming off its banks and the pungent stink as the fisherfolk lay out the morning's catch of pike and trout to dry in the winter sun. You find the gaslamp you met Kat under fairly easily; they all look the same, but you could swear a hint of a dark, floral perfume lingers in the air. Spinning in a slow circle, you eye the buildings around, searching for nosy neighbors or watchful shopkeepers. Most seem to be small warehouses and offices, the kind of places an artist would happily overpay to rent studio space and call it 'authentic'. Bricks, iron, great wooden beams warping under their own weight, more bricks, black streaks of built-up soot- "Can I //help// you?" You startle, not at the suddenness of the voice but the viciousness of it, like you're a speck of dirt on a pristine bolt of silk. You find its author in a small, gnarled old woman seated in a fraying wicker chair with all the solemnity of a lighthouse keeper who's given up the sea for a post outside a shop just down the street. She's wrapped in layers upon layers of inscruatably knitted wool of every color, with a handmade quilt draped over top; the woman is utterly bundled against the winter chill, but there's no defense for you from her unimpressed sneer and hawkish eyes. "Yes, //you//," she barks, flashing pristinely white teeth, "What are you, stupid? Close your mouth kid, you're gawking like a dead fish. Now state your purpose; you'd better have a good one to be lurking around here." [['"I'm looking for someone. Maybe you could help?"'][$Bold -=1, $Charming +=2]] [['"Who's asking?"'][$Bold +=2, $Sarcastic +=2]] [['"None of your business, lady."'][$Bold +=1, $Sarcastic +=1, $Charming -=2]]

"I've already stumbled backwards into the whole thing, Handmaiden. You might as well let me in on it. And anyway, you owe me." Klaus' face twists in disbelief. "I owe //you//?" "One of your beasties mauled me," you tut, holding up and waving around your injured arm. "That's grounds for a civil suit, at least. And I have a very good lawyer. What //will// the public say?" "That's not-" he starts to protest, then stops when he apparently remembers the absurdity of your argument. "Fine. Hell on fucking earth, do whatever you want. With any luck, you and Val will both get yourselves killed and I can hire someone without a stupid streak." "Pushover," you blurt, before you can stop yourself. //That's not helping.// Klaus glowers in your direction. "Don't get used to it. Just remember that you're not Val. There's no contract here, and I'm not responsible for you. If you get caught, or worse, I'm not coming to save you." [['"Where should I start?"'|4.Klaus.4]]

"But that doesn't mean it's safe. Val knows what $vtheyre doing and what $vtheyve gotten $vthemself into. $vThey $vdont need help, or an extra liability to keep track of." You consider this. Being called a burden to Val stings more than it ought. "Val's a good thief, and an even better talker, but $vthey $vdont know Magic. $vThey $vdont //like// Magic, or the Religion, and $vthey certainly $vdont care to change that. I can guarantee that anything with even a whiff of divinity to it makes Val grit $vtheir teeth to even look at. $vThey $vdont know what to look for." <<if hasVisited ("4.klaus.amnesia") or hasVisited ("4.klaus.magic")>>Klaus is very still. "Who says I don't prefer it that way?" "I do,"<<else>>Klaus is very still. "And you do?" "Yes,"<</if>> you state. More was intended, but doesn't cross your lips. If Klaus can give vague but definitive answers, so can you. And besides, you're still not sure if you should trust him. "You've got nothing to lose." "I have //everything// to lose," Klaus corrects, "But I have a feeling you're going to do it anyway, without or without my permission." You smile, a little stiffer than you ought. "Correct. Glad you could be persuaded." Klaus glowers in your direction. "Don't get used to it. Just remember that you're not Val. There's no contract here, and I'm not responsible for you. If you get caught, or worse, I'm not coming to save you." [['"Where should I start?"'|4.Klaus.4]]

<<set $four to "Klaus">>"Any suggestions on where to start?" Klaus inclines his head. "There's the obvious one. The book of hours Val brought me- the Faithful have been using it to encrypt messages. I don't know how Val tracked it down to that theatre, but it does mean the Faithful have been there. I doubt the suicidal angel was a coincidence." The thought makes your arm itch, and you nod. It makes sense. "Take Val with you, won't you?" adds Klaus, somehow in the same tone a parent uses to make sure a younger sibling is supervised. You don't enjoy the implication of which one you are. "Or even Constantine, if you have to. Theatres aren't always the safest places, especially abandoned ones possibly infested with angels." [[Val's going to love this.|4.val][$Val +=2]] [[Well if Klaus said so, Constantine can't refuse.|4.con][$Con +=2]] [[This is exactly the kind of thing Kat was asking about.|4.kat][$Kat +=2]]

<<if $IraCrush is "denial">>Your heart leaps into your throat, then sinks into your stomach like a stone. You don't care, you //shouldn't// care. What's there to even care about? Constantine is flirting with Ira - shockingly - and Ira responded. That's fine. //Stop it//. This isn't anything. The exchange was just surprising and you're reacting weird because you're a little starved for attention. It's normal and it doesn't mean anything. You push away that defensive feeling that makes you want to step between the two, cutting Constantine off so only you get to see Ira's bright smile. Then you look again and see the satisfation on the priestess' face, and nearly break a tooth trying not to blurt out something stupid. <<else>>Your heart leaps into your throat, then sinks into your stomach like a stone. Constantine flirting - and successfully - is enough to send you into a tizzy, but why did it have to be with Ira? $cHe has to pick someone else. Anyone else. You stare at the mercenary's boots, hoping your ire is enough to burn a hole straight through them. The mental image of $chim hopping and shouting is enough to soothe you for a moment. Then you look again and see the satisfaction on Ira's face, and nearly break a tooth trying not to blurt out something stupid. <</if>><<if hasVisited ("4.i.mirror")>> An irritated groan escapes you like a bubble. It's quiet, but enough for Constantine to shoot you a glare, one that quickly turns into a frown. "What the fuck happened to your face?" A stab of pain across your brow helpfully punctuates $chis point. You apparently lost Ira's handkerchief somewhere in the shuffle (something that stings more than the injury), though the bleeding seems to have stopped. "Hit my head," you say. "$They fell," chimes Ira simultaneously. Constatine glances between the two of you, then sighs, pinching $chis nose. "Never mind, I don't want to know." <</if>>[[Anyway.|4.i.con.stage.2]]

<<if $ConCrush is "denial">>Your heart leaps into your throat, then sinks into your stomach like a stone. You don't care, you //shouldn't// care. What's there to even care about? Constantine is flirting with Ira - shockingly - and Ira responded. That's fine. //Stop it//. This isn't anything. The exchange was just surprising and you're reacting weird because you're a little starved for attention. It's normal and it doesn't mean anything. You push away that defensive feeling that makes you want to step between the two, cutting Ira off, absorbing Constantine's words for yourself. Then you look again and see the enchantment on the Constantine's face, and nearly break a tooth trying not to blurt out something stupid. <<else>>Your heart leaps into your throat, then sinks into your stomach like a stone. Constantine flirting - and successfully - is enough to send you into a tizzy, but why did it have to be with Ira? Why not you? You're standing right there. <<if $ConFlirt gte 1>>And haven't you been trying? Maybe not always with the best intentions, but why should that matter?<</if>> You stare at the edge priestess' sleeves, wishing they would simply vanish. Or say something rude, or push Constantine away. It soothes you for a moment, imagining the ways this could go wrong and you'd be the one left to pick up the pieces and comfort Constantine. Then you look again and see the enchantment on Constantine's face, and nearly break a tooth trying not to blurt out something stupid. <</if>><<if hasVisited ("4.i.mirror")>> An irritated groan escapes you like a bubble. It's quiet, but enough for Constantine to shoot you a glare, one that quickly turns into a frown. "What the fuck happened to your face?" A stab of pain across your brow helpfully punctuates $chis point, and you hope the blood outweighs the sudden redness in your cheeks. You apparently lost Ira's handkerchief somewhere in the shuffle, though the bleeding seems to have stopped. "Hit my head," you say. "$They fell," chimes Ira simultaneously. Constatine glances between the two of you, then sighs, pinching $chis nose. "Never mind, I don't want to know." <</if>>[[Anyway.|4.i.con.stage.2]]

<<if $ConCrush is "denial" and $IraCrush is "denial">>Your heart leaps into your throat, then sinks into your stomach like a stone. You don't care, you //shouldn't// care. What's there to even care about? Constantine is flirting with Ira - shockingly - and Ira responded. That's fine. <<elseif $ConCrush is "denial" and $IraCrush isnot "denial">>Your heart leaps into your throat, then sinks into your stomach like a stone. You don't care, you //shouldn't// care. Constantine flirting - and successfully - is enough to send you into a tizzy, but why did it have to be with Ira? $cHe has to pick someone else. Anyone else. Maybe someone specific. <<elseif $ConCrush isnot "denial" and $IraCrush is "denial">>Your heart leaps into your throat, then sinks into your stomach like a stone. Constantine flirting - and successfully - is enough to send you into a tizzy, but why did it have to be with Ira? Why not you? You're standing right there. <<if $ConFlirt gte 1>>And haven't you been trying? Maybe not always with the best intentions, but why should that matter?<</if>> <<elseif $ConCrush isnot "denial" and $IraCrush isnot "denial">>Your heart leaps into your throat, then sinks into your stomach like a stone. You don't care, you //shouldn't// care. Constantine flirting - and successfully - is enough to send you into a tizzy, but why did it have to be with Ira? $cHe has to pick someone else. Anyone else. Maybe someone specific.<<if $ConFlirt gte 1>>And haven't you been trying? Maybe not always with the best intentions, but why should that matter?<</if>> //Stop it//. This isn't anything. The exchange was just surprising and you're reacting weird because you're a little starved for attention. It's normal and it doesn't mean anything. You push away that defensive feeling that makes you want to shove your way between the two, absorbing Constantine's words and Ira's smile for yourself. Then you look again and see the enchantment on the Constantine's face and the satisfaction on Ira's, and nearly break a tooth trying not to blurt out something stupid. <</if>><<if hasVisited ("4.i.mirror")>> An irritated groan escapes you like a bubble. It's quiet, but enough for Constantine to shoot you a glare, one that quickly turns into a frown. "What the fuck happened to your face?" A stab of pain across your brow helpfully punctuates $chis point. You apparently lost Ira's handkerchief somewhere in the shuffle (something that stings more than the injury), though the bleeding seems to have stopped. "Hit my head," you say. "$They fell," chimes Ira simultaneously. Constatine glances between the two of you, then sighs, pinching $chis nose. "Never mind, I don't want to know." <</if>>[[Anyway.|4.i.con.stage.2]]

Something's happening here, and Constantine saying something nice is only the surface of it. Your eyes flick between the satisfied look on Ira's face and the enraptured one on Constantine and time slows for a moment as you process this information, and more importantly, what it's doing for your mood. Your heart is... fluttering, literally. Is that right? That can't be right. Especially since this has nothing to do with you, you're just //standing// there. Witnessing it. //Stop it//. This isn't anything. The exchange was just surprising and you're reacting weird because you're a little starved for attention. It's normal and it doesn't mean anything. You push away that defensive feeling that makes you want to shove your way between the two, absorbing Constantine's words and Ira's smile for yourself. <<if hasVisited ("4.i.mirror")>>The laugh escapes you like a bubble. It's quiet, but enough for Constantine to shoot you a glare, one that quickly turns into a frown. "What the fuck happened to your face?" A stab of pain across your brow helpfully punctuates $chis point. You apparently lost Ira's handkerchief somewhere in the shuffle, though the bleeding seems to have stopped. "Hit my head," you say. "$They fell," chimes Ira simultaneously. Constatine glances between the two of you, then sighs, pinching $chis nose. "Never mind, I don't want to know." <</if>>[[Anyway.|4.i.con.stage.2]]

Something's happening here, and Constantine saying something nice is only the surface of it. Your eyes flick between the satisfied look on Ira's face and the enraptured one on Constantine and time slows for a moment as you process this information. Is this.... Ira is flirting with Constantine, that's fine. But is $che flirting //back//? You didn't know $che knew how to do that. Where's Val when you need $vthem? This is breaking goddamn news. <<if $ConFlirt gte 1>>Some sour little part of you isn't sure whether to be annoyed or pleased that Constantine's perpetual irritation at your own playful poking and prodding is apparently, in fact, a problem with //you//. <</if>><<if hasVisited ("4.i.mirror")>>The laugh escapes you like a bubble. It's quiet, but enough for Constantine to shoot you a glare, one that quickly turns into a frown. "What the fuck happened to your face?" A stab of pain across your brow helpfully punctuates $chis point. You apparently lost Ira's handkerchief somewhere in the shuffle, though the bleeding seems to have stopped. "Hit my head," you say. "$They fell," chimes Ira simultaneously. Constatine glances between the two of you, then sighs, pinching $chis nose. "Never mind, I don't want to know." <</if>>[[Anyway.|4.i.con.stage.2]]

"I don't know how I'm supposed to talk about anything else," you reply with an insincere frown. "Nice weather today- oh, wait!" Ira laughs again, covering their mouth when a snort escapes. "Okay, okay," they say, waving a hand. "Fair enough. Hmm... Well, what if it's like frostbite? That can turn your skin black. Not //literally// like frostbite I mean-" they cut in, before you can open your mouth to protest. "But the principle. Overexposure." They seem to have a bad habit of only sharing the second half of their thoughts out loud. You blink, gesturing for them to continue. <<if not hasVisited ("4.i magic will make")>>"I know you're not a $priestess, but have you ever been annointed? It innoculates you against Magical rot, like a vaccine. But it could have been done improperly, or more likely, direct contact from an angel just overpowered it. Or you could always have the genetic immunity, I suppose, and maybe it's not foolproof. Are you the lost child of a noble house, by any chance?" You're almost positive the last part was a joke, but in all fairness, you //don't// know. Maybe you //were// a $priestess; maybe you //were// annointed. Maybe you're one of the lucky few with that precious DNA. Either way, there's one thing you know: Magic has never made you ill. [[Shake your head. "Not that I know of."|4.i.no magic]] [['"I can use Magic just fine."'|4.i.magic]] \<<else>>"I saw you use Magic just now, so you must be at least annointed. I'm assuming you're not a $priestess, I think you would have mentioned that-" they huff a laugh, "But it could have been done improperly, or more likely, direct contact from an angel just overpowered it. Or you could always have the genetic immunity, I suppose, and maybe it's not foolproof. Are you the lost child of a noble house, by any chance?" You're almost positive the last part was a joke, but in all fairness, you //don't// know. Maybe you //were// a $priestess; maybe you //were// annointed. Maybe you're one of the lucky few with that precious DNA. Either way, there's one thing you know: Magic has never made you ill. [[Shake your head. "Not that I know of."|4.i.no magic]] <</if>>

<<set $fourStage to true>>Following the trail of Kat's footsteps takes you to the largest room of the theatre, as you suspected, depositing you in a cramped aisle between shattered wooden pews. It's almost as dark as you remember, only a narrow beam of light filtering through a broken patch of roof to light your way. An earthy must fills the air and puddles of dirty rainwater lap at your feet. You've barely a chance to register Kat's lanky form before you and Ira are both unceremoniously herded backwards into a tiny chapel and crowded against the walls. You start to protest, but are cut off by Ira's hand against your mouth. They look to Kat, who inclines her head towards the open space beyond. A thin, oily smudge wanders the edges of the room, erratically pacing back and forth and back again seemingly without thought or hesitation, as if lost in some time loop. It carries only the suggestion of a head, shoulders, and limbs, and a shift of light for the eyes. If you weren't built to recognize patterns, it would never occur to you as humanoid. A primal anxiety knocks at your heart as the demon nears your perch. Its limbs all end in razor-sharp points, and while it has no mouth, you don't doubt it has teeth. You shrink back into your little alcove, waiting for it to notice you and unhinge its jaw. Kat's elbow is against your chest, simultaneously shielding you and barring your means of escape. It's close now, almost within reach, the air smelling of dust and ozone and velvet- And it pays you no mind. Heat seeps from your skin as it passes, muttering darkly under its breath. Its voice is like the roaring of the ocean, powerful and textured, but utterly incomprehensible even to you. More importantly, it either didn't notice you, or doesn't care. You breathe a sigh, lungs aching. Ira's own gasp of relief is but a puff of air. The demon moves away from you and across the stage in its strange trance, stopping and starting again at nothing at all, or something long extinct. "Can you control a demon?" you ask softly, eyeing the rosary draped around Ira's neck. The creature may have moved away, but you doubt your luck. "Demons are tricky," Ira replies with a subtle shake of their head. Their gray eyes track the hazy beast as it ambles about the room like a sad puppet. "The best I can do is turn one away. At least this one is peaceful." [[You feel sorry for the poor creature.|4.i.kat you feel sorry][$Sanity -=2]] [[It's a demon, there's nothing to pity.|4.i.kat its a demon][$Sanity +=2]]

<<set $fourStorage to true>>"I want to check out the chapel, actually," you say, pointing in its general direction. An inner sanctum may hold important mysteries. <<if $four is "Klaus">>"You two go ahead," says Ira, "I want to observe this demon a little longer."<<else>>"Go on ahead," says Klaus, "I'll catch up." You try to ignore how eager he is to put distance between Kat and himself.<</if>> The chapel is near the edge of the theatre, a rounded blip attached to the shorter side of the building. The hall is long and dark, and the door heavy, though its hinges move without a sound. You step through, eyes quickly adjusting to the dim light, only to be immediately struck by a sense of deja vu; there's a familiarity to the chapel, as in many Religious places. There may be hundreds, thousands of theatres, but they're all one in the end. The room is barren and not much more than a closet, but an echo of past glory still remains- details in the smogged-out window panes, a scrap of blue paint still clinging to the vaulted ceiling. Instinct tells you there was once a vivid field of stars above your head, now lost to time and neglect. The floor is swept, clean stone, better cared for than much of the theatre. Which leaves you to wonder what could have possibly caused the dark stain smeared across the flagstones that made it so impossible to remove. It isn't blood, and it isn't ash, though a smoky smell does hang in the air. You could perhaps blame the trio of stunted candles or charred silver censer, but the tang is far closer to that of the demon in the next room. Kat clicks her tongue. "Ah, a murder scene," she states dryly. Something defensive and raw within you wants to argue, to deny it, but you know she's right. "Another demon?" you ask, though it's not much of a question. And as if in answer, a prickle crawls up your neck; you glance over your shoulder, sure something will be watching you from the doorway. But there's nothing. Kat's eyes follow your own, staring at the empty space alongside you for a moment before returning to your face. She quirks an eyebrow, but doesn't give you a chance to explain, instead crouching down to pinch her fingers around the nearest candle wick. "If killing a demon even counts as murder. But of greater importance-" Her fingers come away ashen. "Our suspect was here recently." [['"Why would someone kill a demon?"'|4.kat.storage2]]

"Not that I know of," you reply, shaking your head. Ira hums, tapping their lips with a finger. "That might be worth looking into. I don't know much about it, but I've heard divine creatures can sense genetic immunities. Maybe we can find you a well-behaved angel for a little blood test." Sounds unpleasant. You grimace, and Ira laughs again, a twinkle in their gray eyes. "I don't think they need more than a drop, $Name, but that's a problem for another time, I suppose." They glance about the disaster of a room, and sigh. "Well, I doubt we'll find much else here without quite a bit of manual labor. Unless you want to spend the day re-alphabetizing these poor books." They toe a shredded volume with their boot, a mournful look on their face. <<if ndef $fourStage>> \<<if $fourtheatre is "Con">>[['"Let's go find Constantine."'|4.I.Con.Stage]]<</if>> \<<if $fourtheatre is "Val">>[['"Let's go find Val."'|4.I.Val.Stage]]<</if>> \<<if $fourtheatre is "Kat">>[['"Let's go find Kat."'|4.I.Kat.Stage]]<</if>> \<<else>> \<<if $fourtheatre is "Con">>[['"Let's go find Constantine."'|4.Con.Storage]]<</if>> \<<if $fourtheatre is "Val">>[['"Let's go find Val."'|4.Val.Storage]]<</if>> \<<if $fourtheatre is "Kat">>[['"Let's go find Kat."'|4.Kat.Storage]]<</if>> <</if>>

"I can use Magic just fine," you say, flinging a sparkle of light through your fingers for emphasis. Ira blinks at the display owlishly. "Well, that only raises more questions. You- oh..." They frown, something dimming in their eyes. "You're messing with me, aren't you? Obviously. Where'd you go to seminary, then?" "I didn't. I'm not a $priestess, Ira." "Of course you are. No one outside the Religious can use Magic. That's not a law or a custom, it's just the way it is. "I didn't think you cared about how things should or shouldn't be," you argue, not entirely unrudely. "You're full of unlikely ideas." "I-" Ira starts to reply, then closes their mouth, frown growing deeper. They glance about the disaster of a room, and sigh. "Never mind. Anyway, I doubt we'll find much else here without quite a bit of manual labor. Unless you want to spend the day re-alphabetizing these poor books." They toe a shredded volume with their boot, a mournful look on their face. <<if ndef $fourStage>> \<<if $fourtheatre is "Con">>[['"Let's go find Constantine."'|4.I.Con.Stage]]<</if>> \<<if $fourtheatre is "Val">>[['"Let's go find Val."'|4.I.Val.Stage]]<</if>> \<<if $fourtheatre is "Kat">>[['"Let's go find Kat."'|4.I.Kat.Stage]]<</if>> \<<else>> \<<if $fourtheatre is "Con">>[['"Let's go find Constantine."'|4.Con.Storage]]<</if>> \<<if $fourtheatre is "Val">>[['"Let's go find Val."'|4.Val.Storage]]<</if>> \<<if $fourtheatre is "Kat">>[['"Let's go find Kat."'|4.Kat.Storage]]<</if>> <</if>>

<<if $Core lt 50>>//The sour taste of vomit is thick on your tongue.// <</if>>You get a long, dry look from Constantine, everything but the rolled eyes. "You trying to proselytize me, Io? Got some tracts and forbidden tomes about cutting the High Priest's throat open on the Divine Theatre's altar?" You can only blink at $chis abrasive tone and the half-snarl that shows the sharpest of $chis teeth. Ira, of course, chooses this exact moment to catch up and enter the chapel, a startled look on their face. Constantine sees your blank reaction and sighs, a hand over $chis brow. "Who told you about the Faithful? Val? $vThey need$vs to learn to keep $vtheir mouth shut." <<if not hasVisited ("4.i.faithful")>>Ira's surprise turns to alarm. "The Faithful?" they interject, voice strained. "Aren't they a myth?"<<else>>Ira's surprise turns to defeat. "This again?" they interject, voice strained.<</if>> [['"How long has Val known?"'|4.i.con.val]] [['"Someone named Kat told me."'|4.i.con.kat]]

"Well speaking of, //Connie//, why haven't you just asked Klaus?" Constantine's teeth are instantly bared, displaying a level of violence that matches whatever evil thing lurks on your tongue. "Be quiet, Io," $che snarls. A wrinkle creases the space between Ira's brows as they look up at Constantine, then at you, then back to Constantine. "What's happening?" they ask. "Do you know the Priest's Hand, $Dane?" "He only cuts Connie's checks. Or, well, it's probably all cash, isn't it? Don't want a paper trail leading to your hired swor- sorry, agents." "Are you //done//?" growls Constantine, $chis arms hanging loose and ready at $chis sides, fingers brushing the hilt of $chis sword. It's a broad, heavy thing, and could probably pummel you to death just as easily as it could slice through you. Your survival instinct is begging you to stop, to shut up, or at least to //back away//. But the other voice is louder- //$che won't hurt you in front of Ira.// <<if hasVisited ("4.i.control")>>"That's enough-" Ira cuts in, a fierceness in their voice you haven't heard before. "Both of you. //Especially// you, $Name. As much as you seem to enjoy provoking people, it's none of your business what the Blessed Guard and the Acropolis do." "Ira-" Constantine starts, only to be silenced by Ira's hand. "No, it's okay. I won't ask any questions," they say, then meet your eyes. "I know better." \<<else>>"Stop it-" Ira cuts in, a fierceness in their voice you haven't heard before. "Both of you. I don't know what weird power struggle is going on here, but it's ugly. It's not- it's not my business who $Dane works for, and if it really is the Priest's Hand, it's definitely not yours to spead around, $Name." "Ira-" Constantine starts, only to be silenced by Ira's hand. "No, it's okay. I won't ask any questions," they say, then meet your eyes. "I know better." <</if>>A tense, silent moment passes, and then Constantine relaxes with a deep sigh, hand finally moving away from the hilt of $chis sword. Though the loathsome spark in $chis eyes when $che glances your way doesn't dim by even a flicker. So you avert your own, and focus on the floor, and the cracks in the stones, and the ashy dark forever trapped in the crevices. What ever it was, divine or demonic or somewhere in between, it was gone, reduced to a stain in a building abandoned twice over, no more a survivor than the shell-shocked ruin you find yourself standing in. "We should leave," you say finally. You wait a moment for Ira's agreement, then a moment longer. It takes a third to make you tear your eyes away from the floor. [[No answer comes.|4.i.con.3]]

<<if $Core lt 50>>//Dancing lights play across the backs of your eyes, sharp and cruel.// <</if>>Constantine stares at you blankly for a moment, then wrinkles $chis nose. "The what? A god? The Religious don't do //gods//, Io," $che responds, dark brows furrowed. "And if there's any religions that do, they're not in the Holy City. The Acropolis doesn't tolerate competition. Which probably means you'd best keep questions like that to yourself." "Apparently it lives under the city-" you start, only to be immediately cut off by Constantine's scoff and dismissive wave. "Yeah, and there's alligators in the sewers. Heard anything else stupid?" Thought of smacking Constantine upside the head comes to you unbidden, but you clearly aren't getting anymore out of $chim on this subject, so you stash the fantasy away for later. <<if $four is "Ira">>"Would Klaus know?" you ask, voice as patient as you can make it. <<else>>"Klaus wouldn't tell me, either," you say, a little annoyed. <</if>>$cHe might be bluffing to get you to stop asking about heresies, or $che might not. "Leave the Handmaiden alone. He's got far more important shit to worry about." Constantine frowns, then pauses. "Why do you care about some god?" <<if $Core lt 50>>[["'Because I came from the tunnels, too."']]<<elseif hasVisited ("4.klaus.tunnels") or hasVisited ("4.klaus.tunnels2")>>[["'Because I came from the tunnels, too."']]<<else>>[["'Because I came from the tunnels, too."']]<</if>> <<if $four is "Klaus">>[['"I heard about a cult called the Faithful."'|4.i.con.faith]]<<else>>[['"I heard about a cult called the Faithful."'|4.k.con.faith]]<</if>>

"I've been down there, in the tunnels," you reply, ready to explain. Or at least, that's what you mean to say. But you open your lips and no sound comes out. \>//DON'T.// [[Never mind.|nevermind.con]] [[Say it.][$Sanity +=2]]

"Don't pass out in this dirty-ass place," Constantine says almost disdainfully, still staring at you with those bottomless brown eyes. "Sit; it won't kill you." You don't totally believe $chim, but you seek the stability of the nearest wall anyway, shaking your head like you're clearing cobwebs. You assure Constantine you're fine. Whatever that was, it's gone now, you're probably just tired. $cHe doesn't bother to hide $chis doubt, but doesn't press the issue. <<if $four is "Klaus">>[['"I heard about a cult called the Faithful."'|4.i.con.faith]]<</if>> <<if $four is "Ira">>[['"I heard about a cult called the Faithful."'|4.k.con.faith]]<</if>>

\>//DO NOT.// There's a voice in your head and you're only mostly sure it's your own. A beat of sweat rolls down your back, and you still cannot speak. Your jaw grinds. \>//NO////.// Constantine is staring at you like you've grown a second head. There might be genuine concern in there somewhere, but the world is too blurred and sideways for you to tell. [[You're fine.|nevermind.con]] [[Say. It.][$Core -=5, $Sanity +=2]]

<<if $Core lt 50>>//The sour taste of vomit is thick on your tongue.// <</if>>You get a long, dry look from Constantine, everything but the rolled eyes. "You trying to proselytize me, Io? Got some tracts and forbidden tomes about cutting the High Priest's throat open on the Divine Theatre's altar?" You can only blink at $chis abrasive tone and the half-snarl that shows the sharpest of $chis teeth. Klaus, of course, chooses this exact moment to catch up and enter the chapel, with only a dryly raised eyebrow in response to Constantine's raised voice. Constantine sees your blank reaction and sighs, a hand over $chis brow. "Who told you about the Faithful? Val? $vThey need$vs to learn to keep $vtheir mouth shut." Behind you, Klaus sighs. <<if $RO is "ValKlaus">>[['"So Val knows about this, too?"'|4.k.con.val.k]]<<else>>[['"So Val knows about this, too?"'|4.k.con.val]]<</if>> [['"Someone named Kat told me."'|4.k.con.kat]]

"Did you see any demons the last time you were here, $Name?" Ira asks, returning to the matter at hand. The demon in question has reached the other side of the cavernous audience hall now, barely visible in the shadows and grime. "No, but I also wasn't paying much attention. I was only in here for less than a second." "And the angel came afterwards?" You nod. "Out on the steps." "It must have been deeper within the theatre, then," ponders Ira, "They're pretty hard to miss, blinding halos and all that. //Why// though, I don't know. I can accept a demon lurking around, but angels only operate on command." "Do you know any priestesses assigned to this theatre?" Constantine asks, arms crossed. "It's not on the Blessed Guard's rotation." Ira shakes their head. "No, but I'm really only familiar with my own department, and this one doesn't have a library.<<if hasVisited ("4.I.Study")>> The study doesn't count, it's too small to have staff."<<else>>" "There is a library," you interject. "Or a study, maybe. A room with books?" Ira's interest is immediately piqued, their eyes expectant, though that may have nothing to do with any mystery at hand.<</if>> <<if not hasVisited ("4.I.Study")>>[[To the study.|4.I.Study]] \<<else>>[['"What about the inner chapel?"'|4.Con.Storage]]<</if>>

The building sits oddly quiet, stony, and you can't help but be reminded of a carcass, the yawning cavern of a ribcage made petrified over centuries of neglect. How you missed it before is baffling: this theatre is well and truly abandoned, devoid of even the buzz of ambient Magic. A chalky scorch mark stains the front staircase, and the wide wooden doors still hang open. Only darkness lies beyond. You peek at Ira to see if their thoughts echo yours, and find them with a glazed look in their eye, staring at the theatre like they wish they could see straight through it. Their frown is tight. The bleak wind plays at the tips of their curls, and you catch them shiver. Kat makes a disapproving click with her tongue. "Well isn't this horrific, then?" she says to no one in particular. Though at a glance, there's nothing short of interest on her face. "It's been empty for a long time," interjects Ira, tucking a lock of hair behind one ear. "When I was little, my sisters always said it was haunted." [['"You have sisters?"'|4.i.kat sisters][$Ira +=2]] [['"Do you believe in ghosts?"'|4.i.kat ghosts][$Ira +=1]] [['"Why is it empty?"'|4.i.kat empty]]

"You have sisters?" you ask, attempting to steer their attention from the grimness of the place. They nod. "Two- Ophelia and Manon. I'm the youngest." "Are they priestesses, too?" It takes Ira a beat to answer, and you swear you catch the ghost of a satisfied smile on their face. "No. Shall we go in?" With a final rallying breath, you steel yourself and take the first step into the dark, gaping throat, your two companions not far behind, Kat's boots clicking neatly on the pavement. The interior is dustier than you remember, almost enough to soften your footsteps in the gloom. A light pattern of disturbances in the near-silt leads down the corridor and through an archway to the right. Those must be your own frantic footprints from a few nights before. Kat points out the tracks herself, and traces them further into the dark, to what must be the main auditorium if you remember correctly. "I'll follow your lead," Ira says softly. Their voice seems oddly at home in this old place. [[Go with Kat to the stage.|4.I.Kat.Stage]] [[To the study.|4.I.Study]]

"Do you believe in ghosts, Ira?" "No. But I do believe in hauntings." "As you should," Kat adds. "Well, dear ones, what are we waiting for? The ghosts won't come to us." With that encouraging thought, you steel yourself and follow Kat into the dark, gaping throat, with Ira not far behind. The interior is dustier than you remember, almost enough to soften your footsteps in the gloom. A light pattern of disturbances in the near-silt leads down the corridor and through an archway to the right. Those must be your own frantic footprints from a few nights before. Kat points out the tracks herself, and traces them further into the dark, to what must be the main auditorium if you remember correctly. "I'll follow your lead," Ira says softly. Their voice seems oddly at home in this old place. [[Go with Kat to the stage.|4.I.Kat.Stage]] [[To the study.|4.I.Study]]

"Why was it abandoned?" They shrug, and pull their coat tighter around their shoulders. "I don't know. Structural damage, probably; that's usually what gets the old theatres. They survived the Collapse but the millenia of neglect is just too much. They're very hard to rebuild." "There were people inside last time I was here," you say distantly, thinking of the two priestesses who spotted you and Val and chased you right into the angel's arms. Though, now that you think about it, you're not sure they followed you past the first hallway. "Just paying their respects, probably, or searching for old documents or relics. You'd be surprised at the kinds of things you can find in a theatre basement that should have turned to dust centuries ago." You can practically feel Kat's brilliant smile behind you. "Well, dear ones, what are we waiting for? The treasure won't come to us." With that encouraging thought, you steel yourself and follow Kat into the dark, gaping throat, with Ira not far behind. The interior is dustier than you remember, almost enough to soften your footsteps in the gloom. A light pattern of disturbances in the near-silt leads down the corridor and through an archway to the right. Those must be your own frantic footprints from a few nights before. Kat points out the tracks herself, and traces them further into the dark, to what must be the main auditorium if you remember correctly. "I'll follow your lead," Ira says softly. Their voice seems oddly at home in this old place. [[Go with Kat to the stage.|4.I.Kat.Stage]] [[To the study.|4.I.Study]]

Ira is gone, as is Constantine, not even their footprints in the dust to assure you that they were once present. You are entirely alone. You glance about the room; there's nowhere to hide in the tiny chapel, so you look first to the filthy window set high on the wall. Light still shines through, however weakly, and though the grime makes the hour difficult to judge, you don't feel as though any time has passed. You check your hands- five fingers each, as usual; you pinch yourself, and find that you've nearly lost feeling in your injured arm. Not a dream, then- at least according to the tricks Val has taught you in the past. Did you black out? Have your companions abandoned you? Or you, them? You've sleepwalked once or twice before, and the dread building in your chest now isn't unlike that of waking somewhere you didn't lie down in. [[Sit and wait.]] [[Leave the chapel behind.]]

"Why would someone kill a demon?" you ask, unable to take your eyes off the stain. It wasn't like you cut that angel down yourself- it enacted its own demise. Right? Val steps away from the circle and dusts off $vtheir hands. "Why //wouldn't// they? I'd kill one if I could- they're fucking terrifying. The less the better. But-" $vthey pause$vs, pressing a hand to $vtheir chin. "-it's still a good point. You'd have to be a priestess, or at least trained in Magic, right? And I don't know why the Religious would kill one of their own pet monsters." Your mouth turns cottony, and you have to shake your head to disperse the sudden ringing. //One of their own.// "Can I ask you something, Val?" "Of course you can, $Name," $vthey reply brightly, looking at you with almost sparkling eyes, though that may just be a product of the dust and murk. [['"Will you tell me how you ended up working for Klaus?"'|4.val.klausstory]] [['"Have you ever heard of something called the God Beneath?"'|4.val.gb]]

<<if $Core lt 50>>//A great weight settles into your frame, sickly and rocking.// <</if>>Val raises an eyebrow at you, cheeky grin at the ready. "I've already told you, I saved his life, and because I was such a dashing, charming rogue, he immediately fell in love with me-" "In love with you? That's new-" "//Madly// in love with me, and was so enamoured and grateful he begged me to come work for him at the Acropolis," Val continues, soldiering past your criticisms, theatrical smile widening. "Val, I don't believe for a second that that man has ever begged for anything in his life." $vThey respond$vs with an immediate burst of laughter, one arm wrapped around $vtheir ribcage and the back of $vtheir other hand wiping an imagined speck of dust from $vtheir cheek. "Fair enough," Val says, "I'll admit I may have embellished a little. A lot. Okay, maybe it was a complete lie, but-" $vthey pause$vs for effect and holds up a finger. "A $vperson can dream. The real story isn't nearly as... flattering. For me." [['"Well, now I have to know."']] [[Raise your eyebrows mischieviously. "I can ask Klaus instead, if you want."][$Charming +=2]] [['"I assumed as much."']]

<<if $Core lt 50>>//You feel your insides coil like a snake.// <</if>>"Val, do you know about the God Beneath?" The words are barely out of your mouth before Val stiffens, brows furrowed. $vThey glance$vs about, as if to spot someone listening in. "Did you say the God Beneath? Where'd you hear about that?" The seriousness in $vtheir voice sends a nervous prickle down your spine. You've never seen Val this stern. <<if $four is "Ira">>"Someone... someone mentioned it to me," you reply, suddenly sure you shouldn't bring Ira's name into this. "They said it was an old Religious story." "It is, I think," says Val, frown twisting. "But $Name, it's better if you don't talk about it, especially to anyone else. It's considered a heresy, and you could get in deep, deep trouble if the wrong person found out." <<else>>"Someone... someone mentioned it to me," you reply, suddenly sure you shouldn't bring Ira's name into this. "They said it was an old Religious story. I asked Klaus and he... reacted about the same way you are." A flitter of panic crosses Val's face- another emotion you aren't accustomed to seeing on $vthem. "Fucking hell, $Name, Klaus is the //last// person you should be asking about gods. What did he say?" "That it was heresy. But..."<</if>> But why does Val know about it? And more importantly, why can you feel the miles and miles of empty, frozen tunnel beneath your feet? "$Name?" <<if $Core lt 50>>[['"It was so cold down there."']]<<elseif hasVisited ("4.klaus.tunnels") or hasVisited ("4.klaus.tunnels2")>>[['"It was so cold down there."']]<<else>>[['"It was so cold down there."']]<</if>> [[Never mind.|nevermind.val]]

"I was thinking about the tunnels, how cold it was," you reply, ready to trace the faintest memories you have of that labryinth, hoping Val could lay it out for you. Or at least, that's what you mean to say. But you open your lips and no sound comes out. \>//DON'T.// [[Never mind.|nevermind.val]] [[Tell Val.][$Sanity +=2]]

"$Name, hey," Val says again, squeezing the soft part of your shoulder. "Are you alright?" You shake your head like you're clearing cobwebs and assure Val that you're fine. Whatever that was, it's gone now. You're probably just tired. $vThey give$vs you a stern look and $vdont back off. "Are you sure? You should have a sit. You looked like you were having an out of body experience. See a ghost or something?" "I'm alright, Val," you assure $vthem, half to convince yourself. "I was just thinking about how strange the last few days have been." Val's smile is thin, but relieved. "You're telling me." <<if not hasVisited ("4.val.klausstory")>>[['"Will you tell me how you ended up working for Klaus?"'|4.val.klausstory]]<<else>>[['"I met another priestess. Or, she said she was a priestess."'|4.val.kat]]<</if>>

\>//DO NOT.// There's a voice in your head and you're only mostly sure it's your own. A beat of sweat rolls down your back, and you still cannot speak. Your jaw grinds. \>//NO////.// Val is in your space almost immediately, warm hands gripping your arms gently but firmly. "What's wrong, $Name?" $vthey say$vs, the smallest tremble in their voice. $vThey sound$vs like $vtheyre underwater. [[You're fine.|nevermind.val]] [[Tell. Val.][$Core -=5, $Sanity +=2]]

"Another?" says Val with a laugh. "You're really starting a collection, $Name. Who was it this time, and are they pretty?" "Her name is Kat Saxon." You were going to ignore Val's second question, but it turns out you don't need to. Val's brows shoot up, and $vthey stiffen$vs slightly. "You know her?" you ask. Val nods, then shrugs. "We haven't met, but I've heard of her. She's definitely a spy; for who? No fucking idea. I think she's been in and out of the Acropolis for a while, though. All I know for sure is that Klaus isn't a fan. Don't think Connie is either, but well, what else is new? What'd she want with you, anyway?" "Hard to tell," you admit. "She told me about an anti-Religious cult, though. They're called the Faithful." A mix of emotions crosses Val's face, somewhere between hilarity and panic. <<if $four is "klaus">>You certainly weren't supposed to know about the Faithful, and you definitely weren't supposed to know that Val knew.<</if>>$vThey finally land$vs on an ironic smile. "Ooh, this is some kind of karma, isn't it?" $vthey say$vs, sighing and rubbing at their eyes; the smudge of $vtheir makeup somehow manages to make Val look even more like $vthemself. <<if $four is "Ira">>[['"For what, Val?"']]<<else>>[['"A little."']]<</if>>

You laugh. "Well, now I have to know." <<if hasVisited ("4.Klaus.Val")>>Nevermind that you've already heard Klaus' version. This is a compare and contrast exercise.<</if>> Val's shoulders shrink a little, $vtheir smile turning sheepish. "I was hired to steal something from him, some bullshit Religious relic or an other. I didn't know who he was, just that he was rich, and the relic would be guarded." "Someone sent you after a //Handmaiden// without warning you first?" you blurt, <<if hasVisited ("4.Klaus.Val")>>feigning surprise.<<else>>almost offended on Val's behalf. <</if>>$vThey gesture$vs at you, waving an incredulous open palm. "Right!? Either they didn't know, which, //bullshit//, or they were just plain stupid." [['"Or they wanted you dead."']] [['"Maybe they were very confident in your abilities."'][$Val +=2]]

You give them a barely-contained mischevious look. "I can ask Klaus instead, if you like," you say slowly. <<if hasVisited ("4.Klaus.Val")>>Nevermind that you already have. This is a compare and contrast exercise.<</if>> $vTheir eyes grow cartoonishly round as $vthey gasp dramatically. "Is that a threat, $Name? Are you threatening me?" <<if $four is "Klaus">>"Oh, you feel threatened by that? Interesting. Which way is the Acropolis, again?" You turn about, pretending to get your bearings, but Val catches your arm and pulls you back, laughing, before you can take more than two steps. \<<else>>"Oh, you feel threatened by that? Interesting. Where did Klaus go again?" You turn about, prepared to charge back through the door, but Val catches you arm and pulls you back, laughing, before you can take more than two steps.<</if>> "Please, not the High Priest of Sarcasm, anything but him!" $vthey shout, teetering slightly. "The truth, then, mercenary, or your life is forfeit." Val's shoulders shrink a little, $vtheir smile turning sheepish and resigned. "I was hired to steal something from him, some bullshit Religious relic or an other. I didn't know who he was, just that he was rich, and the relic would be guarded." "Someone sent you after a //Handmaiden// without warning you first?" you blurt, <<if hasVisited ("4.Klaus.Val")>>feigning surprise.<<else>>almost offended on Val's behalf. <</if>>$vThey gesture$vs at you, waving an incredulous open palm. "Right!? Either they didn't know, which, //bullshit//, or they were just plain stupid." [['"Or they wanted you dead."']] [['"Maybe they were very confident in your abilities."'][$Val +=2]]

You nod solemnly. "I assumed as much." <<if hasVisited ("4.Klaus.Val")>>Nevermind that you've already heard it straight from Klaus. This is a compare and contrast exercise.<</if>> Val pulls $vtheir lips into a pout, hand over $vtheir wounded heart. "So mean to me, $Name. When all I've ever done is love you-" "Val, you baby. Just tell me, won't you?" $vThey sigh$vs, looking endlessly harrassed. "Fine, fine. If you really want to know." You nod, urging $vthem on. Val's shoulders shrink a little, $vtheir smile turning sheepish. "I was hired to steal something from him, some bullshit Religious relic or an other. I didn't know who he was, just that he was rich, and the relic would be guarded." "Someone sent you after a //Handmaiden// without warning you first?" you blurt, <<if hasVisited ("4.Klaus.Val")>>feigning surprise.<<else>>almost offended on Val's behalf. <</if>>$vThey gesture$vs at you, waving an incredulous open palm. "Right!? Either they didn't know, which, //bullshit//, or they were just plain stupid." [['"Or they wanted you dead."']] [['"Maybe they were very confident in your abilities."'][$Val +=2]]

"Or they wanted you dead." "Oh!" Val replies lightly. "When did you become so morbid? Don't answer that." You stay silent, relying instead on your slight smirk and the dry look in your eyes. "Anyway," $vthey continue$vs, "I tracked him down on the road; he was apparently transporting the relic back to the Acropolis from fuck-knows-where. I watched them set up camp for the night; it was just a few armed guards and this one scrawny little priest. Their stuff was nice but there weren't any Acropolis sigils anywhere or anything. Undercover, apparently, though I didn't know that. It seemed easy, but not //too// easy, if you know what I mean." "I snuck in while they were all around the fire, eating; figured they'd be less on guard then they would later. Found the priest's tent easily enough, since it was the only one with books and boxes. And a real bed. Klaus might not admit it, but he //is// spoiled," $vthey laugh$vs to $vthemself, as if recalling a fond memory. "There was a solid, ornate little chest right in the middle of the tent, filled with this crushed velvet wrapping, so the relic wasn't even hard to find." "What was it?" you interject, if only to goad Val on. $vThey play happily into your set up. "It was a sealed jar, with this dark golden liquid inside, thick and syrupy like honey. It had a label, but I didn't even recognize the letters. It was //old// though, so old. I'm not sure how I could tell, other than the fact that the Religious wanted it. Personal theory? Some kind of magical elixir that grants immortality, or immunity to Magic. I never really found out." Val hums, and leans forward again. "I was about to unwrap it and make sure it was what I was looking for when I heard... what was it.... //'Sneaking past the Blessed Guard is an impressively stupid talent to have.'// And that's when I knew I was fucked." Val tells it with such a dry flair that you can't help but giggle when $vthey waggle$vs $vtheir eyebrows. $vTheir expression turns conspiratorial, and $vthey lean$vs closer. "And there was Klaus, giving me that smug, unbothered little look he's so good at. I hadn't even known what the Priest's Hand's name was before then, but somehow I knew who I was looking at. I mean, who else gets a personal escort from the Blessed Guard? He said I was lucky he hadn't had time to set any wards." [[Gasp dramatically. "And then what happened?"|4.val.kstory][$Charming +=2, $Val +=2]] [[Let Val continue.|4.val.kstory][$Charming -=2]]

"Maybe they were very confident in your abilities." The mercenary snickers, shoving your shoulder gently. "Well thank you for the compliment, $Name. I like that version better." You stay silent, relying instead on your slight smirk and the dry look in your eyes. "Anyway," $vthey continue$vs, "I tracked him down on the road; he was apparently transporting the relic back to the Acropolis from fuck-knows-where. I watched them set up camp for the night; it was just a few armed guards and this one scrawny little priest. Their stuff was nice but there weren't any Acropolis sigils anywhere or anything. Undercover, apparently, though I didn't know that. It seemed easy, but not //too// easy, if you know what I mean." "I snuck in while they were all around the fire, eating; figured they'd be less on guard then they would later. Found the priest's tent easily enough, since it was the only one with books and boxes. And a real bed. Klaus might not admit it, but he //is// spoiled," $vthey laugh$vs to $vthemself, as if recalling a fond memory. "There was a solid, ornate little chest right in the middle of the tent, filled with this crushed velvet wrapping, so the relic wasn't even hard to find." "What was it?" you interject, if only to goad Val on. $vThey play happily into your set up. "It was a sealed jar, with this dark golden liquid inside, thick and syrupy like honey. It had a label, but I didn't even recognize the letters. It was //old// though, so old. I'm not sure how I could tell, other than the fact that the Religious wanted it. Personal theory? Some kind of magical elixir that grants immortality, or immunity to Magic. I never really found out." Val hums, and leans forward again. "I was about to unwrap it and make sure it was what I was looking for when I heard... what was it.... //'Sneaking past the Blessed Guard is an impressively stupid talent to have.'// And that's when I knew I was fucked." Val tells it with such a dry flair that you can't help but giggle when $vthey waggle$vs $vtheir eyebrows. $vTheir expression turns conspiratorial, and $vthey lean$vs closer. "And there was Klaus, giving me that smug, unbothered little look he's so good at. I hadn't even known what the Priest's Hand's name was before then, but somehow I knew who I was looking at. I mean, who else gets a personal escort from the Blessed Guard? He said I was lucky he hadn't had time to set any wards." [[Gasp dramatically. "And then what happened?"|4.val.kstory][$Charming +=2, $Val +=2]] [[Let Val continue.|4.val.kstory][$Charming -=2]]

"Well, I dialed up the charm and batted my eyelashes at him, of course," says Val with a sly smile. "Called him pretty names and implied I'd do all sorts of things if he forgave my sins. I like to think it almost worked." <<if $RO is "Val" and $ValCrush is "denial">>A sick, mean little feeling tightens your lungs for a moment at the idea, but you push it away. You're just wrapped up in the story, is all.<</if>> \<<if $RO is "Val" and $ValCrush is "old">>A sick, mean little feeling tightens your lungs for a moment at the idea that someone else immediately got what you've wanted for years. You tamp the jealousy down and swallow it as Val continues.<</if>> \<<if $RO is "Val" and $ValCrush is "new">>A sick, mean little feeling tightens your lungs for a moment at the idea, but you push it away. You've no right to be jealous over something that happened over half a year ago.<</if>> \<<if $RO is "ValKlaus" and $ValCrush is "denial">>A sudden drunk buzz fills your mind, and you clench your muscles against a shudder. The idea of Val flirting with Klaus surprised you, is all. You shove the feeling to the side as Val continues $vtheir story.<</if>> \<<if $RO is "ValKlaus" and $ValCrush isnot "denial">>A sudden drunk buzz fills your mind for a moment as you fixate on the concept of Val flirting with Klaus. A fascinating idea that you file away for later consideration as Val continues $vtheir story.<</if>> \<<if $RO is "Klaus" and $KlausCrush is "denial">>A sick, mean little feeling tightens your lungs for a moment at the idea, but you push it away. You're just wrapped up in the story, is all.<</if>> \<<if $RO is "Klaus" and $KlausCrush isnot "denial">>A sick, mean little feeling tightens your lungs for a moment at the idea, but you push it away. You've no right to be jealous over something that happened over half a year ago.<</if>> \<<if $RO isnot "Klaus" and $RO isnot "Val" and $RO isnot "ValKlaus">>You bite back a smile. A classic Val technique, but you don't doubt it had zero effect on the priest.<</if>> "But, sadly, he resisted my charms, so I had to resort to other methods." $vThey mime$vs drawing $vtheir dagger and slash$vs at the air with all the flourish of a swashbuckler recounting their greatest battle. "He's quicker than he looks, but I got him in the neck- just a little, enough to bleed. Which was a mistake, because turns out drawing blood makes it easier to summon an angel. And-" the light in $vtheir eyes flickers "-as you know, I don't fuck with angels. So I backed off. And I guess he recognized that, and he did too." "That easily?" you reply dryly. "And none of the Blessed Guard heard this?" "If they did, they weren't worried about it," snorts Val. "Anyway, Klaus offered me a deal. Said he'd let me take the relic back to the buyer if I gave up their name. Good way to keep an eye on your enemies, I suppose, by paying their goons more than they do. And he kept offering me jobs, way better than what I was getting before, so eventually I gave up on the others. Now I'm full-time Kirkhall." You narrow your eyes and Val smiles back innocently, as if knowing you don't quite believe $vthem but hoping you won't mention it. [[You'll play along. For now.]] <<if $four is "Klaus">>[['"Klaus was right. I like your version better."][$Bold +=2]]<<else>>[['"Klaus was right. I like your version better."][$Bold +=2]]<</if>> <<if $four is "Ira">>[['"I think I need some fact-checking on this tall tale."'][$Bold +=2]]<<else>>[['"I think I need some fact-checking on this tall tale."'][$Bold +=2]]<</if>>

Fine, if Val wants to play coy, you'll let $vthem. There's either a good reason $vtheyre being cagey, or an embarrassing one. Either way, you'll find out eventually. [['"I met another priestess. Or, she said she was a priestess."'|4.val.kat]]

"Klaus was right. I liked your version better." Val offers a triumphant grin that lasts all of half a second before suspicion overtakes $vtheir face. "Wh... When did you talk to Klaus about it?" "Earlier today; went up to the Acropolis to bother him. I asked how you met and he told me the whole thing, begging for mercy and all," you say, trying to only be a little smug. It's not often you get irrefutable proof that Val exaggerates $vtheir stories. Val's mouth gapes, and flexes as $vthey spend$vs a moment searching for words. "Dammit," $vthey finally decide on, emphatically. "I should have blindfolded you on the way up there. I hadn't even //considered// that you could unite against me. This is a potential disaster-" "He even showed me the scar you gave him." "Hey, I'm proud of that," Val says with a huff, crossing $vtheir arms sullenly. "And you should be, too. I stood up to a big scary priest //and// got a hit in on him." Speaking of. [['"Oh, I met another priestess. Or, she said she was a priestess."'|4.val.kat]]

<<if $Core lt 50>>//Every nanometer of your skin is alive and crawling.// <</if>>Kat gives you a fierce look, but it's not admonishing. "I know that you had better not be asking many people that," she says, head held high. "I'm glad to hear you trust me enough to ask dangerous questions, but I think it's more likely you don't know what you're saying." "What's so dangerous about that?" You know the answer, of course, but you want to hear it from her. "Well, it's heresy, sweet thing. The Acropolis doesn't permit that kind of talk. It's an idea meant to be long dead." <<if hasVisited ("3.precollapse")>>"But when I suggested the Faithful worship whatever caused the Collapse, //you// called it the God Beneath," you argue, an unreasonable fury rising in your chest. "And conveniently left the //blasphemy// part out." "Heresy," she corrects. "It's different from blasphemy. But you're right, I did. You took me by surprise." <<else>>"But you knew what I was talking about," you argue. "Please, I need to know."<</if>> She sighs. "The God Beneath," Kat begins slowly, "Is some kind of folk deity that supposedly lives underneath the Holy City, in the ruins of whatever this land was before the Collapse." <<if $four is "Ira">>[['"Why is that heresy?"'|4.k.kat.heresy]]<<else>>[['"Why is that heresy?"'|4.i.kat.heresy]]<</if>> <<if $Core lt 50>>[["'I've been down there"'|4.kat.tunnels]]<<elseif hasVisited ("4.klaus.tunnels") or hasVisited ("4.klaus.tunnels2")>>[["'I've been down there."'|4.kat.tunnels]]<<else>>[["'I've been down there"'|4.kat.tunnels]]<</if>>

"I've been down there, in the tunnels," you reply, ready to spill everything you know. Or at least, you mean to. But you open your lips and no sound comes out. \>//DON'T.// [[Never mind.|nevermind.kat]] [[Tell her.][$Sanity +=2]]

"Do you need to sit down, $Name?" Kat asks, trying to shift your attention to the nearest clear surface. You shake your head like you're clearing cobwebs and assure Kat that you're fine. Whatever that was, it's gone now. You're probably just tired. She doesn't look convinced, and the frown remains between her dark eyebrows, but she doesn't press further. <<if $four is "Klaus">>[['"Why is the God Beneath considered heresy?"'|4.i.kat.heresy]]<<else>>[['"Why is the God Beneath considered heresy?"'|4.k.kat.heresy]]<</if>>

\>//DO NOT.// There's a voice in your head and you're only mostly sure it's your own. A beat of sweat rolls down your back, and you still cannot speak. Your jaw grinds. \>//NO////.// Kat is looking at you with barely-concealed alarm. "You feeling okay, doll?" she asks, voice faint and muffled like she's a million miles away. [[You're fine.|nevermind.kat]] [[Tell. Her.][$Core -=5, $Sanity +=2]]

<<if $Core lt 50>>//The ground beneath your feet is an endless black pit.// <</if>>"Why is that heresy?" Kat smiles, relaxes slightly, and adjusts her collar. "Why, because of the Faithful, of course. The God Beneath is //their// god, the thing that speaks to them in the night and whispers violence into their hearts, or whatever it is cultists go on about." <<if not hasVisited ("You don't want any part of this. Time to go.")>>A tiny alarm goes off in your mind as you recall your first conversation with this woman. "You told me you didn't know what they worshipped, and wanted to know if I had an idea." "I don't think that's true, $Name," she says, that owlish stare caught on your own $Eye_color eyes. "All I said was that I assumed they worshipped //something//, and that I appreciated your wacky little thoughts." This is feeling more and more like a trap by the second. If Kat already knew all this, then she must have been more interested in your reactions than your answers. Which means she had a reason for speaking to you specifically. "If you already knew, why approach me?" "//I// knew. I didn't know if //you// knew. And- //oh//, here's our favorite priestess." <</if>>Ira, of course, chooses this moment to enter the room. They give Kat a wry half-frown, which she returns with that winning, predatory smile. "We were just talking about the Faithful," Kat continues. You don't miss the way Ira's face pales, their amused annoyance vanishing. <<if not hasVisited ("4.i.faithful")>>"The- the Faithful? I thought that was a myth."<<else>>"Is this really the place for that?"<</if>> Kat doesn't answer. [['"You really believe the Faithful are that dangerous?"'|4.i.kat.faithful]] [['"Do you ever just say what you mean, Kat?"'|4.i.kat.whatumean]]

<<if $Core lt 50>>//The ground beneath your feet is an endless black pit.// <</if>>Kat smiles, relaxes slightly, and adjusts her collar. "Why, because of the Faithful, of course. The God Beneath is //their// god, the thing that speaks to them in the night and whispers violence into their hearts, or whatever it is cultists go on about." A tiny alarm goes off in your mind as you recall your first conversation with this woman. "You told me you didn't know what they worshipped, and wanted to know if I had an idea." "I don't think that's true, $Name," she says, that owlish stare caught on your own $eye_color eyes. "All I said was that I assumed they worshipped //something//, and that I appreciated your wacky little thoughts." This is feeling more and more like a trap by the second. If Kat already knew all this, then she must have been more interested in your reactions than your answers. Which means she had a reason for speaking to you specifically. "If you already knew, why approach me?" "//I// knew. I didn't know if //you// knew. And- //oh,// here's our beloved Handmaiden." Of course Klaus chooses this moment to enter the room. Upon seeing Kat, he makes a face that you can only compare to a cat flattening its ears. Kat spares him a toothy grin. "We're talking about heretics and apostates, dear Klaus, if you want to join," she says cheerfully. The priest closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, not deigning to answer. [['"You really believe the Faithful are that dangerous?"'|4.k.kat.faithful]] [['"Do you ever just say what you mean?"'|4.k.kat.kat]]

"All that and more," she replies, leaning back in her chair, raven hair swishing around her ears. "They want Most Holy gone, and they're already halfway there." "What do you mean?" "Oh, you haven't heard the rumors? They say Yve Alavet fell prey to the Faithful's charms, and they made a convert out of her." Yve? The High Priestess' name is //Jacqueline// Alavet. "Who the hell is Yve Alavet?" Kat looks up at you in what could be surprise, the suaveness startled off her face for just a moment before she recomposes herself and leans toward you, wetting her lips. Ira's expression is just as startled, their eyes wide and owlish, the tiniest frown between their brows. "The High Priestess, doll. You //do// know about the High Priestess?" [["Of course I know about the High Priestess," you snap.|4.i.kat.yve1a][$Bold +=1, $Kat -=1]] [[Sigh. "Apparently not everything."|4.i.kat.yve.1b][$Bold -=1]]

Kat's smile turns wry, her dark lipstick looking like a terrible gash across her face. "Just a concerned citizen who worries about her loved ones and the future, of course. Nothing nefarious, honest." "Concern doesn't pay the rent," you argue, "and I met your landlady." Ira snorts, while Kat only scoffs, though her expression isn't serious. "I'm paid to ask questions and report their answers, even if I have to scrape them out from under someone's fingernails with a penknife. Often gruesome, often glamorous. If I'm lucky, both at the same time." "Report to who?" "Now that," Kat says with a wink, "Is my business. It's not important, doll. I can promise you that much." You look to Ira, but they only shrug. They glance about the chapel once more, then focus on the horrible stain at your feet. "That's a binding ritual, by the way. If you were wondering." "It is?" You study it once more, frowning. Rituals and wards usually have a pattern to them, some kind of geometric form. But the arrangement of candles and incense here looks like little more than a vague circle. And more importantly, there's always a buzz to them, a magnetism that hovers about the lines and angles like a living energy. But there's nothing here but the fading scent of incense. "It's not a very good one," they explain, with half a shrug. "Someone must have been practicing. At least I hope. If there was an actual demon involved it'd be like trying to catch a tiger with a mousetrap." An unfair queasiness rises in your gut at the idea. Not at the potential failure or the following consequences, but- is that all it would take? A circle set in haste, sloppily, even, to bind a heavenly creature to one's will? "We should leave," you say finally. You wait a moment for Ira's agreement, then a moment longer. It takes a third to make you tear your eyes away from the floor. [[No answer comes.|4.i.kat.4]]

"All that and more," she replies, leaning back, raven hair swishing around her ears. "They want Most Holy gone, and they're already halfway there." She must mean the missing High Priestess. "Are you saying the Faithful were responsible for Priestess Yve's... disappearance?" "I might be, darling. It seems to be the theory going around, but I'm not entirely convinced. No one's got a straight story about what went down that day- besides the walls of the Theatre, obviously. //Though-//" Kat says sweetly, turning her sharp look onto Klaus. "We do have a first-hand witness //right here.// Any insights in to Her Royal Holiness' particular brand of heresy?" Klaus' expression is stony. "None of your damn business." "//Au contraire,// Kirkhall. It's //exactly// my business. Don't be shy about sharing your opinions, it's unlike you." "I am //not// interested in this conversation." The priest's voice is growing tighter, his jaw stiffer. You've yet to see him angry, but instinct tells you Kat is hurtling dangerously toward it, though she continues apparently without notice or care. "Would you say it felt planned? It certanly wasn't a //coup//, so one must wonder what she stood to gain by resigning so violently. What could the Faithful have that's frightening enough to spook a High Priestess?" "For the last fucking time, I have nothing to say about Yve, and every time you ask I'm a little closer to forgetting your ill-gotten immunity," snaps Klaus, half a snarl revealing a sliver of teeth. Kat rocks back on the balls of her feet, brows arched and expression oddly serene. "Breathe," she says, a hand raised in peace, "I know you'll never believe it, but I //am// on your side. Be a little more open-minded. //$Name// trusts me, don't you $Name?" Not sure how you ended up the target of this conversation, but Kat is looking at you expectantly and not pleadingly. She has no doubt as to how you will answer. [['"You're not so bad."'][$Kat +=2]] [['"Not as far as I can throw you."'][$Kat -=1]] [[You nod, a little too eagerly. ♡][$KatFlirt +=1, $Kat +=2]]

"Do you ever just say what you mean, Kat?" you ask in exasperation. She's far too good at saying a whole lot of nothing. "Always, doll," she replies, matched by Klaus' following unimpressed scoff. "Lying's a sin," the priest deadpans. Kat leers at him, hair swishing as her head tilts over her shoulder. "We can go to hell together then, Handmaiden." [['"You really believe the Faithful are that dangerous?"'|4.k.kat.faithful]]

"Of course I know about the High Priestess," you snap; her patronizing tone is starting to grate on your nerves. You don't appreciate being treated like an idiot. "But isn't her name Jacqueline?" Kat's posture relaxes as she seemingly eases up on her predatory intensity. She focuses her dark eyes on the coin still in her hand as she again and again through her fingers. "No, darling, her name is Yve. Yve's the High Priestess, Jacqueline's her Handmaiden. They're sisters, but not the same person. Very common mistake, and a fair one. I only assumed you knew, having such friends in high places as you do." Your brain squirms with the new information, desperate to sort out the names and the timeline and the meaning of it all. And maybe more importantly, why you thought otherwise. "Why have I never heard of her?" "She left," interjects Ira, something mournful in their voice. "Ran out on us common folk like some kind of deadbeat, about five years ago now. Blew apart the Divine Theatre on her way out and left a trail of corpses in her wake. I wasn't here to witness it, but I hear it took weeks for the ash and debris to clear the atmosphere, and even then only with the help of whatever priestesses weren't frozen from shock. Five years later, and you can still see the scorch marks in some places." <<if hasVisited ("4.klaus.amnesia") or hasVisited ("Tell him the truth.")>>The Divine Theatre? Klaus mentioned something about that, didn't he? <</if>>"But why?" you ask, brow furrowed. "Why would the most powerful woman in the world flee her own city?" "You see, the Religious teach that Most Holy's the only two things preventing another Collapse. I don't know the lore or the finer details, but that's the short of it. The Faithful, on the other hand, seem take it one step further: Most Holy deprives us regular folk of the divine. And don't ask me how, but they somehow managed to convince the High Priestess herself of this, and she fled in a fit of guilt and self-hatred." "And you believe that? That she fell into the cult?" "The Acropolis believes it, even if they deny it officially. But Jackie and the rest of them accepted it long ago. I wouldn't go asking about it, though; seems to still be a bit of a sore spot, and who can blame them? Her departure left the Religious permanently crippled." Kat sighs theatrically, and tucks a strand of raven hair behind her ear. Ira is frowning at the floor. "Now let me ask //you// a question, $Name. How does a denizen of the Holy City not know about such a significant and recent event?" <<if not hasVisited ("4.i.con.amnesia")>>"That's a good question," Ira adds. "I would have thought everyone had heard what happened, even outside the City." <</if>>[['"I'm not from around here."'][$KatKnows to false]] [['"I have amnesia, believe it or not."'][$KatKnows to true]]

A laugh escapes her as she curls her fingers over her lips. "Well, that's how the Acropolis likes it, isn't it? Shrouded in mystery. But, well, the High Priestess is the most powerful person in the world, of course; her sway even outweighs her male counterpart's. But the woman you know as High Priestess is, in fact, //not.//" Kat punctuates this point with a tap of her finger against the air. "Jackie's taken on the role of High Priestess, but she's actually a Handmaiden, like Klaus Kirkhall. Her sister Yve is the real, appointed thing, but she vanished years ago." The casual use of a nickname isn't lost on you. You brush that detail aside for later. "How the hell does a High Priestess vanish?" And how does the Religious function without her? If what you've been taught is true, the Holy City ought to have crumbled to dust without its Priestess. "She left," interjects Ira, something mournful in their voice. "Spectacularly and violently, my dear Io. She blew apart the Divine Theatre on a High Holy Day and fled the city during the chaos, accompanied by a trio of co-conspirators and a slew of corpses in her wake. I wasn't here to witness it, but I hear it was //quite// the event. They say it took weeks for the ash and debris to clear the atmosphere. Five years later, and you can still see the scorch marks in some places." "But why?" you ask, brow furrowed. "Why would the most powerful woman in the world flee her own city?" "You see, the Religious teach that Most Holy's the only two things preventing another Collapse. I don't know the lore or the finer details, but that's the short of it. The Faithful, on the other hand, seem take it one step further: Most Holy deprives us regular folk of the divine. And don't ask me how, but they somehow managed to convince the High Priestess herself of this, and she fled in a fit of guilt and self-hatred." "And you believe that? That she fell into the cult?" "The Acropolis believes it, even if they deny it officially. But Jackie and the rest of them accepted it long ago. I wouldn't go asking about it, though; seems to still be a bit of a sore spot, and who can blame them? Her departure left the Religious permanently crippled." Kat sighs theatrically, and tucks a strand of raven hair behind her ear. Ira is frowning at the floor. "Now let me ask //you// a question, $Name. How does a denizen of the Holy City not know about such a significant and recent event?" <<if not hasVisited ("4.i.con.amnesia")>>"That's a good question," Ira adds. "I would have thought everyone had heard what happened, even outside the City." <</if>>[['"I'm not from around here."']] [['"I have amnesia, believe it or not."']]

<<set $KatKnows to false>>It's almost imperceptable, but Kat perks up at this, straightening her spine and leaning slightly closer. "Is that so?" she says, voice a purr. "That Val character of yours- $vtheyre not local either, $vare $vthey? Did you come from the same nowhere?" You don't actually know where Val is from, now that you think about it. Kat's right, $vthey $vwere not born in the Holy City, and $vhavent lived here too much longer than you have. <<if $Val gte 10>>Somewhere coastal, maybe. You can recall all sorts of swashbuckling pirate and sea-faring stories Val has told, though you couldn't say if any of them were remotely true.<</if>> "No," you reply, not wanting to be caught in a lie you can't elaborate on, though you know Val would back you up in a heartbeat. "I'm from a little village a few hours' ride away. You won't find it on a map; I'm not even sure it has a name."<<if hasVisited ("4.ira.tunnels")>> You glance at Ira for a moment, but they hold firm, and say nothing.<<else>> Ira looks equally as unconvinced, but they stay politely quiet.<</if>> "Hmm, small town $person, then?" says Kat. "I've always been a city girl, myself. I don't like the quiet, makes my ears ring. And the distance. The thought that the nearest source of help could be hours away is bone chilling, isn't it? But I suppose you grow used to that sort of thing growing up in the country, don't you?" You're not sure what kind of answer she could possibly be looking for, so you just nod. "Still, strange that you hadn't heard of Yve, and what happened to the Divine Theatre, even so far out. It was earth-shaking, really. And literally." She chuckles at her own joke. You need to get out of this conversation, and fast. [['"Why haven't they made Jacqueline the High Priestess?"'|4.i.kat.yve.3]]

<<set $KatKnows to true>><<set $IraKnows to true>><<if not hasVisited ("4.ira.tunnels")>>Ira blinks in surprise before breathing a small laugh. "Oh, //okay//," they say, the absurdity of it all brightening their eyes. "That's interesting. Well, um. Sorry, is it rude if I ask?" You wouldn't have mentioned it if you weren't prepared to explain. "I sort of...showed up five years ago. You remember Val, the $vperson who was with me when we met? $vThey took me in, and I don't remember anything before that." "Uh, right, Val... the nervous one?" says Ira, and you nearly laugh. //Val, the nervous one.// "I remember."<<else>>To your surprise, Kat reacts with a toothy smile, perking up and straightening her spine imperceptibly. "Oh, I //do// love it when you're honest. It makes for far more interesting converstaion. Tell me more about that, won't you?" "I only remember the last few years," you begin, suddenly feeling like you've told this story a million times, but you'd tell it another million for Kat. "I woke up in the City with only my name, and several languages I barely understood. My friend Val found me, took me in." "That funny little mercenary? I haven't had the pleasure," Kat says with a nod, and at your widened eyes, laughs again. "I told you before, $Name. I make it habit to know who comes and goes from the in this Holiest of Cities, especially in the more<<if $RO is "ValKlaus">>... intimate<<else>> clandestine<</if>> hours." You wonder if Val knows $vtheir 'secret missions' aren't so secret. If Klaus knows. You put the thought away for later and continue.<</if>> "Anyway, that was about five years ago. Nothing's come back since." "Ah!" exclaims Kat, looking pleased with herself. "That explains it, then. Her Royal Holiness Yve did her dark deeds about five years ago, as well. Must have been before you hit your head, or whatever horrible tragedy befell you." [['"So why haven't they made Jacqueline the High Priestess?"'|4.i.kat.yve.3]]

"If it's been years," you ask, frowning, "Why haven't the Religious just named Jacqueline the High Priestess and move on with it? Do they think Yve is coming back?" Kat nods, almost sagely, her dark hair bobbing. "A fair question, but it's simple, really: there can only //be// one High Priestess, and until Yve dies, they're just shit out of luck." "Which means she's still alive somewhere, I suppose," says Ira, their voice soft. You focus on them for a moment; the priestess looks distracted, uncomfortable, maybe. "Seems to be the case, doesn't it?" Kat agrees with a curt nod. "Don't ask me where- not even the Acropolis' own Saints have been able to track her down, and believe me, they've tried. As have I. She's been well hidden." "That doesn't sound like a great system," you reply, thoughts churning. The inability to //unname// someone holy is a daunting prospect. <<if $Sanity lte 50>>And how does a world function without its High Priestess, anyway? If what you've been told is true, the City would simply go to pieces without the Religious, and surely that applies to the living embodiment of divinity that they call Most Holy.<<else>>And the political implications are wild. Even a king can step down or be declared legally dead. But not a High Priestess, it seems.<</if>> Ira shrugs, tugging the ends of their black sleeves over their fingers. "Maybe not, but it's the way things are. Most Holy is //everything//, the rest of us priestesses are just support. We haven't fallen into the sea yet, so I suppose the Handmaiden must be able to perform most of the Priestess' duties well enough. But it hasn't been the same since she left." "In what way?" They shrug, eyes trained on something on the dusty walls, just over your shoulder. "People trust the Acropolis a lot less, now, and the rest of the Religious by extention. There aren't as many holy day rituals, and you rarely see the High Priest or the Handmaidens anymore. He visited my theatre, once, the High Priest. He was so lovely and kind, but... I could tell he was tired. Very, very tired." [['"Have you met the Priest's Hand, Ira?"'|4.i.kat.klaus]]

"Have you met the Priest's Hand, Ira?" They reply with a simple shake of their head. "Klaus Kirkhall? No, I haven't. I haven't heard much about him at all, really, though I suppose no news is good news when it comes to Handmaidens. Business with them usually means someone's in trouble. Why do you ask?" There's the tiniest of twitches along the edges of Kat's lips. "No reason," you reply, remembering Klaus' stern warning to Val to not share anything else. "I was just curious." Ira smiles. "Nothing wrong with curiousity, though that's one of the more dangerous ones, I imagine." [['"So, Kat, what are you when you're not dressed like a priestess?"'|4.i.kat.kat]] [['"What about Kat? Is she dangerous?"][$Kat +=2, Ira +=1]]

"Do you ever just say what you mean, Kat?" you ask in exasperation. She's far too good at saying a whole lot of nothing. "Always, doll," she replies, her tone countered by Ira's simultaneous //"Rarely."// Kat shoots Ira a challenging look through her lashes, but they don't budge. [['"You really believe the Faithful are that dangerous?"'|4.i.kat.faithful]]

<<if $Core lt 50>>//Your vision swims, forcing you to bite back a bout of nausea.// <</if>><<set $KlausGB to true>>"I need to know about the God Beneath." Immediately and without warning, his expression melts into something much harsher; he's ten feet away but suddenly you feel cornered. He claps the book closed and tosses it uncaringly back onto a pile at his feet. "I'm not going to ask where you heard that, but I suggest you forget you ever did," he says sternly, eyes drilling into your skull. His shift in demeanor is a stark reminder of who you're speaking to- not only a powerful man, but one whose entire purpose is to make sure the echoes of sin never reach his High Priest's ears. "But-" "//No.// Stay far away from that shit, $Name. It's heresy for a reason, and not something you //ever// want to be involved with." As Ira had said. But hearing it from the mouth of the Acropolis is something else entirely. Declaring something a sin or shameful isn't unheard of, but a dangerous untruth? A much rarer condemnation. [['"Then what caused the Collapse?"'|4.k.collapse]] <><<if $Core gte 50>>[['"I've been down there."'|4.k.tunnels]] <<else>> [['"I've been down there."'|4.k.tunnels]] <</if>><>

"Then what did cause the Collapse?" Klaus presses his lips together in a line. "Devastation," he says. "That's all we know, according to theatre canon. Just the one word: //devastation//." Informative. "Are you serious? The biggest event in human history and all you've got after a thousand years is a single word?" You'd think the Religious would bend all their thought on the Collapse, especially if what Ira said is true, and they exist to prevent a re-run. Willingness to leave something in the past and simply hoping it doesn't come up again isn't a trait devout priestesses are known for. They should be tearing their hands bloody trying to dig up the City's secrets from its buried streets. //A single word,// and an obvious one at that. You want to scream a little, and you want to laugh a lot more. Klaus, however, seems unmoved by your incredulity. [['"Doesn't it bother you that you don't even know what your religion is for?"'|4.k.religion.a][$Sanity -=1]] [['"Seems like an awful big void to build your religion around."'|4.k.religion.b][$Sanity +=1]]

"Doesn't it bother you that you don't even know what your religion is //for//?" you ask, before you can think it through. Klaus blinks at you, and there's an eerily calm light in his eyes that could truly be anything. "I know what it's //for//, $Name. It's for holding the world together with blood and nails and glue even when it wants to fly apart screaming. It's for imposing order even when it's not welcome, and inspiring chaos when there is stagnation. And most of all, it's for the unforgivable crime of wanting to believe in something." "Something, but not a god?" Carefully, you say the words. "//Never// a god," he answers without a second of hesitation, and perhaps a flash of anger. You're still not entirely convinced Klaus cares for the Religious at all, but it's probably better to change the subject than push this one too far. <<if not hasVisited ("4.k.handmaid")>>[['"So what do you really do as a Handmaiden?"'|4.k.handmaid]]<</if>> <<if not hasVisited ("4.k.val")>>[['"What exactly is your deal with Val?"'|4.k.val]]<</if>>

<<if $Core lt 50>>//An itch in your teeth in your mandible in your brainstem.// <</if>>He raises an eyebrow. "Anything Thaddeus asks." "Anything?" "Yes," Klaus answers slowly, eyes locked as if to warn you away from saying something you'll regret. "Anything, within and beyond reason. Often before he ever thinks it." "And do you trust him? The High Priest?" "Of course I do. With my life, and yours, and anyone else's." You have no choice but to believe him; the sincerity in his face denies anything else. "Why are you asking?" [[You want to know if he believes what the Religious preach.|4.k.religious]] <<if $fourtheatre is "Kat" or hasVisited ("4.k.con.kat")>>[[You can't stop thinking about what Kat said.|4.k.insane]]<<else>>[[You can't stop thinking about what Kat said.|4.k.insane]]<</if>> [[Just curiosity.|4.k.curious]]

"Should I be worried about Val?" you ask, watching the Handmaiden carefully. Val may have //claimed// $vthey $vwere happy with the job, but that was only the smart thing to say. Doesn't make it true, or the whole truth. "Val is a hazard to $vthemself and others; you should always be worried about $vthem," he replies dryly. "Be more specific." "//You//, I mean. Maybe you haven't noticed, but $vtheyre practically allergic to the Religious. Just wondering how this... deal came about. The story $vthey told me definitely isn't true." "What story was that, exactly?" You're exposing one of Val's little stories, but the chance to find out the truth of this odd arrangement is too important to ignore. There //has// to be something to it, for $vthem to get over $vtheir biases and work directly - secretly - for the second most powerful man in the world. And cheerfully, at that. "Some grand thing about saving your life and being offered a job in return. It was all very heroic and moving and, well... silly." Silence follows as Klaus stares at you, then the floor, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. "I don't even know where to start with that," he says finally, his voice incredulous but eyes squinted in a betraying smile. "That's very Val." "What, then?" "$vThey tried to rob me." [[Oh, this should be good.|4.k.valstory1]]

"Do you believe in your own Religion, Klaus? Is this divinity?" "I have no delusions of grandeur, if that's what you're asking," he says flatly, though you think his tone isn't as annoyed as he'd like it to sound. "But I'm not the Priest's Hand for nothing. This is my entire life, every hour of every day and night." "That isn't what I asked," you point out, a little miffed. He's avoiding the question. "And you've known me for three days. Try a little harder before you start asking things like that. Pick a different question." <<if not hasVisited ("4.k.val")>>[['"What exactly is your deal with Val?"'|4.k.val]]<<else>>[['"What exactly is your deal with Val?"'|4.k.val]]<</if>> <<if hasVisited ("4.k.handmaid") and hasVisited ("4.k.gb")>>[[You're done here.|4.k.3]]<</if>>

"Kat said you were insane." "I'm a priest," he replies, "You should be worried if I wasn't." You shoot him with an alarmed frown. "That was a //joke//." He shakes his head. "Kat has an agenda, $Name. //Saints// know what it is, but like I said, don't trust it. <<if $fourtheatre is "Kat">>Not that you seem to be listening.<</if>>" <<if not hasVisited ("4.k.val")>>[['"What exactly is your deal with Val?"'|4.k.val]]<<else>>[['"What exactly is your deal with Val?"'|4.k.val]]<</if>> <<if hasVisited ("4.k.handmaid") and hasVisited ("4.k.gb")>>[[You're done here.|4.k.3]]<</if>>

"I was just curious," you say with a shrug that you hope comes off as inoffensive. "Nothing else." Klaus raises his eyebrows at you, apparently unconvinced, but leaves you space to ask another question. <<if not hasVisited ("4.k.val")>>[['"What exactly is your deal with Val?"'|4.k.val]]<<else>>[['"What exactly is your deal with Val?"'|4.k.val]]<</if>> <<if hasVisited ("4.k.handmaid") and hasVisited ("4.k.gb")>>[[You're done here.|4.k.3]]<</if>>

"I was a few days outside the City, transporting a relic found out in the country. It was //supposed// to be kept quiet, but apparently word reached someone with enough money to hire mercenaries. I only had a handful of the Blessed Guard with me, and none of us were in uniform, so I'm sure Val had no idea what $vthey $vwere getting into. $vThey managed to sneak into camp. $vThey did not make it back out." "You caught $vthem?" "In my tent. First $vthey tried to flirt $vtheir way out, then fight, neither of which went well, though I'll admit $vthey did get a few hits in." Klaus pushes his collar aside to reveal a thin, ragged scar across his neck. It's a sloppy thing, not what you'd expect from Val, who's usually so neat with their knifework. "$vThey surrendered the second $vthey realized I was halfway through calling an angel." Klaus drops his collar and focuses on you, brow heavy and gaze angled. "Said $vthey would do anything, tell me everything, if I kept //those things// away from $vthem." That's //also// unlike Val. $vThey would do a lot of things for money, and even more for survival, but $vtheir reputation as a mercenary would go up in smoke if $vthey ratted out $vtheir employer, especially if it was to the Acropolis. Your skepticism must be plain on your face, because Klaus huffs a laugh. "No, I didn't believe $vthem, either," he continues. "So I gave $vthem the relic. $vTheir first job was to fulfill their contract, then steal it back." Which would preserve Val's reputation, and get Klaus the name of the buyer. Smart, you suppose. It still doesn't sit right. "That would have been months ago. What are they still doing here?" you ask, only half to Klaus. He peers at you. "I offered, $vthey stayed. //Why//, you'd have to ask $vthem yourself." He pauses again, seemingly assessing something. "You care a lot about Val, don't you?" It's not entirely a question. [['"I don't exist without Val."'|4.k.val2.a][$Val +=2, $Klaus +=1, $Sarcastic -=2]] [['"Val saved my life; it's only deserved."'|4.k.val2.b][$Val +=1, $Charming -=2]] [['"I'm just asking questions. Don't read into it."'|4.k.val2.c][$Klaus -=1, $Charming -=2]]

"I don't exist without Val," you say. You can't even pretend to lie about that. You almost expect a scathing comment, or even a light teasing, but Klaus just nods thoughtfully, as if it was an obvious statement and he suspected all along. Silence falls, and after a moment you realize it's up to you to fill it. <<if not hasVisited ("4.k.handmaid")>>[['"So what do you really do as a Handmaiden?"'|4.k.handmaid]]<<else>>[['"So what do you reall do as a Handmaiden?"'|4.k.handmaid]]<</if>> <<if hasVisited ("4.k.handmaid") and hasVisited ("4.k.gb")>>[[You're done here.|4.k.3]]<</if>>

"Val saved my life," you say solemnly. "It's only deserved." Klaus nods, inclining his head. "Fair enough," he says, voice even and distant. Silence falls, and after a moment you realize it's up to you to fill it. <<if not hasVisited ("4.k.handmaid")>>[['"So what do you really do as a Handmaiden?"'|4.k.handmaid]]<<else>>[['"So what do you reall do as a Handmaiden?"'|4.k.handmaid]]<</if>> <<if hasVisited ("4.k.handmaid") and hasVisited ("4.k.gb")>>[[You're done here.|4.k.3]]<</if>>

"I'm just asking questions. Don't read into it." Your tone is not unlike the scathing comments Klaus himself has made over the smallest things, so his stern frown comes as a surprise. He says nothing, only looks at you with that reproachful gaze. Silence falls, and after a moment you realize it's up to you to fill it. <<if not hasVisited ("4.k.handmaid")>>[['"So what do you really do as a Handmaiden?"'|4.k.handmaid]]<<else>>[['"So what do you reall do as a Handmaiden?"'|4.k.handmaid]]<</if>> <<if hasVisited ("4.k.handmaid") and hasVisited ("4.k.gb")>>[[You're done here.|4.k.3]]<</if>>

You glance about the wreckage of the library, the shredded books, the furniture reduced to woodchips, and pointedly //not// the mirror still lurking in wall behind you, and sigh. If there was ever something to find here, it would take hours to find, if it even still exists at all. You try not to think of it as a waste of time. Klaus seems to have come to the same conclusion, looking at the mess with a vague disgust. "I think this room can keep its secrets." You nod. <<if ndef $fourStage>> \<<if $fourtheatre is "Con">>[['"Let's go find Constantine."'|4.k.Con.Stage]]<</if>> \<<if $fourtheatre is "Val">>[['"Let's go find Val."'|4.k.val.stage]]<</if>> \<<if $fourtheatre is "Kat">>[['"Let's go find Kat."'|4.k.kat.stage]]<</if>> \<<else>> \<<if $fourtheatre is "Con">>[['"Let's go find Constantine."'|4.Con.Storage]]<</if>> \<<if $fourtheatre is "Val">>[['"Let's go find Val."'|4.Val.Storage]]<</if>> \<<if $fourtheatre is "Kat">>[['"Let's go find Kat."'|4.Kat.Storage]]<</if>> <</if>>

"I wanted to know more about that angel, and why it reached out to me," you explain, the marks on your arm an itchy presence at your side. "It was trying to communicate //something//. Figured this was the best place to start." He nods. "I'd like that mystery solved, as well. I doubt it left much behind to examine, but maybe we can find where it came from." "Oh?" chirps Kat, "//We//, is it? I never knew you were so hands-on. I always thought you had minions for that, but I suppose I stand corrected." Klaus' eyes stay on you, entire body angled away from Kat. "You have an extraordinarily bad taste in friends." "Oh, Klaus, we //have// to work on your self-esteem," Kat says with a disapproving //tsk.// By the set of his jaw, there's a paralyzing amount of restraint keeping Klaus from rolling his eyes. Though somehow you don't think Kat would even flinch if the Handmaiden bared his teeth. [[To the theatre, then.|4.k.kat.3]]

The building sits oddly quiet, stony, and you can't help but be reminded of a carcass, the yawning cavern of a ribcage made petrified over centuries of neglect. How you missed it before is baffling: this theatre is well and truly abandoned, devoid of even the buzz of ambient Magic. A chalky scorch mark stains the front staircase, and the wide wooden doors still hang open. Only darkness lies beyond. Kat makes a disapproving click with her tongue. "Well isn't this horrific, then?" she says to no one in particular. Though at a glance, there's nothing short of interest on her face. "The theatre's wards have failed," remarks Klaus. "The sanctifying ones at least, which probably means the structural ones have been neglected, too." He doesn't sound worried, his tone instead closer to scientific interest. [['"Is that safe?"'|4.k.kat safe]] [['"Why would it be empty?"'|4.k.kat empty]]

"I wanted to know more about that angel, and why it reached out to me," you explain, the marks on your arm an itchy presence at your side. "It was trying to communicate //something//. Figured this was the best place to start." He nods. "I'd like that mystery solved, as well. I doubt it left much behind to examine, but maybe we can find where it came from." "//We?"// Val interjects, crossing $vtheir arms. "You've never been so helpful before. It's always //'You're an adult, Val,'// and //'That's what I'm paying you for, Val.//'" Klaus raises an eyebrow at Val. "Well, if you're so eager to handle potential rabid divine creatures by yourself..." Vals scowls like a child caught enjoying their vegetables. "Stop making good points, it's demoralizing." "Quit pouting, Val." [[To the theatre, then.|4.k.val.3]]

The building sits oddly quiet, stony, and you can't help but be reminded of a carcass, the yawning cavern of a ribcage made petrified over centuries of neglect. How you missed it before is baffling: this theatre is well and truly abandoned, devoid of even the buzz of ambient Magic. A chalky scorch mark stains the front staircase, and the wide wooden doors still hang open. Only darkness lies beyond. It's like Val reads your mind. "//Fuck//," $vthey say$vs with a shudder. "Why is it more creepy in the daytime? Ugly fucking thing." "The theatre's wards have failed," remarks Klaus. "The sanctifying ones at least, which probably means the structural ones have been neglected, too." He doesn't sound worried, his tone instead closer to scientific interest. [['"Is that safe?"'|4.k.val safe]] [['"Why would it be empty?"'|4.k.val empty]]

"Is that safe?" Your eyes scan over the great stone blocks of the building agian, imagining them shaking apart and collapsing, trapping you inside the once-holy ruin. "It's not safe at all," the priest replies," but we should be fine as long as there's no quakes. It's lasted this long, it can manage another hour." Reassuring. Leaving no room for your fears, Klaus climbs the steps and enters the theatre, leaving you and Kat alone in the cold, empty street. You can practically feel Kat's brilliant smile behind you. "Well, what are we waiting for? The treasure won't come to us," she says cheerfully. The air out here suddenly feels far more haunted than anything you could experience in a ruin, so you take a final rallying breath, and step into the gaping throat. Neither of your companions are anywhere to be seen in the interior hallway, though you can track their bootprints in the dust, one pair leading down the corridor to the study, and the other through an archway to the right. If you remember correctly, that's the way to the main auditorium. [[To the stage.|4.k.kat.stage]] [[To the study.|4.k.Study]]

<<set $fourStage to true>>Following the trail of Kat's footsteps takes you to the largest room of the theatre, as you suspected, depositing you in a cramped aisle between shattered wooden pews. It's almost as dark as you remember, only a narrow beam of light filtering through a broken patch of roof to light your way. An earthy must fills the air and puddles of dirty rainwater lap at your feet. You've barely a chance to register Kat's lanky form before you and Klaus are both unceremoniously herded backwards into a tiny chapel and crowded against the walls. Klaus starts to push back, but before your own protest can even leave your mouth, Kat waves a hand for silence, and inclines her head toward the open space beyond. A thin, oily smudge wanders the edges of the room, erratically pacing back and forth and back again seemingly without thought or hesitation, as if lost in some time loop. It carries only the suggestion of a head, shoulders, and limbs, and a shift of light for the eyes. If you weren't built to recognize patterns, it would never occur to you as humanoid. A primal anxiety knocks at your heart as the demon nears your perch. Its limbs all end in razor-sharp points, and while it has no mouth, you don't doubt it has teeth. You shrink back into your little alcove, waiting for it to notice you and unhinge its jaw. Kat's elbow is against your chest, simultaneously shielding you and barring your means of escape. It's close now, almost within reach, the air smelling of dust and ozone and velvet- And it pays you no mind. Heat seeps from your skin as it passes, muttering darkly under its breath. Its voice is like the roaring of the ocean, powerful and textured, but utterly incomprehensible even to you. More importantly, it either didn't notice you, or doesn't care. You breathe a sigh, lungs aching.. Ira's own gasp of relief is but a puff of air. The demon moves away from you and across the stage in its strange trance, stopping and starting again at nothing at all, or something long extinct. "Can you control a demon?" you ask softly, eyeing the rosary wrapped around Klaus' wrist. The creature may have moved away, but you doubt your luck. "Yes," he replies quietly, watching it amble about the room like a sad puppet, "But this one looks fucked in the head. There's no telling how it would respond to being given new guidelines." [[You feel sorry for the poor creature.|4.k.kat you feel sorry][$Sanity -=2]] [[It's a demon, there's nothing to pity.|4.k.kat its a demon][$Sanity +=2]]

"Is that safe?" Your eyes scan over the great stone blocks of the building agian, imagining them shaking apart and collapsing, trapping you inside the once-holy ruin. "It's not safe at all," the priest replies," but we should be fine as long as there's no quakes. It's lasted this long, it can manage another hour." Reassuring. Leaving no room for your fears, Klaus climbs the steps and enters the theatre, leaving you and Val alone in the cold, empty street. The air out here suddenly feels far more haunted than anything you could experience in a ruin, so you take a final rallying breath, and step into the gaping throat. Val follows, though you do hear $vthem mutter some curse or another under $vtheir breath. Neither of your companions are anywhere to be seen in the interior hallway, though you can track their bootprints in the dust, one pair leading down the corridor to the study, and the other through an archway to the right. If you remember correctly, that's the way to the main auditorium. [[To the stage.|4.k.val.stage]] [[To the study.|4.k.Study]]

<<set $fourStage to true>>The trail of Val's footsteps leads you to largest room of the theatre, $vtheir chosen path depositing you in a cramped aisle between shattered wooden pews. It's almost as dark as you remember, only a narrow beam of light filtering through a broken patch of roof to light your way. An earthy must fills the air and puddles of dirty rainwater lap at your feet. You've barely a chance to squint into the dark before you and Klaus are both pushed backwards into a tiny chapel and crowded against the walls, Val's bracelets clinking in your ear. You start to protest, but are cut off by a frantic //ssh// from Val, who then gestures toward the open space beyond. A thin, oily smudge wanders the edges of the room, erratically pacing back and forth and back again seemingly without thought or hesitation, as if lost in some time loop. It carries only the suggestion of a head, shoulders, and limbs, and a shift of light for the eyes. If you weren't built to recognize patterns, it would never occur to you as humanoid. A primal anxiety knocks at your heart as the demon nears your perch. Its limbs all end in razor-sharp points, and while it has no mouth, you don't doubt it has teeth. You shrink back into your little alcove, waiting for it to notice you and unhinge its jaw. Val is pressed so close you nearly can't breathe, though you can feel $vtheir heart beating like a drum. It's close now, almost within reach- And it pays you no mind. Heat seeps from your skin as it passes, muttering darkly under its breath. Its voice is like the roaring of the ocean, powerful and textured, but utterly incomprehensible even to you. More importantly, it either didn't notice you, or doesn't care. You breathe a sigh of relief, lungs aching, and slowly, you feel Val relax. The demon moves away from you and across the stage in its strange trance, stopping and starting again at nothing at all, or something long extinct. "Always with the fucking demons," Val hisses. It's far too dark to see, but you know the hairs on the back of $vtheir neck are raised. "Something's wrong with that one," Klaus adds. His steely eyes track the hazy beast as it ambles about the room like a sad puppet. "It's been wild too long. At least it's keeping to itself." [[You feel sorry for the poor creature.|4.k.val you feel sorry][$Sanity -=2]] [[It's a demon, there's nothing to pity.|4.k.val its a demon][$Sanity +=2]]

"So Val knows about the cult, too?" you ask. A brow raised, a slight frown. "Thought that little demon tells you everything. $vTheyve spent the last six months scraping the streets looking for the cult." That clicks. "That's why we were here. Why didn't $vthey just tell me?" you ask distantly. You didn't think Constantine's eyebrows could go higher, but they do. <<if $RO is "Val">>"Don't get me involved in this. That's between you two lovebirds." \<<if $ValCrush is "denial">>You feel the heat rush to your cheeks almost instantly. "We're not- there's-," your tongue fumbles the words. "We're just friends," you manage to insist. Constantine actually rolls $chis eyes this time, then lifts $chis hands in surrender. "Whatever you say." You bite back a response and focus on unravelling the sudden knot in your chest.<</if>> \<<if $ValCrush isnot "denial">>You frown at $chim, hoping it disguises the sudden warmth in your cheeks. "We're not //lovebirds//," you protest. Constantine actually rolls $chis eyes this time, then lifts $chis hands in surrender. "Whatever you say."<</if>><</if>> \<<if $RO isnot "Val" and $RO isnot "ValKlaus">>"Don't drag me into this. Ask your fellow pest yourself." "Good to know Val can keep //some// things to $vthemself," Klaus adds.<</if>> "Anyway," Constantine continues with a grunt, "I'm half convinced their founders just wanted an excuse to spill priestess blood- either for the fun of it or to eliminate the competition. They're probably still riding the Yve Alavet high." You silently thank Ira for explaining //that// situation to you so you don't make an ass of yourself in front of Constantine and Klaus. But... [['"What does she have to do with the Faithful?"'|4.k.con.yve]]

"A priestess named Kat told me about the cult. She said they were dangerous." Constantine groans, and Klaus winces like the sound of her name has caused him psychic damage. "Saxon?" grumbles the mercenary, "I'll admit she's effective at what she does, but //Saints// is she a pain in the ass. Goes out of her way to be irritating." $cHe rolls $chis neck to glare at you. "Kindred spirit of yours, I imagine." "She's been skulking around the Acropolis for a few years now," Klaus confirms. "Don't listen to her, $Name, if you've got an ounce of sense. Or self preservation." "She told me not to trust you, Klaus" "And I just told you not to listen to her, so I guess you have a decision to make." [[Trust a high-ranking member of a powerful organization? Not likely.|4.k.con.trustkat][$Klaus -=1]] [[Between the two, you'd take your chances with Klaus.|4.k.con.trustklaus][$Klaus +=3]] [['"Oh, why can't we all just get along?"|4.k.con.trustboth][$Sarcastic -=2]] [['"I don't trust either of you."'|4.k.con.trustnone][$Bold +=2, $Klaus -=2]]

"Are you kidding me? Of course I don't trust you. Why on earth would I?" He tilts his head, almost innocently. "And yet here you are, alone with only me and a $cman I pay very, very well." "Is that a threat?" "No. I just don't believe you." "Anyway," Constantine continues with a grunt, "I'm half convinced their founders just wanted an excuse to spill priestess blood- either for the fun of it or to eliminate the competition. They're probably still riding the Yve Alavet high." You silently thank Ira for explaining //that// situation to you so you don't make an ass of yourself in front of Constantine and Klaus. But... [['"What does she have to do with the Faithful?"'|4.k.con.yve]]

Val trusts the Handmaiden, and that has to count for something, right? Val may not always make the best decisions, but $vthey would never have brought you to someone $vthey didn't trust. You relay this thought, if somewhat reluctantly. "Good choice, at least to make out loud," he says, and while there's no trace of a smile on his face, something tells you he's laughing at you. "Anyway," Constantine continues with a grunt, "I'm half convinced their founders just wanted an excuse to spill priestess blood- either for the fun of it or to eliminate the competition. They're probably still riding the Yve Alavet high." You silently thank Ira for explaining //that// situation to you so you don't make an ass of yourself in front of Constantine and Klaus. But... [['"What does she have to do with the Faithful?"'|4.k.con.yve]]

You fold your hands and tilt your head like an innocent puppy. "Oh, why can't we just all get along?" "Aww, that's so lovely of you," he coos, mouth slanted in a mocking pout. "Should we all hold hands and sing a hymn, too?" [["We can hold hands if you want, Klaus." ♡|4.k.con.flirtk][$KlausFlirt +=1, $Charming +=2]] [[Roll your eyes. "Such a pessimist."|4.k.con.pessimist][$Sincere +=1]]

"I don't trust //either// of you," you say, punctuating the words by crossing your arms. You've never //seen// such an eye roll. "Oh, you solved my riddle," Klaus replies, every word caustic enough to peel skin. "Pointing daggers in all directions isn't going to get you anywhere but backed into a corner. It's indecisive //and// rude." You were expecting more of a //'good, you shouldn't trust anyone'//, but alright. You hold up a hand in defeat; Klaus just shakes his head. "Listen, I know I'm not the most welcoming or forthcoming person, even for a priest. But I //am// trying to help you, $Name. If you can't trust me, trust Val's judgement, at least." He pauses. "$vTheir judge of character, anyway." "Anyway," Constantine continues with a grunt, "I'm half convinced their founders just wanted an excuse to spill priestess blood- either for the fun of it or to eliminate the competition. They're probably still riding the Yve Alavet high." You silently thank Ira for explaining //that// situation to you so you don't make an ass of yourself in front of Constantine and Klaus. But... [['"What does she have to do with the Faithful?"'|4.k.con.yve]]

"We can hold hands if you want, Klaus." A charged moment of silence settles over you as Klaus looks you up and down. It's not a lascivious glance but rather a genuine study. He's taking stock of you, though his evaluation is nearly impossible to determine behind his absolute mask of an expression. What he //isn't//, you're sure, is annoyed. There's a challenging light in his gray eyes that shines just as brightly as the candles about the room. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he says after a long beat, voice dry and unaffected as usual. But his gaze is strong, intent. <<if $KlausCrush is "bold">>"Maybe I would, Handmaiden," you reply, tip of your tongue peeking out as you run it over your bottom lip. "I've heard touching holy things makes your hand a second-class relic." "Third-class," Klaus corrects without missing a beat. "Second-class is for things belonging to a holy person." Something in the little implication sends a thrill through you, and you smile, perhaps a little too sharply.<</if>> \<<if $KlausCrush is "shy">>"I... well-" you stammer, not entirely sure how you landed yourself in this situation. The words weren't even meant to come out of your mouth in the first place, and Klaus' response has a heat dusting your cheeks. You can only hope it's not too visible in the late-morning light, and you definitely try not to dwell on the almost imperceptable twitch that curves his lips.<</if>> \<<if $KlausCrush is "denial">>You grit your teeth and scoff, a little bit more bothered by the whole exchange than you'd like to admit. You hadn't //meant// it, and he knows that. You cross your arms and look away, and definitely don't notice or think about the tiniest twitch that curves his lips.<</if>> \<<if ndef $KlausCrush>>You grin fiercely at the Handmaiden, somehow both disappointed and enjoying his near-lack of response. "Of course," you say, "Would never have said it otherwise."<</if>> You can practically hear Constantine roll $chis eyes, and you can certainly hear the disgusted scoff that Klaus ignores. "Anyway," Constantine interrupts with a grunt, "I'm half convinced their founders just wanted an excuse to spill priestess blood- either for the fun of it or to eliminate the competition. They're probably still riding the Yve Alavet high." You silently thank Ira for explaining //that// situation to you so you don't make an ass of yourself in front of Constantine and Klaus. But... [['"What does she have to do with the Faithful?"'|4.k.con.yve]]

Your eyes roll back far enough to see stars. "Such a pessimist." "Optimism's for laypeople and High Priests," he replies, eyes dark. "It's my job to be paranoid." "Anyway," Constantine continues with a grunt, "I'm half convinced their founders just wanted an excuse to spill priestess blood- either for the fun of it or to eliminate the competition. They're probably still riding the Yve Alavet high." You silently thank Ira for explaining //that// situation to you so you don't make an ass of yourself in front of Constantine and Klaus. But... [['"What does she have to do with the Faithful?"'|4.k.con.yve]]

"It's a little bit karmic," you answer. Val is fidgeting, and it's a little funny to watch. "And Klaus already confirmed, so no wriggling out of his one." <<if $four is "Klaus", not hasVisited ("4.val.kstory")>>This time, Val's eyebrows rocket into $vtheir hairline. "When did you have a conversation with Klaus!? Let you out of my sight for barely a couple of days and you're talking to Handmaidens and spies. You're out of control, $Name." $vTheir voice is stern, but you can hear the laugh beneath. No telling what's even further down, though. <</if>>"So, yeah... when I brought you here for Klaus' book, that was about the cult," $vthey finally answer$vs after a long beat. "It wasn't the first time, and it wasn't going to be the last." You take this in slowly. It's starting to feel like everyone knows things you don't, and that Val has been keeping far more secrets than you'd thought. You always knew $vthey $vwerent being honest, and $vthey knew you knew. But the revelations are stacking up. "Why didn't you tell me? Actually," you say with a sudden frown, "Why'd you bring me at all?" Val takes a breath before answering, and sorts out the ashamed look on $vtheir face. "It didn't feel safe, telling you. They scare me, $Name. You know I don't like the Religious but this cult scares me worse. And I brought you with me, because... well, because I didn't think anything could go wrong, and I don't like leaving you alone." The last few words bury themselves in your heart, leaving you both snug and bruised. [['"So what do you know about the Faithful?"'|4.val.faithful]]

"If I start listing things we'll be here all day," $vthey wince$vs. "But uh... I've known about the Faithful for a long time. That's the... project Klaus pays me for, to investigate them. When I brought you here for Klaus' book, that was about the cult," $vthey finally answer after a long beat. "It wasn't the first time, and it wasn't going to be the last." You take this in slowly. It's starting to feel like everyone knows things you don't, and that Val has been keeping far more secrets than you'd thought. You always knew $vthey $vwerent being honest, and $vthey knew you knew. But the revelations are stacking up. "Why didn't you tell me? Actually," you say with a sudden frown, "Why'd you bring me at all?" Val takes a long breath before answering, and sorts out the ashamed look on $vtheir face. "It didn't feel safe, telling you. They scare me, $Name. You know I don't like the Religious but this cult scares me worse. And I brought you with me, because... well, because I didn't think anything could go wrong, and I don't like leaving you alone." The last few words bury themselves in your heart, leaving you both snug and bruised. [['"So what do you know about the Faithful?"'|4.val.faithful]]

"It's just down the street. I don't know the name." Ira follows your line of sight, then does a double-take, a tiny frown appearing between their eyebrows. "That- that one? Are you sure?" You nod, positive. Ira's frown deepens and their hand tightens around their satchel strap. "Well, you shouldn't- you shouldn't have been in there," they continue. "It's been condemned. I doubt it's even sanctified anymore." "Is that bad?" you ask, eyes flicking to the silhouette of the theatre in the distance. Kat //tsks// in response. "I doubt it'll be a problem. Maybe some bats and a bit of mold, nothing we can't handle. I can't envision the Religious letting a theatre in the Common District fall too far through their fingers. And I'd imagine you'd have mentioned if you'd seen a massive sinkhole in the middle of the stage during your wonderful exploits, $Name," she says with a smile. "I'll come with you," the Ira says firmly. "You'll be safer with an ordained priestess, both from any dangers and the authorities." Kat fixes Ira with a strange, level look. There's a silent question being asked, one not meant for you to hear. Ira stares back with soft gray eyes, which is apparently enough for Kat. "Fair enough," she says, pushing back a loose strand of hair. "But don't act so noble, sunshine. I know you can't resist poking around in old musty places." Ira smiles. "Alright, I admit it. I want to look around." [[To the theatre, then.|4.i.kat.3]]

"It's just down the street. I don't know the name." Ira follows your line of sight, then does a double-take, a tiny frown appearing between their eyebrows. "That- that one? Are you sure?" You nod, positive. Ira's frown deepens and their hand tightens around their satchel strap. "Well, you shouldn't- you shouldn't have been in there," they continue. "It's been condemned. I doubt it's even sanctified anymore." "Is that bad?" you ask, eyes flicking to the silhouette of the theatre in the distance. Val makes a non-committal noise, which is deeply reassuring. "We were fine last time, weren't we? I didn't see any hell portals or bleeding walls. Can't say much for the cleanliness of the place, though. I think I developed allergies just from breathing in there." "Then let me come with you, at least," adds Ira. "You'll be safer with a priestess, both from the law and from.... bleeding walls...?" They say the last words slowly, as if they're not quite convinced of the joke. "Aren't you a helpful little monk? So nice of you to offer your time, and definitely not just to make sure we behave ourselves," Val says with a thin smile. "I'm not a monk," is Ira's only reply. "Thanks, Ira," you chime in, cutting off the staring contest between Val and Ira before it can really begin. "//We// appreciate it." Val maintains $vtheir smile. [[To the theatre, then.|4.i.val.3]]

"Just..." you huff, a little at a loss and unwilling to explain. "Please, Val?" Val tilts $vtheir head at you, one of $vtheir thick locs falling across $vtheir brow. $vThey stare$vs a moment, searching for something in your face, your posture, your words. By $vtheir frown, you aren't sure $vthey found it. "I definitely owe you a no-questions-asked or two or five, so I won't ask," $vthey say$vs, an unfamiliar, thin smile on $vtheir lips. "But at least tell me what we're looking for. I won't be much help otherwise." "Is that a yes, then?" $vThey snort, breath fogging the air and the angle of their smile looking a little more authentic. "I know better than to let you out of my sight. We'll go wherever you want. But I //do// have to buy eggs, later," $vthey add$vs with an unserious wag of $vtheir finger. The walk isn't far, and even better, is downhill, so you make good time across the Common District as you explain to Val what you're hoping to find. Not that you know what that might be, really, but it never hurts to look. The Holy City is alive today, far livier than it's felt in weeks, with citizens crowding the sidewalks, street hawkers on every corner, and children and stray dogs running to and fro between and around. You can only imagine the coming High Holy Day is responsible for the uptick in activity. Or maybe it's your mood. Your target is on a quieter street however, tucked away from the hustle and bustle and the noise, closer to the river and out of the way. Overlooked, in a word. The number of pedestrians thin quickly as you cross the canal bridge, Val in tow, and you find yourself the only occupants of this quiet corner of the City besides the unkempt, curling branches of trees barren for the winter. <<if $four is "Klaus">>You and Val and the trees and a figure in dark clothing, thirty paces away. Crossing the street just ahead is a priestess, small, black-hatted, with a bright halo of curls- [['"Ira!"'|4.i.val.1]] \<<else>>But the silence lasts less than a moment. You hear the footsteps before you see the figure, and they're nearly at your side before you can turn. A priest, black-hatted, dark-haired- [['"Klaus?"'|4.k.val.1]]<</if>>

It was salad for dinner, according to Val. Apparently you needed to 'eat your vegetables' or some nonsense. Whatever. The main feature was a plump, juicy red tomato, handpicked from the market that morning and lightly dusted with salt. Val speared a slice with $vtheir fork and held it up, peering at it with squinted eyes. //Tomatoes are a nightshade, did you know?// $vthey said. You asked if that was a color and $vthey laughed. //No, it's a type of plant. Most of them are poisonous, but tomatoes aren't. Potatoes and peppers, too. Isn't that weird?// Val went on for a bit trying to pronounce the fancy name for the plants, always getting tripped up around the third syllable, but you weren't listening. Were the fat red fruits always wholesome, you wondered, or were the toxins bred out of their flesh? Was that even possible? There must be traces down in the chemical components, the molecules, the atoms. Lethality is baked in, even in the smallest amounts. You're reminded of something else you've heard before: //the dose makes the poison//. <<silently>> [[4.k.anger.2]]<</silently>><<link "Nightshade. //Nightshade.//" "4.k.anger.2">><</link>>

You looked down at your plate of wonderful food lovingly prepared by Val for you and you alone, and thought, //What a stupid reason to spiral.// But there was no stopping you now. //Night. Shade.// your brain said, the 't' a click and the 'd' a pop. It conjured images in your mind of a purple soft as velvet and dark as licorice, syrupy, sweet, then bursting with distortion as if the glass pane shielding your thoughts had dissolved to reveal the writhing, unrecognizable worms inside. You couldn't wrap yourself around a pattern if you tried. The poison was deep. A wedge of tomato had made it to your mouth without your realizing, and it sat on your tongue like a chicken heart still raw enough to beat. That was something else you'd been told- you could get all your nutrients for the day from the organs of a small animal, if only you were brave enough to swallow. You've been told such a great many things, haven't you? How much of //that// was poison? //Calm//, something small and deep within you says. //Be at peace; this wrath wasn't meant for you.// A sober weight returns to your shoulders, your breath stilling. <<linkreplace "You sigh." t8n>>No. You know sabotage when you see it. That hush isn't to be trusted and you'll hammer it from your mind before it can put you back to sleep. Forcefully if you must. Like the tolls of a church bell drive out still-lurking spirits, you beat it back, one strike at a time- //Out.// //Out.// //Out.// [[CLOSE YOUR EYES|4.k.mirror.1]]<</linkreplace>>

Your vision shutters, and with it, the sickness. Stripes of pink and black and thin white have taken over, and it takes you a few seconds to realize Klaus has clamped a hand over your eyes to block out the light. Your own hands are shaking, and as soon as you still and take an audible breath, Klaus releases you, letting you once again take in the dim, shattered study. He's managed to pull you back from the wall a few feet; any farther and you would have both collided with the desecrated furniture. You take in Klaus slowly, his stiff jaw, controlled stare, and- You still can't quite see straight, but his hands weren't that color last you looked. Did he cast something? Blood can be a powerful component in Magic. "Why are you bleeding?" you ask dully. Klaus' faces pinches in incredulation. "If you're going to be deranged, learn how to recognize your own blood, $Name," he says in reply, nodding at something behind you. The priest flicks his hands, red dripping from his palms to the battered floor. He steps back- not hurriedly, but you can feel the intention in the distance. So you turn, and are confronted by a cobwebbed, wet indent in the azure surface of the mirror; the light beneath gasps for breath, raucous and headache-inducing. A sting ricochets through your brow, making you suck air through your teeth in pain. You press your fingers to your skull reflexively; a mistake, it turns out, as the motion only sets your skin alight. Your hand comes away slick and warm. "I don't know what you saw," comes Klaus' voice, far calmer than it ought to be, "but it took hold of you. Luckily your skull seems to be a bit thicker than glass. Does the word //basilisk// mean anything to you?" You shake your head, then clench your fists in immediate regret. You hear Klaus sigh, but you're too distracted to try and determine how sincere his exasperation is. <<if hasVisited ("4.k magic will make")>>"Do you need help," he asks, "or would you rather do it yourself?"<<else>>"Do you need help," he asks, "or are you going to walk around with a head wound?"<</if>> [[Wave him off. You can heal yourself.|4.k.mirror.2.a][$Sanity -=1, $Charming -=2]] [["Please," you say with another wince.|4.k.mirror.2b][$Charming +=2, $Sanity +=1]] [[Say nothing and just step forward.|4.k.mirror.2c][$Charming -=2, $Bold -=2]]

"I think I need some fact-checking on this one," you say, stepping back and turning before Val can stop you. "Klaus!" you call around the corner. He may or may not hear, but the point is to make Val squirm. "Are you gotdamn kidding me-" "Klaus!" You barely get the name out a second time before Val's hand is clamped over your mouth, silencing you. You're pulled back into the tiny chapel and (gently) shoved against the nearest wall, pinned in place by Val's weight. $vTheir eyes are lit with a spark that you know means mischief. "I'll //kill// you," $vthey whisper. "Klaus'd never let me hear the end of it, and you don't know the //half// of how mean he gets." [[Put your hands up in surrender.]] [[Was Val always this pretty? ♡][$ValFlirt +=1]] [[Lick Val's hand.]]

"So, what do you know about this cult, then?" you ask, not missing Val's visible relief at moving the subject along. Though the bar must have been low for $vthem to welcome a Religious conversation. "Quite a bit, except everything that matters," Val admits. <<if hasVisited ("4.val.kat")>>"They worship that god thing you asked about. And t<<else>>"T<</if>>hey want the High Priest gone, that's their big thing. Klaus explained it to me once or twice, but it never really sounds right. Something about... the Religion standing between people and the divine." "But..." you frown, "Aren't they a //part// of the Religious? I thought priestesses were supposed to believe that everything that comes out the Acropolis is all... perfect and true, or something." "That's the bit that I get tripped up on. I can't figure out how they reconcile it. I spent a headache or two trying to figure it out before I gave up," $vthey say$vs with a shrug and a wrinkle to $vtheir nose. "I'm more concerned with the practical bits, like finding the members of the cult and figuring out how they recruit. And keeping track of the damage they've done, not that there's been anything major since the High Priestess. Hopefully that doesn't mean they're winding up for something else." <<if $four is "Klaus">>[['"What about the High Priestess?"'|4.val.yve]]<<else>>[['"That's funny, I just learned about her."']]<</if>>

"'Since the High Priestess' what?" you ask, then watch as Val's expression shifts from surprise to bewilderment to realization. Visible discomfort crawls over $vtheir skin. "Holy shit, that's //right//," $vthey turn$vs to you fully. "You wouldn't know. Okay, so-" Val's hands flail as $vthey prepare$vs for whatever wild tale $vtheyre about to tell in an attempt to visualize $vtheir point. $vThey open$vs $vtheir mouth to speak, then hesitate, then wince, then finally begin. "So you've probably heard people call Jacqueline Alavet the High Priestess. She's not, not technically. She's like a... long-term substitute for the real High Priestess. A Handmaiden, I mean, like Klaus is. The real Priestess is her sister Yve, but no one's seen her in years." Your brows come together and your brain swims as you grasp at the names, and the implications. If this Yve is the true High Priestess, why have you never heard of her? And how can she be missing? If what you've been told is true, the Holy City should be //literally// falling apart without both members of the Most Holy. Much less the Religious itself without one of its leaders. "Working theory is that the cult got to her. Converted or threatened her I'm still not sure, but they got her to blow up the Divine Theatre. Killed a bunch of people in the Acropolis, then did a vanishing act. It fucked the City up for months. You couldn't go outside without a mask to breathe through all the smoke. It was... I dunno, a week or two before we met. I never even thought to tell you, and I guess by the time you were out and about, no one really wanted to talk about it." You do remember a gray haze from your earliest days in the Holy City, but until now you'd assumed it was only a manifestation of your own delirium. [['"Klaus told me it was an accident."']] [['"What if... that's what happened to me?"']]

"What a coincidence," you say with a half-hearted laugh. "I just learned about the real High Priestess earlier today." Val gasps, and visible tension crawls over $vtheir skin. "Holy shit, that's //right//," $vthey turn$vs to you fully. "It happened //just// before we met. I never even thought to tell you, and I guess by the time you were out and about, no one really wanted to talk about it." You doubt //Val// wanted to talk about it; at least you can take comfort in that you were at least some kind of a relief in your early, stream of nonsense, days "But what does she have to do with the Faithful?" "Official story's that she went crazy, and might have been excommunicated. But Klaus thinks the cult might have been involved. Don't know yet if they converted her or threatened her, but it's got their stink all over it. The //facts// are that she turned half the Divine Theatre into rubble and killed a bunch of Saints, which is not exactly the actions of a Priestess who's right in the head." [['"What if... that's what happened to me?"']]

"Klaus mentioned the Theatre to me. He said it was an accident with the ritual, though." Val shakes $vtheir head, a faint frown on $vtheir lips. "It definitely wasn't an accident, and he knows that. What else did he say?" It's your turn to shrug. "Nothing, really. I told him I don't have all my memories, and he asked if I remembered the Theatre being rebuilt." Surprise lifts $vtheir brows. "You told him that?" "Should I not have?" "Yes. No. I don't know. I trust Klaus, but... it's hard to tell with him, sometimes," Val says with a half-hearted shrug. "I don't know if you've noticed, but he's got a real //gift// for making you feel like you should double-guess yourself..." $vThey trail$vs off, focus wandering. "I don't suppose he offered up any advice as to your amnesia, did he?" $vthey continue$vs. "Nothing useful, no." Val sighs. "Of course not, that asshole. He's probably already got a theory and is holding out just for the fun of it. He wouldn't have brought up the Divine Theatre without a reason." [['"What if... that's what happened to me?"']]

"What if... that's what happened to me?" you say more than you ask. Confusion clouds Val's eyes. "You mean the explosion?" $vthey ask$vs apprehensively, like $vtheyre treading around a bear trap primed to spring. You can't tell if it's your prodding or the topic itself that's making $vthem nervous. "You said people were injured, and if it was right before my memories start..." Val inclines $vtheir head. "You could have been there, or nearby, and got hurt in the chaos, maybe a head injury. That makes sense. And with your Magic, you could have been a $priestess attending the ritual. I've thought about it." Nevermind that in half a decade you haven't found a shred of evidence of your own existence, or even a familiar face. "You've never mentioned this to me." $vThey shrug$vs, eyes trained on the space just next to yours. "Didn't want to bias you, in case you remembered something on your own. And you never really seemed that interested, before." $vThey won't look at you. Why won't $vthey look at you? [['"Val, what do you think I am?"']]

"Val, what do you think I am?" You ask softly. It's not a new question, but it is a rusty one. It's been years since you last brought up <<if $Human gte 50>>that uncanny state you seem to exist in.<<else>>what always seemed to you like glaringly obvious defects.<</if>> Val always talked you away from it all, with $vtheir gentle reassurances and playful self-deprecation. //If// you're// weird, then what the hell am I? Everyone's a bit strange in the head, $Name. There's no such thing as normal.// Which is why it's unsurprising when Val once again brushes the matter aside like it's any other instance of self-doubt. "You're $Name," $vthey answer$vs firmly, still refusing to meet your gaze. "You're my friend. That's all I care about." <<if $four is "Ira">>A nice sentiment, but not what you asked. And Val gets away with it, as Klaus chooses this exact moment to enter the room. His immediate frown tells you he can feel the tension, but he has the grace -or lack of interest- to ignore it. "Tell me that's not //your// handiwork," he says, a critical eye aimed at the stain and haphazard ritual circle marring the floor. "Wasn't us," Val responds, apparently all too happy for the distraction. "Scout's honor. Any idea what it is?" "It's a binding ritual." [[You squint. "It is?"|4.k.val.ritual]]<<else>>A nice sentiment, but not what you asked. And Val gets away with it, as Ira chooses this exact moment to enter the room. They seem to sense the tension immediately, gray eyes flicking between you and Val. "Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt- oh! You didn't do that, did you?" You follow Ira's pointed finger to the stain and haphazard ritual circle marring the floor. "Wasn't us," Val responds, apparently all too happy for the distraction. "Scout's honor. Any idea what it is?" "It's a binding ritual." [[You squint. "It is?"|4.i.val.ritual]]<</if>>

It was salad for dinner, according to Val. Apparently you needed to 'eat your vegetables' or some nonsense. Whatever. The main feature was a plump, juicy red tomato, handpicked from the market that morning and lightly dusted with salt. Val speared a slice with $vtheir fork and held it up, peering at it with squinted eyes. //Tomatoes are a nightshade, did you know?// $vtheyd said. You asked if that was a color and $vthey laughed. //No, it's a type of plant. Most of them are poisonous, but tomatoes aren't. Potatoes and peppers, too. Isn't that weird?// Val went on for a bit trying to pronounce the fancy name for the plants, always getting tripped up around the third syllable, but you weren't listening. Were the fat red fruits always wholesome, you wondered, or were the toxins bred out of their flesh? Was that even possible? There must be traces down in the chemical components, the molecules, the atoms. Lethality is baked in, even in the smallest amounts. You're reminded of something else you've heard before: //the dose makes the poison//. <<silently>> [[4.i.anger.2]]<</silently>><<link "Nightshade. //Nightshade.//" "4.i.anger.2">><</link>>

You looked down at your plate of wonderful food lovingly prepared by Val for you and you alone, and thought, //what a stupid reason to spiral.// But there was no stopping you now. //Night. Shade.// your brain said, the 't' a click and the 'd' a pop. It conjured images in your mind of a purple soft as velvet and dark as licorice, syrupy, sweet, then bursting with distortion as if the glass pane shielding your thoughts had dissolved to reveal the writhing, unrecognizable worms inside. You couldn't wrap yourself around a pattern if you tried. The poison was deep. A wedge of tomato had made it to your mouth without your realizing, and it sat on your tongue like a chicken heart still raw enough to beat. That was something else you'd been told- you could get all your nutrients for the day from the organs of a small animal, if only you were brave enough to swallow. You've been told such a great many things, haven't you? How much of //that// was poison? //Calm//, something small and deep within you says. //Be at peace; this wrath wasn't meant for you.// A sober weight returns to your shoulders, your breath stilling. <<linkreplace "You sigh." t8n>>No. You know sabotage when you see it. That hush isn't to be trusted and you'll hammer it from your mind before it can put you back to sleep. Forcefully if you must. Like the tolls of a church bell drive out still-lurking spirits, you beat it back, one strike at a time- //Out.// //Out.// //Out.// [[CLOSE YOUR EYES|4.i.mirror.1]]<</linkreplace>>

Your vision shutters, and with it, the sickness. Stripes of pink and black and thin white have taken over, and it takes you a few seconds to realize Ira has clamped a hand over your eyes, blocking out the light. Your own hands are shaking, and as soon as you still and take an audible breath, Ira releases you, letting you once again take in the dim, shattered study. They've managed to pull you back from the wall a few feet; any farther and you would have both collided with the desecrated furniture. You take in Ira slowly, their wild, panicked eyes, heaving chest, and- You still can't quite see straight, but their hands weren't that color last you looked. Did they cast something? Blood can be a powerful component in Magic. "Why are you bleeding?" you ask dully. Ira's jaw falls slack. "I'm not. //You// are, $Name. Your head- you smashed your head." They step forward, reaching toward you, and for the first time, a sting ricochets through your brow and making you suck air through your teeth in pain. You press your fingers to your skull reflexively; a mistake, it turns out, as the motion only sets your skin alight. Your hand comes away slick and warm. <<if $RO is "Ira" or $RO is "IraCon">>Ira doesn't waste as second, and with a swish of their hand, you feel the soothing chill of Magic lay across their skin. The touch isn't the feather-light thing you would expect from Ira, but much swifter, more precise. <<if $hair_length is "short" or $hair_length is "shaved">>Though the softness returns on a second pass, when they use their thumb to swipe away a drop of blood that had strayed too near your eyelid.<<else>>Though the softness returns on a second pass, when they brush aside a few stray wisps of hair that clung to your skin, red with blood.<</if>> \<<else>>Ira doesn't waste a second, and with a swish of their hand, you feel the soothing chill of Magic lay across your skin. They pull a cotton handkerchief from one of their many coat pockets and hold it against the wound. <</if>> [['"What happened?"'|4.i.mirror.2]]

You see no text this time, no high-speed whirling past letters and runes. Now, it's just shapes, a pattern maybe, abstract and textured. There's no color here, just the black and white and false gray of a brain wave. Before you is a three-eyed creature with a face of static, every inch of it a different story like puzzle pieces tattooed across writhing limbs. You've never seen this thing before, you're absolutely certain. But you recognize it as easily as you do yourself, a marked trail to one of your own nerves. Something snaps into place, and your mind is flooded with images, information. A dog with a bloody mouth, a unicorn in a meadow, a boy drowning in a lake. It makes you feel... [[Lost.|4.k.lost.1][$Human -=2, $Sanity -=2]] [[Angry.|4.k.anger.1][$Human -=2, $Sanity +=2]] [[Afraid.|4.k.fear.1][$Human +=2, $Sanity +=2]]

You see no text this time, no high-speed whirling past letters and runes. Now, it's just shapes, a pattern maybe, abstract and textured. There's no color here, just the black and white and false gray of a brain wave. Before you is a three-eyed creature with a face of static, every inch of it a different story like puzzle pieces tattooed across writhing limbs. You've never seen this thing before, you're absolutely certain. But you recognize it as easily as you do yourself, a marked trail to one of your own nerves. Something snaps into place, and your mind is flooded with images, information. A dog with a bloody mouth, a unicorn in a meadow, a boy drowning in a lake. It makes you feel... [[Lost.|4.i.lost.1][$Human -=2, $Sanity -=2]] [[Angry.|4.i.anger.1][$Human -=2, $Sanity +=2]] [[Afraid.|4.i.fear.1][$Human +=2, $Sanity +=2]]

"What happened?" you mutter, reaching up to keep the handkerchief in place yourself. The sting is slowly subsiding. "Keep pressure on it- there," they say, stepping back to give you space. "I don't know, I should be asking //you// what happened. One second you were looking into the mirror, then next..." They nod at the space behind you. So you turn, and are confronted by a cobwebbed, wet indent in the azure surface of the glass; the light beneath stutters and gasps for breath, raucous and headache-inducing. "It was all colors and flashing light. Didn't look like anything to me, but I think //you// saw something," says the priestess somberly. "You called it a basilisk?" "A what?" Ira shrugs. "I'm just quoting you. But you told me to close my eyes, so I figured, if yours were also closed..." they trail off, looking uncertain. "So what was it that you saw?" [['"A vision. I've been having a lot of those lately."'|4.i.vision][$Ira +=2, $Sanity -=2]] [['"An old memory I'd forgotten."'|4.i.memory][$Ira +=1, $Sanity +=1]] [['"I didn't see anything."][$Sanity +=1]]

"Have you ever heard of something like this happening? I felt possessed. Magic can't do that." "No," they say, then incline their head. "Well, sort of. I've never heard of a //basilisk// or anything like that, but Magic has always had a strange effect on people. Violence is far from unheard of... I'm sure you've seen what can happen after a particularly intense Holy Day." You have. The Religious were wise - or lucky - to pick a river city as their seat of power. Here, all the blood can simply be washed from the streets and into the waters, carried away to far-off lands its once-hosts never saw. "Why is that? Why does it... rot people's brains?" "I don't know. I'm more interested in the history of the Religious as a faction than Magic itself. Name a High Priestess and I can probably tell you her blood type, but the science of it all was always a little lost on me. I care more about studying the //why// than the //how.//" Your first converstation with Ira comes back to mind, and their enthusiastic explanation of what you now know to be heresy. According to Klaus, anyway. Briefly you consider that Ira might not know, or that Klaus was lying, but you dismiss both ideas almost as quickly as they occur. Better to ask them outright. [['"Speaking of, will you tell me more about the God Beneath?"'|4.i.gb]]

//It's just a hallucination//, you say, when you look at your reflection and see your eyes askew and lips curling where they shouldn't. //You are not fearsome to behold.// Unless... do you trust that knowledge? Of what is hallucinated and what isn't? Anything could be a false positive. Any fact, any memory, any person... a slippery slope of a thought that leads you down queasy trails. Every moment up until know may have been fabricated; there are no landmarks on a map you cannot see. You tell Val you aren't sure you have a face and $vthey say$vs you should try better drugs. The scissors snap closed with a //shrrk// a breath away from your ear and you shiver. //Calm//, something small and deep within you says. //Be at peace; this delirium wasn't meant for you.// A sober weight returns to your shoulders, your breath stilling. <<linkreplace "You sigh." t8n>>No. You know sabotage when you see it. That hush isn't to be trusted and you'll hammer it from your mind before it can put you back to sleep. Forcefully if you must. Like the tolls of a church bell drive out still-lurking spirits, you beat it back, one strike at a time- //Out.// //Out.// //Out.// [[CLOSE YOUR EYES|4.i.mirror.1]]<</linkreplace>>

The world went muffled, for a moment; it eyed you with those bile-colored pupils and you were wholly transfixed. It was grinning at you, though with malice or satisfaction you couldn't be certain. Vaguely you registered Val shouting for help, but time seemed slow, until the dog jerked back suddenly and violently, a crossbow bolt buried in its hind quarters. Your stuffy trance snapped in time to see a gush of water land at the dog's feet. It leapt back, cowering and snarling as if it'd been burned. There were two members of the Blessed Guard beside you, one wielding a now-empty wooden bucket, the other reloading her crossbow. You screamed, you think, though it might have been the dog- a last defiant shriek as the Guard took aim and fired at its heart. She didn't miss this time, and the animal dropped dead with a sickening crunch that replays in your head over and over. Every second drives the bone-shattering farther into your chest. You can still see the dog, and those dull yellow eyes staring up at you like they've won the last laugh. Val clings to you, though you could have felt $vtheir terrified heartbeat a mile away. //Calm//, something small and deep within you says. //Be at peace; this horror wasn't meant for you.// A sober weight returns to your shoulders, your breath stilling. <<linkreplace "You sigh." t8n>>No. You know sabotage when you see it. That hush isn't to be trusted and you'll hammer it from your mind before it can put you back to sleep. Forcefully if you must. Like the tolls of a church bell drive out still-lurking spirits, you beat it back, one strike at a time- //Out.// //Out.// //Out.// [[CLOSE YOUR EYES|4.i.mirror.1]]<</linkreplace>>

Soothing the wound is easy with a swish of Magic, barely more than a prickle of effort for you. The sting starts to fade almost immediately, and you don't expect you'll even see a scar.<<if not hasVisited ("4.k magic will make")>>You look up to briefly catch a strange look on Klaus' face that you can't quite parse. Wary curiosity, perhaps.<</if>> "What's a basilisk?" you ask finally, taking a deep breath and hoping your Magic holds. "I don't know," replies Klaus, almost reluctantly. You imagine those aren't words he uses often. "You said it when you were... looking into the mirror. That, and, //'close your eyes'//, which-" he gestures. Your blood is scattered in flecks across his skin. "So what did you see?" [['"A vision. I've been having a lot of those lately."'|4.k.vision][$Sanity -=2]] [['"An old memory I'd forgotten."'|4.k.memory][$IKlaus +=1, $Sanity +=1]] [['"I didn't see anything."'|4.k.nothing][$Sanity +=1]]

<<if $RO is "Klaus" or $RO is "ValKlaus">>Klaus apparently takes your silence for meekness, and snorts a laugh as you step within arms reach, close enough for the woody scent of incense to tickle your nose. "I wasn't going to make fun of you," he says,<<if $hair_length is "short" or $hairlength is "shaved">> not hesitating to take hold of you, the fingers of his left hand settling along your hairline and palm cupping your jaw, while the other passes over your forehead.<<else>>fingertips brushing aside the stray wisps of hair that have fallen over your brow. He doesn't apologize when one strand, sticky with blood, tugs on the raw edge of your wound.<</if>> The touch isn't particularly gentle, but somehow you know he means it to be. You feel the change in the air when he casts his Magic more than you do on your skin, though within seconds a soothing chill seeps through you, all the way down to the bone. After hardly a breath of a second, he steps back to give you space- or as best he can in the limited mobility that the wreck of the library provides. \<<else>>Klaus apparently takes your silence for meekness, and exhales a laugh through his nose. "I wasn't going to make fun of you," he says, his fingertips just grazing the raw surface of your skin and a soothing chill instantly sinking into you. He steps back to give you space as best he can in the limited mobility that the wreck of the library provides.<</if>> "What's a basilisk?" you ask finally, taking a deep breath and hoping the Magic holds. "I don't know," replies Klaus, almost reluctantly. You imagine those aren't words he uses often. "You said it when you were... looking into the mirror. That, and, //'close your eyes'//, which-" he gestures. Your blood is scattered in flecks across his skin. "So what did you see?" [['"A vision. I've been having a lot of those lately."'|4.k.vision][$Sanity -=2]] [['"An old memory I'd forgotten."'|4.k.memory][$Klaus +=1, $Sanity +=1]] [['"I didn't see anything."'|4.k.nothing][$Sanity +=1]]

"Please," you manage through another wince. First aid was never your specialty. <<if $RO is "Klaus" or $RO is "ValKlaus">>You step within arms reach of the Handmaiden, close enough for the woody scent of incense to tickle your nose. <<if $hair_length is "short" or $hairlength is "shaved">>He doesn't hesitate to take hold of you, the fingers of his left hand settling along your hairline and palm cupping your jaw, while the other passes over your forehead.<<else>>His fingertips brush aside the stray wisps of hair that have fallen over your brow, and doesn't apologize when one strand, sticky with blood, tugs on the raw edge of your wound.<</if>> The touch isn't particularly gentle, but somehow you know he means it to be. You feel the change in the air when he casts his Magic more than you do on your skin, though within seconds a soothing chill seeps through you, all the way down to the bone. After hardly a breath of a second, he steps back to give you space- or as best he can in the limited mobility that the wreck of the library provides. \<<else>>"You're welcome," he replies. His fingertips barely graze the raw surface of your skin, followed immediately by a soothing chill that seeps down to your bones. He steps back to give you space- or as best he can in the limited mobility that the wreck of the library provides.<</if>> "What's a basilisk?" you ask finally, taking a deep breath and hoping the Magic holds. "I don't know," replies Klaus, almost reluctantly. You imagine those aren't words he uses often. "You said it when you were... looking into the mirror. That, and, //'close your eyes'//, which-" he gestures. Your blood is scattered in flecks across his skin. "So what did you see?" [['"A vision. I've been having a lot of those lately."'|4.k.vision][$Sanity -=2]] [['"An old memory I'd forgotten."'|4.k.memory][$Klaus +=1, $Sanity +=1]] [['"I didn't see anything."'|4.k.nothing][$Sanity +=1]]

Dusk had just fallen as you and Val wandered the streets, aimless and sleepy, when you spotted the dog. It was a mass of bedraggled wet fur huddled into a corner, lethargic and shaking, and you thought it was injured, or maybe even just upset. It reminded you of a demon, the way its head swung back and forth thoughtlessly. Had someone kicked it? Was it starving? So you approached and knelt down, and found yourself captivated by its strange, yellowed eyes. It was sick, //definitely sick//, but you could help it, you were certain. So you reached for the prickle of Magic in the back of your mind, prepared to flush the disease and pain from the dog's body- Until Val snatched you back with a barely-contained scream. You were annoyed more than you were confused. Val hated Magic, but would $vthey really begrudge a sick dog? It was clearly miserable, its legs trembling like toothpicks in an earthquake. It's not like it would cost you anything. And you didn't think Val was afraid of dogs; you'd seen $vthem ruffle the belly of more than one dopey shop hound. Then the dog lolled its head like its neck was made of rubber, and Val shoved you up the street so hard you nearly lost your footing. The animal's jaw fell open, revealing two rows of filthy, rotten teeth and frothing saliva that dripped from its gums to the cobblestones. [[Revulsion crawls up your spine.|4.k.fear.2]]

"So Val knows about the cult, too?" you ask. A brow raised, a slight frown. "Thought that little demon tells you everything. $vTheyve spent the last six months scraping the streets looking for the cult." That clicks. "That's why we were here. Why didn't $vthey just tell me?" you ask distantly. You didn't think Constantine's eyebrows could go higher, but they do. <<if $RO isnot "Val" and $RO isnot "ValKlaus">>"Don't drag me into this. Ask your fellow pest yourself."<</if>><<if $RO is "Val" or $RO is "ValKlaus">>"Don't get me involved in this. That's between you two lovebirds." <<if $ValCrush is "denial">>You feel the heat rush to your cheeks almost instantly. "We're not- there's-," your tongue fumbles the words. "We're just friends," you manage to insist. You make the mistake of looking to Klaus- for help, or to convince him as well, you aren't sure- only to be met with the most placid expression you've seen on his face so far. He's not going to through you a line. Constantine actually rolls $chis eyes this time, then lifts $chis hands in surrender. "Whatever you say." You bite back a response and focus on unravelling the sudden knot in your chest.<</if>> \<<if $ValCrush isnot "denial">>You frown at $chim, hoping it disguises the sudden warmth in your cheeks. "We're not //lovebirds//," you protest. You make the mistake of looking to Klaus- for help, or to convince him as well, you aren't sure- only to be met with the most placid expression you've seen on his face so far. He's not going to throw you a line. Constantine actually rolls $chis eyes this time, then lifts $chis hands in surrender. "Whatever you say."<</if>><</if>> You do your very best to ignore the intent light you just know is behind Klaus' eyes. <<if $RO is "ValKlaus">>None of his business. Yet<</if>> "Good to know Val can keep //some// things to $vthemself," he adds. "Anyway," Constantine continues with a grunt, "I'm half convinced their founders just wanted an excuse to spill priestess blood- either for the fun of it or to eliminate the competition. They're probably still riding the Yve Alavet high." You silently thank Ira for explaining //that// situation to you so you don't make an ass of yourself in front of Constantine and Klaus. But... [['"What does she have to do with the Faithful?"'|4.k.con.yve]]

"What does she have to do with the Faithful?" you ask. "I thought she was excommunicated." Klaus gives Constantine a side-long glance. "Good to know the propaganda machine operates as intended," he says tensely, then doesn't elaborate. He crosses the room and crouches by the awkward arrangement of candles and ash, seeminly entirely uninterested in the conversation. Constantine takes the burden with a sigh. "I'm not caught up on all the details, but the Acropolis' //official// statement was that Yve was a traitor to the cause and fled after a failed attempt to destroy the Divine Theatre. The official //rumor// is that she was excommunicated, but that's just a red herring to satisfy the conspiracists." "Do you know how excommunication works?" you ask, "I've only heard rumors about that, too." "No, and I'd rather not find out," $che replies, flicking a glance over $chis shoulder to Klaus. "That's far above my pay grade." File that away for later, then. "Where does the cult come in?" "Official-unofficial theory that Yve was converted, forcibly or otherwise. Or so I've gathered between streams of Val's yapping. They've always been a part of the Religious, so it wouldn't have been hard for them to get to her. Though how you convince a living goddess that she's the devil is beyond me." Your attention is pulled by a small //thunk// as Klaus kicks over a candle that cracks in half as it hits the floor. Constantine seems to take the hint. "What are we looking at?" $che asks, turning away from you completely. "The world's shittiest binding circle," replies Klaus. [[You frown. You hadn't recognized it for what it is.|4.k.con.4]]

"Have you seen Val? I don't know where $vthey went after we left the Theatre the first time and it's been a few hours now." Klaus doesn't quite frown, but something in his expression tightens. "Val attended the ritual?" "$vThey didn't want me to go alone. Is that a problem?" "No," he says, then pauses, "I'm just surprised. But no, I haven't seen $vthem." A gust of wind stirs at your feet, picking up dead leaves and flecks of snow and twirling them in miniature tornadoes. It makes you shiver, as well as Klaus, though he hides it better than you. And with it, a lock of chestnut hair falls across his eyes. He reaches up one hand to brush it away. You notice the vibrant red paint on the tips of his fingers first, and the tremble across them second. The obvious answer flashes through your mind briefly, but the color is much too rich to be dried blood. <<if $AteFruit is true>><<if hasVisited ("4.fruit")>>[[Grab his hand.|5.klaus.4fruit]] [['"What is that?"'|5.klaus.4.f.a]] \<<else>>[[Grab his hand.|5.klaus.4fruit.b]] [['"What is that?"'|5.klaus.4.f.b]]<</if>><</if>> \<<if $AteFruit is false>>[[Grab his hand.|5.klaus.4nof]] [['"What is that?"'|5.klaus.4.nofwhat]]<</if>>

He doesn't flinch, but the carefully even measure of his breath stumbles, only for a moment. "What are you doing?" Klaus asks, though there's little bite in his voice; you aren't sure there's much more than apathy. You pull his hand toward you, the light of the full moon bright enough to see by. The color is centered on his fingertips, as if each was dipped in ink.The red is smeared and flecked across his skin, and you finally realize it's not paint at all. It's a stain, one you recognize- it was on your own hands not too long ago;<<if hasVisited ("It's intoxicating. Pluck a fruit from a nearby branch.")>> it took ages to wash out, after all, and even longer for the taste to leave your tongue.<<else>> hours later the juice is still vivid on your tongue.<</if>> Your grip slides down to his wrist, thumb brushing over the bluest of the veins; his skin is hot, almost tacky, and you swear you can feel something buzz beneath the surface as if an electrical charge traveled through the sinew. "Been in the gardens, have you?" you ask, a strange authority heating your words. //Who the hell are you chastising? And for what?// your brain screams. But you hold Klaus' gaze, as he holds yours. "I don't pick my own fig, $Name," he replies, and now you can see the syrupy darkness on his tongue. "Are you high?" "I'm sober enough," Klaus says, the smallest of curls to his lip. Either he's being condescending, or you're irritating him. Or both, likely. "I'm not about to crash. This is my job. It's part of the ritual, I told you that." <<if hasVisited ("DT.B.5") or hasVisited ("DT.A.5")>>Crash? Constantine also used that word. <</if>>[['"What's it do?"'|5.k.fig]]

He doesn't flinch, but the carefully even measure of his breath stumbles, only for a moment. "What are you doing?" Klaus asks, though there's little bite in his voice; you aren't sure there's much more than apathy. You pull his hand toward you, the light of the full moon bright enough to see by. The color is centered on his fingertips, as if each was dipped in ink. The red is smeared and flecked across his skin, and you realize it's not paint at all. It's a stain, one you recognize- it was on your own hands not too long ago;<<if hasVisited ("It's intoxicating. Pluck a fruit from a nearby branch.")>> it took ages to wash out, after all, and even longer for the taste to leave your tongue.<<else>> hours later the juice is still vivid on your tongue.<</if>> Your grip slides down to his wrist, thumb brushing over the bluest of the veins; his skin is hot, almost tacky, and you swear you can feel something buzz beneath the surface as if an electrical charge traveled through the sinew. "This is that fruit from the garden, isn't it?" you ask. "Snow fig," he says in answer, and now you can see the syrupy darkness on his tongue, the haze in his movements, the way he looks just past your shoulder. "Are you high?" "I'm sober enough," Klaus replies, the smallest of curls to his lip. Either he's being condescending, or you're irritating him. Or both, likely. "I'm not about to crash. This is my job. It's part of the ritual, I told you that." <<if hasVisited ("DT.B.5") or hasVisited ("DT.A.5")>>Crash? Constantine also used that word. <</if>>[['"What's it do?"'|5.k.fig]]

He doesn't flinch, but the carefully even measure of his breath stumbles, only for a moment. "What are you doing?" Klaus asks, though there's little bite in his voice; you aren't sure there's much more than apathy. You pull his hand toward you, the light of the full moon bright enough to see by. The color is centered on his fingertips, as if each was dipped in ink. The red is smeared and flecked across his skin, and you finally realize it's not paint at all. It's a stain the color of wine. Your grip slides down to his wrist, thumb brushing over the bluest of the veins; his skin is hot, almost tacky, and you swear you can feel something buzz beneath the surface as if an electrical charge traveled through the sinew. "What is that?" you ask. "Snow fig," he replies, as if that answers the question. "A fruit?" "It's a hallucinogen. Consuming it is the first part of the ritual. And we burn the wood as incense; I'm sure you inhaled some." There's a syrupy darkness on his tongue, a haze in his movements, and most unsettling of all, he looks right through you, as if not entirely convinced you exist. "So you're high right now?" "I'm sober enough," Klaus says, the smallest of curls to his lip. Either he's being condescending, or you're irritating him. Or both, likely. "I'm not about to crash. This is my job." <<if hasVisited ("DT.B.5") or hasVisited ("DT.A.5")>>Crash? Constantine also used that word. <</if>>[['"What's it do?"'|5.k.fig]]

"I didn't see anything," you respond. And frankly, you aren't sure if it's even a lie. "I think I just blacked out." "Really? That's not good. I hope it didn't give you a concussion." Probably not the worst damage your brain has suffered, even within memory. "I think I'm alright. My vision's fine... and it was just glass, not stone or anything." "Either way, if the mirror wasn't broken before, it certainly is now," they wince. "Maybe... maybe no more touching mysterious objects of indeterminable purpose. We can leave that to the Saints." You make a noise of agreement, but you can make no promises. [['"Does that...happen often?"'|4.i.mirror.3]]

"Some kind of vision," you say. Your tongue feels out of place behind your teeth. "I've been having a lot of those recently. It wasn't anything important, just... a moment with Val I don't remember." "Mysterious visions don't often bode well," muses Ira, forbodingly. "Do you mean... something you'd forgotten, or something you still don't remember?" You think on it, running what you saw over and over again across your mind, feeling for cracks and bruises, anything that could provide a familar fingerprint. You //remembered// it, but in the same way you'd recall a dream. Frustration starts to prickle at your temple, so you drop the matter and give Ira a noncommittal shrug. They flatten their lips, but nod. "Either way, if the mirror wasn't broken before, it certainly is now," they wince. "Maybe... maybe no more touching mysterious objects of indeterminable purpose. We can leave that to the Saints." You make a noise of agreement, but you can make no promises. [['"Does that...happen often?"'|4.i.mirror.3]]

"It triggered a memory I'd forgotten. Nothing important, just... a random day with Val." The phrasing may be a little disingenuous, but the whiplash of emotions is still far too fresh to unpack. You'll need to let those stew a bit. "Oh, I hope you didn't give yourself a concussion," Ira frets. "You seem to be accumilating injuries left and right. Or is that par for the course for you?" A little. A fact which is suddenly making you a bit sheepish, so you only stare at the floor in response. Ira sighs and looks over the remains of the mirror. "Either way, if it wasn't broken before, it certainly is now," they wince. "Maybe... maybe no more touching mysterious objects of indeterminable purpose. We can leave that to the Saints." You make a noise of agreement, but you can make no promises. [['"Does that...happen often?"'|4.i.mirror.3]]

"Ira!" you call, before you can stop yourself. The figure stops immediately, and whirls around to face you. It only takes a half-dozen strides for you to catch up and confirm that you have indeed called the right name. "Oh," they breathe, pressing a hand to their chest. "You have an incredible talent for turning up in places, don't you? Is this the third time?" Ira looks much the same as the last time you saw them, all in neat black with a satin bow at their collar. They're carrying a leather satchel, its buckles only half secured, and a wide-brimmed hat rests atop their head in the same midnight color as the rest of their clothes. The very picture of a priestess. "I try. Where are you headed? This isn't exactly a popular part of town." Ira hoists their satchel farther up their shoulder and brushes a stray curl from their eyes. "Just on my way to work, to the library. I... like to take the scenic route." You glance about the street, empty and overgrown. The trees are knobbly and the pavement cracked and slick with algae. Unattended filth crawls up the stone walls of the buildings that are surely just as abandoned, if not desolate. "It's prettier when it's warm," Ira adds, somewhat unconvincingly; sheepishly, even. "Though I could ask the same of you. And I will. Where are //you// off to?" "Retracing our steps to that angel." Your tongue is loose today, apparently. Val shifts beside you, and you feel $vtheir arm brush against yours. //What are you doing?// You press back. //It's alright.// "Returning to the scene of the crime, are you?" says Ira with an airy laugh. "Which theatre was it again? I don't think you ever said." [[You gesture. "It's just down the street."|4.i.val.2]]

"Klaus?" you say, barely a half-second before he reaches you. He tilts his head back to regard you from under the brim of his hat, expression inscruitable. "Don't you know you should never return to the scene of the crime?" You bite back a stutter, but not of nervousness. There's something like a frayed wire behind your eyes. The daylight seems brighter than it should. "Crime?" Klaus inclines his head toward the beastly building crouching at the end of the street. "This //is// the place you found my book of hours, isn't it? There's only so many abandoned holy places in this City." "What are //you// doing here?" Val asks. There's a higher note in $vtheir voice than usual. Real curiosity. "And don't say it's a coincidence. You never leave the Acropolis in daytime." "I wanted to get a look at the theatre myself; you have your skills, but Magic's not one of them. So a coincidence, but only a small one," he replies dryly. "And really, Val, I didn't think you'd be willing to come back here." "Anything for $Name," says Val, $vtheir lips pressing into a thin line. Klaus turns his critical eye on you. "For $Name?" It's strange seeing Klaus outside the gilded walls of the Acropolis, strange to the point of making sense. He looks perfectly at home in the austere black garments of priesthood, face half-obscured by the shadow cast by the brim of his hat. This here is any random priestess or another, and reconciling that with the knowledge of his power is difficult. It finally occurs to you that that's likely the point of the Religious' dress code- to become a faceless, writhing mass that cannot be divided down to its parts. Every priestess is the eyes and ears and tongue of Most Holy. [['"I'm here for the angels."'|4.k.val.2]]

The walk isn't far, and even better, is downhill, so you make good time across the Common District as you explain to Kat what you're hoping to find. Not that you know what that might be, really, but it never hurts to look. The Holy City is alive today, far livier than it's felt in weeks, with citizens crowding the sidewalks, street hawkers on every corner, and children and stray dogs running to and fro between and around. You can only imagine the coming High Holy Day is responsible for the uptick in activity. Or maybe it's your mood. Your target is on a quieter street however, tucked away from the hustle and bustle and the noise, closer to the river and out of the way. Overlooked, in a word. The number of pedestrians thin quickly as you cross the canal bridge, Kat three steps behind, and you find yourself the only occupants of this quiet corner of the City besides the unkempt, curling branches of trees barren for the winter. <<if $four is "Klaus">>You and Kat and the trees and a figure in dark clothing, thirty paces away. Crossing the street just ahead is a priestess, small, black-hatted, with a bright halo of curls- "Ira, is that you, darling?" calls Kat. [[Continue.|4.i.kat.1]] \<<else>>But the silence lasts less than a moment. You hear the footsteps before you see the figure, and they're nearly at your side before you can turn. A priest, black-hatted, dark-haired- Kat beats you to it. "Oh, Klaus, my love, what a delight!" [[Continue.|4.k.kat.1]]<</if>>

"I wanted to know more about that angel, and why it reached out to me," you explain, the marks on your arm an itchy presence at your side. "It was trying to communicate //something//. Figured this was the best place to start." He nods. "I'd like that mystery solved, as well. I doubt it left much behind to examine, but maybe we can find where it came from." Mild surprise creeps over Constantine's face. "Not a criticism, but don't you have better things to do? I can handle this. "Even //I'm// allowed to sometimes pointedly avoid my responsibilities, $Dane," Klaus replies. Productive procrastination. You're familiar. [[To the theatre, then.|4.k.con.3]]

The walk isn't far, and even better, is downhill, so you make good time across the Common District as you explain to Constantine what you're hoping to find. Not that you know what that might be, really, but it never hurts to look. The Holy City is alive today, far livier than it's felt in weeks, with citizens crowding the sidewalks, street hawkers on every corner, and children and stray dogs running to and fro between and around. You can only imagine the coming High Holy Day is responsible for the uptick in activity. Or maybe it's your mood. Your target is on a quieter street however, tucked away from the hustle and bustle and the noise, closer to the river and out of the way. Overlooked, in a word. The number of pedestrians thin quickly as you cross the canal bridge, Constantine in your shadow, and you find yourself the only occupants of this quiet corner of the City besides the unkempt, curling branches of trees barren for the winter. <<if $four is "Klaus">>You and Constantine and the trees and a figure in dark clothing, thirty paces away. Crossing the street just ahead is a priestess, small, black-hatted, with a bright halo of curls- [['"Ira!"'|4.i.con.1]] \<<else>>But the silence lasts less than a moment. You hear the footsteps before you see the figure, and they're nearly at your side before you can turn. A priest, black-hatted, dark-haired- [['"Klaus?"'|4.k.con.1]]<</if>>

"There's something wrong with me," you say, and $vtheir eyes instantly soften. "And I've got to figure it out. I don't know where else to start." "You were attacked by an angel. That'll do weird things to anyone." "It started long before that, Val, and you know it." Val's hands hover around $vtheir pockets for a moment, and $vtheyre apparently at a loss for words- a rare occasion. Finally, $vthey huff$vs a cold breath and shove$vs $vtheir fists into $vtheir coat. "For the record," $vthey start, "There's nothing //wrong// with you, you're just a little odd. And you should be proud of that. But..." Val shrugs $vtheir shoulders. "But if you really want to dig around, of course I'm coming. I know better than to let you out of my sight." $vThey finish$ves with a coy smile, an obvious attempt to lighten the mood. Val has never been entirely comfortable in serious situations. But you'll take it. The walk isn't far, and even better, is downhill, so you make good time across the Common District. The Holy City is alive today, far livier than it's felt in weeks, with citizens crowding the sidewalks, street hawkers on every corner, and children and stray dogs running to and fro between and around. You can only imagine the coming High Holy Day is responsible for the uptick in activity. Or maybe it's your mood. Your target is on a quieter street however, tucked away from the hustle and bustle and the noise, closer to the river and out of the way. Overlooked, in a word. The number of pedestrians thin quickly as you cross the canal bridge, Val in tow. and you find yourself the only occupants of this quiet corner of the City besides the unkempt, curling branches of trees barren for the winter. <<if $four is "Klaus">>You and Val and the trees and a figure in dark clothing, thirty paces away. Crossing the street just ahead is a priestess, small, black-hatted, with a bright halo of curls- [['"Ira!"'|4.i.val.1]] \<<else>>But the silence lasts less than a moment. You hear the footsteps before you see the figure, and they're nearly at your side before you can turn. A priest, black-hatted, dark-haired- [['"Klaus?"'|4.k.val.1]]<</if>>

The figure stops immediately, almost jumpily, and whirls around to face you. It only takes a half-dozen strides for you to catch up and confirm that Kat has indeed called the right name. She laughs her strange, ringing laugh. "So it is! What a fun little coinkydink, seeing you here." "Hello, Kat," Ira replies, with an awkward wave. It isn't hard to guess that you've caught them off guard. "Hello, love. You've met $Name, haven't you?" Ira's foggy eyes flick to you, a wry smile coloring their cheeks. "You have an incredible talent for turning up in places. Is this the third time?" Ira looks much the same as the last time you saw them, all in neat black with a satin bow at their collar. They're carrying a leather satchel, its buckles only half secured, and a wide-brimmed hat rests atop their head, in the same midnight color as the rest of their clothes. The very picture of a priestess. "I didn't know you knew Kat." "Not many people do," Ira replies. You can almost hear Kat's smugness. "We're friends, of course. She likes to haunt my library after nightfall. A proper vampire." "Every good library should have one," Kat interjects. "Speaking of, shouldn't you be at work? You know they'll fall apart without you." Ira hoists their satchel farther up their shoulder and brushes a stray curl from their eyes. "I'm on my way right now. I... like to take the scenic route." You glance about the street, empty and overgrown. The trees are knobbly and the pavement cracked and slick with algae. Unattended filth crawls up the stone walls of the buildings that are surely just as abandoned, if not desolate. "It's prettier when it's warm," Ira adds, somewhat unconvincingly; sheepishly, even. "Where are //you// two headed, then? Nowhere good, I assume." Kat leaves you to answer, her eyes keen and expectant. "I wanted to find out more about that angel," you admit. "I asked Kat to help." "Returning to the scene of the crime?" says Ira with an airy laugh. "Which theatre was it again? I don't think you ever said." [[You gesture. "It's just down the street."|4.i.kat.2]]

You don't have a moment to question Kat's casual address toward the Handmaiden, or the fact that he's unmoved by it. He spares her a stony glance. "Saxon." A grin splits Kat's face; it's an almost frightening look, but there's no malice in her eyes. "You know, if you wanted to hang out, you could have just said so," she purrs. "You don't have to follow me around." Klaus responds with an empty stare before turning his attention to you. "Don't you know you should never return to the scene of the crime?" You bite back a stutter, but not of nervousness. There's something like a frayed wire behind your eyes. "Crime?" Klaus inclines his head toward the beastly building crouching at the end of the street. "This //is// the place you found my book of hours, isn't it? There's only so many abandoned holy places in this City." "Disagree," says Kat. It's strange seeing Klaus outside the gilded walls of the Acropolis, strange to the point of making sense. He looks perfectly at home in the austere black garments of priesthood, face half-obscured by the shadow cast by the brim of his hat. This here is any random priestess or another, and reconciling that with the knowledge of his power is difficult. It finally occurs to you that that's likely the point of the Religious' dress code- to become a faceless, writhing mass that cannot be divided down to its parts. Every priestess is the eyes and ears and tongue of Most Holy. "I wanted to get a look at the place myself," Klaus continues. "As good as Val is, $vthey $vdont always know what to look for when it comes to the Religion." [['"I'm here for the angels."'|4.k.kat.2]]

"Ira!" you call, before you can stop yourself. The figure stops immediately, almost jumpily, and whirls around to face you. It only takes a half-dozen strides for you to catch up and confirm that you have indeed called the right name. "$Name," they breathe, pressing a hand to their chest. "You have an incredible talent for turning up in places, don't you? Is this the third time?" Ira looks much the same as the last time you saw them, all in neat black with a satin bow at their collar. They're carrying a leather satchel, its buckles only half secured, and a wide-brimmed hat rests atop their head, in the same midnight color as the rest of their clothes. The very picture of a priestess. You hear Constantine's heavy footsteps behind you as $che catches up. Ira squints against the sun in their eyes. "And who's your fr-" Ira's eyes grow wide. "$Dane?" "Ira," comes Constantine's voice, more murmur than rumble. It takes you too long a moment to remember that $che has a first name, and another moment further to realize that Ira and Constantine apparenly know each other. The Holy City is starting to feel smaller than you thought. "Have you two met?" you ask, gaze flicking between the two. Ira's stance is casual, but you don't miss the way Constantine's line of sight is drilled into the cobblestones. "The Blessed Guard patrols the Theatre District often. I used to see $Dane all the time," Ira says, their voice then turning gentle, and eyes keen. "Not so much anymore, though." Constantine offers no explanation, though a frown creases $chis brow. "What are you doing out here? It's not the best part of town." Ira hoists their satchel farther up their shoulder and brushes a stray curl from their eyes. "Just on my way to work, to the library. I... like to take the scenic route." You glance about the street, empty and overgrown. The trees are knobbly and the pavement cracked and slick with algae. Unattended filth crawls up the stone walls of the buildings that are surely just as abandoned, if not desolate. "It's prettier when it's warm," Ira adds, somewhat unconvincingly; sheepishly, even. "Though I could ask the same of you. And I will. Where are //you// off to?" "I wanted to find out more about that angel," you admit. "I asked $Connie to help." Heat prickles your scalp as Constantine's severe gaze burns into the back of your head. "Returning to the scene of the crime, are you?" says Ira with an airy laugh. "Which theatre was it again? I don't think you ever said." [[You gesture. "It's just down the street."|4.i.con.2]]

"Klaus?" you say, barely a half-second before he reaches you. He tilts his head back to regard you from under the brim of his hat, expression inscruitable. "Don't you know you should never return to the scene of the crime?" You bite back a stutter, but not of nervousness. There's something like a frayed wire behind your eyes. The daylight seems brighter than it should. "Crime?" Klaus inclines his head toward the beastly building crouching at the end of the street. "This //is// the place you found my book of hours, isn't it? There's only so many abandoned holy places in this City." It's strange seeing Klaus outside the gilded walls of the Acropolis, strange to the point of making sense. He looks perfectly at home in the austere black garments of priesthood, face half-obscured by the shadow cast by the brim of his hat. This here is any random priestess or another, and reconciling that with the knowledge of his power is difficult. It finally occurs to you that that's likely the point of the Religious' dress code- to become a faceless, writhing mass that cannot be divided down to its parts. Every priestess is the eyes and ears and tongue of Most Holy. "I wanted to get a look at the place myself," Klaus continues. "As good as Val is, $vthey $vdont always know what to look for when it comes to the Religion." [['"I'm here for the angels."'|4.k.con.2]]

The woman makes a noise that you can't quite discern as either laughter or a coughing fit. "I dare say I could, fish-face. But I'm not in the habit of snitching to strangers, so you'd better swear on your life you're no Blessed Guard or money collector or unwelcome relation. And don't lie, now; I can spot a fib thirteen leagues away." "None of the above, so's far I know," you promise with a solemnly raised hand. It's a bizarre facade of a test, but whatever it takes to find Kat. The woman seems satisfied - or as satisfied as she can be- and nods with a violent sniff. "Fair enough. Give me a name, then." "Kat Saxon. Dark hair, tattoos-" She hacks another spitty laugh. "Ha! That witch? I welcome any nuisance that arrives at her door, so long as you inconvenience //her// more than me. Well, up you go, then." The woman gestures at the building behind her. It's a squat, ugly thing, with some kind of drug store on the bottom level and what you can only assume are residences above. "Kat lives here?" you say, not quite surprised. You stumbled into Kat before, it seems fitting you arrive at her home by accident as well. "Aye, I'm the landlady. Saxon's in the third floor apartment on the left. She doesn't usually take visitors, but that's hardly my problem to deal with. And watch your step, fishy. This is no fancy-pants establishment and I haven't had the time to get the stairs reinforced. If it creaks, haul ass." //Saints.// "And tell the pretty thing that I expect her rent //on time// this month, or I swear I'll peel all the sealant from the windows. And I will. //I will.//" [[You flee through the narrow doorway.]]

You squint at her. "None of your business, lady," you call back with a rather rude shrug. A //sshk// and a //thunk//, and- "Mirabell, you old hag! You've got barely a week to live and you're wasting it harrasing visitors? If you're practicing for when the Grim Reaper stops by, I don't think it'll be impressed!" The voice comes from above, and you look up half expecting to see god herself looking down at you. Instead, you're greeted by the angular face of Kat as she leans out a window from the building above, eyebrows quirked dangerously at both you and the old woman. <<if $RO is "Kat" or hasVisited ("This woman is delightful.")>>Not that there's much difference.<</if>> "Little girl, I don't aim to impress anyone, not the Reaper, not the Saints, and certainly not you!" retorts Mirabell with a dismissive wave of her gnarled hands, somewhat restricted by her many blankets. Kat grins at you, bob swishing. Somehow you're not quite surprised to see her. You stumbled into Kat before, it seems fitting you arrive at her home by accident as well. "$Name, sweetheart, come on up. You'll catch a nasty disease standing so close to that corpse. Third floor on the left!" With that, Kat ducks back through the window and closes it with a swift //bang//. You tilt your head back to the ground level, and make the mistake of making eye contact with Mirabell, who's giving you such a stink eye you're certain your ancestors have been cursed retroactively. "Well, up you go, then!" she barks, jerking her head almost inhumanly. "Go bother Katherine, not me! And tell her she'd better pay her rent //on time// this month, or I swear I'll peel all the sealant from her windows." You flee through the narrow doorway without a second thought. The stairs are narrow and rickety, making you hurry up them for fear of your own safety; by the time you reach the third floor, you're sweating through your coat. They're steeper than they look. A door clicks open the second your feet hit the last stair, Kat waiting expectantly on the other side. She beckons you forward. [[You enter Kat's apartment.]]

The stairs are cramped and rickety, making you hurry up them for fear of your own safety; by the time you reach the third floor, you're sweating through your coat. They're steeper than they look. You hit the top step and turn to the left, as instructed, coming face to face with a worn wooden door with a tarnished brass knocker. You lift it once, twice, and are making for a third when the door swings open unexpectedly, as if the occupant had only been waiting on the other side. Kat smiles at you immediately, her expression already sharp. Her sleeves are rolled back and her collar lies open, giving you a clearer view of the black tattoos that creep over her skin. You see owls and snakes, rippling florals, and dozens if not hundreds of runes you do not recognize. "Well, hello there, darling," she purrs, leaning against the doorframe. "I wasn't expecting you so soon, but no complaints from me. You look sweet today." "Uh-" you stutter. Your brain goes cotton, taken aback by Kat's abruptness. "Your landlady said if you don't pay your rent she'll peel the windows?" Kat blinks, then laughs, covering her mouth with one hand. Her nails are a perfectly shaped oval, each. "Oh, Mirabell? Don't mind her; her bark is worse than her bite. By which I mean she could give you hepatitis. Now what can I do for you- assuming you weren't just sent here for that stern warning. Have you got some hot gossip for me already? Do you want to come in?" You shake your head. "I'm not staying long. So, I have a feeling this isn't news," you begin, rolling back the sleeve of your jacket, "but I met an angel the other day. It... bit me." Kat rewards you with a raised brow. "If that's what you call a meeting, I'd love to see your parties. This is the wound, then? I heard it was a messy business." You show her the bandages, unrolling them just enough for Kat to see the strange, geometric pattern embedded into your skin. She takes you by the hand, thumb pressing into your wrist just shy of the edge of the burn, and leans in close for a full inspection. After a moment that stretches on just a beat too long, she flicks her gaze up to meet yours. "You know what this is?" Your heart hammers, interest spiking in your veins. Could the answer be so easy to find? "What?" you ask, nearly breathless. "Sick as hell," she responds, dropping your limb. Your brain deflates- apparently along with your expression, as she laughs. "It is!" Kat says, putting her hands up in self-defense. "And I would know." You huff, and resolve to move this along. "I'm going back to that theatre, and I thought you might like to come along." Her emerald eyes light up immediately, a sharkish smile crashing across her face in a way that raises the hair on the back of your neck. "Say no more, doll. Lead the way." [[Continue.|4.kat.2]]

The woman makes a noise that you can't quite discern as either laughter or a coughing fit. "I'm the landlady, and you're looking at my land, fish-face. Now state your purpose, or I'll be hollerin' for much worse than the Blessed Guard." The Blessed Guard doesn't usually come this far from the Acropolis, but that's probably beside the point. "I'm looking for Kat Saxon." Definitely a long shot, but- She hacks another spitty laugh. "Ha! That witch? I welcome any nuisance that arrives at her door, so long as you inconvenience //her// more than me. Well, up you go, then." The woman gestures at the building behind her. It's a squat, ugly thing, with some kind of drug store on the bottom level and what you can only assume are residences above. "Kat lives here?" you say, not quite surprised. You stumbled into Kat before, it seems fitting you arrive at her home by accident as well. "Aye, third floor apartment on the left. She doesn't usually take visitors, but that's hardly my problem to deal with. And watch your step, fishy. This is no fancy-pants establishment and I haven't had the time to get the stairs reinforced. If it creaks, haul ass." //Saints.// "And tell the pretty thing that I expect her rent //on time// this month, or I swear I'll peel all the sealant from the windows. And I will. //I will.//" [[You flee through the narrow doorway.]]

It's a one-room affair, but bright and clean, the decor- what little there is- leaning toward minimalist, almost spartan. The walls are white and the furniture dark, the only real spot of color being a bouquet of pink lilies in a plain glass vase by the window. You take a few steps into the room before turning around as Kat closes the door and leans against it, arms crossed and red lips upturned in a smile. Her sleeves are rolled back and her collar lies open, giving you a clearer view of the black tattoos that creep over her skin. You see owls and snakes, rippling florals, and dozens if not hundreds of runes you do not recognize. "Welcome in, darling," she purrs. "I wasn't expecting you so soon, but no complaints from me. You look sweet today." "Uh-" you stutter. Your brain goes cotton, taken aback by Kat's abruptness. "Does she really have a week to live?" "Mirabell? Hell no. She'll doubtless outlive us all. But you're not here for her, I can only beg to assume. So what can I do for you, doll? Have you got some hot gossip for me already?" "Well, I have a feeling this isn't news," you begin, rolling back the sleeve of your jacket, "but I met an angel the other day. It... bit me." Kat rewards you with a raised brow. "If that's what you call a meeting, I'd love to see your parties. This is the wound, then? I heard it was messy." You show her the bandages, unrolling them just enough for Kat to see the strange, geometric pattern embedded into your skin. She takes you by the hand, thumb pressing into your wrist just shy of the edge of the burn, and leans in close for a full inspection. After a moment that stretches on just a beat too long, she flicks her gaze up to meet yours. "You know what this is?" Your heart hammers, interest spiking in your veins. Could the answer be so easy to find? "What?" you ask, nearly breathless. "Sick as hell," she responds, dropping your limb. Your brain deflates- apparently along with your expression, as she laughs. "It is!" Kat says, putting her hands up in self-defense. "And I would know." You huff, and resolve to move this along. "I'm going back to that theatre, and I thought you might like to come along." Her emerald eyes light up immediately, a sharkish smile crashing across her face in a way that raises the hair on the back of your neck. "Say no more, doll. Lead the way." [[Continue.|4.kat.2]]

"Why would someone kill a demon?" you ask, unable to take your eyes off the stain. It wasn't like you cut that angel down yourself- it enacted its own demise. Right? Kat returns to her full height and turns to look at you, boots scraping the edge of the scorch mark carelessly. "Why does anyone kill anything? Money," she counts on her fingers, "the fear, the stench, promises of power, delusions of grandeur- the list is endless, my dear. The better question would be 'Who //can// kill a demon', except that there's only one real answer." A priestess, of course, or any suitably powerful member of the Religious. But you doubt the slaying of their own holy bloodhounds is something that's taught in seminary, or even something that the average priestess could accomplish. You take in the ashen mark once again, searching it for any sign or clue. There's no haste to it, no struggle. Which reminds you of something Ira said. //They're the echoes of a scream.// [['"Kat, what do you know about the God Beneath?"'|4.kat.gb]]

Early in your career as a street-roaming amnesiac, you developed a very specific habit: any so-called fact you knew that turned out to be entirely false- neurological white noise- you would call a hallucination. A dream. You sit on a threadbare cushion thrown in front of a mirror on the floor. Val is cross-legged behind you, a sharp pair of scissors in one hand and a wet comb between $vtheir teeth. The days had become longer and hotter, and <<if $hair_length is "shaved" or $hair_length is "short">>you were long overdue for a trim.<<else>>the frizz of your hair was becoming unruly.<</if>> A passerby on the street below sings a song under their breath, and you continue the tune, finishing the chorus and into the next verse, humming merrily until you notice Val's reflection looking at you askance. //Those are //not// the words,// $vthey say$vs, a half smile on $vtheir lips. //Where'd you hear that?// //I don't know,// you respond. //It sounded right. It was the right order of words.// And Val laughs and wishes $vthey had your confidence. //Confidence to be wrong,// you add mentally. Constantine once got wind of this quirk, and of course tried to argue. //Hallucinations are things you experience,// $che said, surely making every effort to not sound like a know-it-all. //Not things you made up for no reason.// To which Val said something sarcastic that earned you both an immediate ticket to the pavement. But wasn't $che right? You had no reason to call it a hallucination - irony of ironies - but here you were. You hadn't heard the word from someone else and simply misunderstood, of that you were sure. It was as if it was knowledge written into your very genetic code. [[A lock of hair falls away with a snip.|4.i.lost.2]]

<<if $RO is "Val" or $RO is "ValKlaus">>The thought strikes you like a bolt of lightning, even though it isn't the first such realization and likely won't be the last. <<if $ValCrush is "old">>Val was always beautiful, and you've always been painfully aware of it. You've spent enough time with $vthem to pick up on the attention they get from friends and strangers alike. Rare is the night that Val goes without being offered a drink or invitation to sit, though you quickly learned that hovering by $vtheir shoulder and making unwelcoming faces could often buy you some time. But never enough. \<<elseif $ValCrush is "denial">>Of course it's nothing new; you've spent enough time with Val to pick up on the kind of attention $vthey get$vs from friends and strangers alike. It's just an objective fact. It must be the soft lighting making you notice it now, you tell yourself. Good for $vthem. You definitely feel no type of way about it. If anything, you admire it. Not Val. $vTheir charisma.<</if>> \<<else>><<set $ValCrush to "new">>The thought strikes you like a bolt of lightning, bright and new. Your focus hones in on the impishness in their barely-concealed smile and the gentleness in the hands currently pinning you to the wall, hands that have coaxed you back from the brink of chaos more times than you'd like to admit. Always warm, always happy to see you, and never tired of your strangeness, as exhausting as you're sure it can be. You've had your fights, of course, and you probably don't know a single true thing about $vthem. But then, you don't know much about yourself, either. Except that you can't think of a single good reason to wriggle out of your current position.<</if>> There's a stupid, stupid urge crashing through your nerves to reach up and trace a thumb over the soft brown skin of $vtheir cheek. You have to squeeze your hands into fists to quell it. "Klaus is already smug enough," Val is saying, $vtheir words slowly fading back into your reality. "He doesn't need to know I found our meet-cute slightly embarrassing." You're not sure about the term //meet-cute//, but you should probably say something before Val realizes you're staring, and not in an appropriate-amount-of-eye-contact way. "Better not leave me hanging if you want to get away with it, Val." There's a strain to your voice and you do your best not to wince at it. $vThey bounce$vs on $vtheir toes. "//Fiiiineee//," $vthey groan$vs. "It's mostly true. I might have almost pissed myelf when I realized who I was robbing. Cried a little. The offer might have been more of a threat. But I //did// get a hit in on him-" $vthey point$vs for emphasis. "He's still got a scar." "Well, at least you have that," you reply, tone as dry as you can make it. Getting Val to admit to one of $vtheir tall tales is an achievement that deserves savoring. And is suitably distracting. "Don't mock me," $vthey say$vs with a pout. "You should be proud of me for standing up to a big scary priest." Speaking of- //(thank fuck)// [['"I met another priestess. Or, she said she was a priestess."'|4.val.kat]]

Without thinking twice, or maybe even once, you open your mouth and slather your tongue over Val's hand. You rather think the guttural //mblarh// noise you accompany it with punctuates your point. "HEY!" $vthey shriek$vs, releasing you immediately and emphatically wiping $vtheir hand on your shirt. "//Eugh.// Fuck, what are you, six?" "Not yet," you remind $vthem. Val huffs. "Fine, you little monster. It's mostly true. I might have almost pissed myelf when I realized who I was robbing. Cried a little. The offer might have been more of a threat. But I //did// get a hit in on him-" $vthey point$vs for emphasis. "He's still got a scar." "Well, at least you have that," you reply, tone as dry as you can make it. Getting Val to admit to one of $vtheir tall tales is an achievement that deserves savoring. "Don't mock me," $vthey say$vs with a pout. "You should be proud of me for standing up to a big scary priest." Speaking of. [['"Oh, I met another priestess. Or, she said she was a priestess."'|4.val.kat]]

You raise your hands, open palms splayed, and give Val your best innocent look of surrender. $vThey squint$vs at you a moment, as if not quite sure if $vthey should trust you, but then $vthey peel$vs $vtheir hand from your mouth and take a step back. "He's already smug enough," $vthey offer$vs as explanation. "He doesn't need to know that I found our meet-cute //slightly// embarrassing." "Better not leave me hanging if you want to get away with it, Val." $vThey bounce$vs on $vtheir toes. "//Fiiiineee//," $vthey groan$vs. "It's mostly true. I might have almost pissed myelf when I realized who I was robbing. Cried a little. The offer might have been more of a threat. But I //did// get a hit in on him-" $vthey point$vs for emphasis. "He's still got a scar." "Well, at least you have that," you reply, tone as dry as you can make it. Getting Val to admit to one of $vtheir tall tales is an achievement that deserves savoring. "Don't mock me," $vthey say$vs with a pout. "You should be proud of me for standing up to a big scary priest." Speaking of. [['"Oh, I met another priestess. Or, she said she was a priestess."'|4.val.kat]]

"What about Kat? Is she dangerous?" you ask, keeping your eyes on Ira and not so much as glancing Kat's way. Still, you can see the deep crimson of her lipstick curl into a smile. "Oh, yes," Ira says, their eyes wide and face serious, "She's a regular mountain lion. A predator not to be messed with, who might just eat you for lunch. But-" Ira slips Kat a sideways look, "Still a kitty cat when it comes down to it." "Meow," Kat adds helpfully. You can see Ira's jaw twitch as they bite their tongue. They look away for the sake of their straight face, glancing about the chapel once more and finally landing on the horrible stain at your feet. "That's a binding ritual, by the way. If you were wondering." "It is?" You study it once more, frowning. Rituals and wards usually have a pattern to them, some kind of geometric form. But the arrangement of candles and incense here looks like little more than a vague circle. And more importantly, there's always a buzz to them, a magnetism that hovers about the lines and angles like a living energy. But there's nothing here but the fading scent of incense. "It's not a very good one," they explain, with half a shrug. "Someone must have been practicing. At least I hope. If there was an actual demon involved it'd be like trying to catch a tiger with a mousetrap." An unfair queasiness rises in your gut at the idea. Not at the potential failure or the following consequences, but- is that all it would take? A circle set in haste, sloppily, even, to bind a heavenly creature to one's will? "We should leave," you say finally. You wait a moment for Ira's agreement, then a moment longer. It takes a third to make you tear your eyes away from the floor. [[No answer comes.|4.i.kat.4]]

You can't feel bad for a demon any more than you can a stream, or a gust of wind. It isn't alive; it's barely even a //thing//. Even the most devout would be hard-pressed to call a demon, or even an angel, more than an accident of particles caught together. You move foward a dozen or so paces further into the dust-choked orchestra seating, following it without thought, some part of you searching for a sign of life, a gust of wind left in its wake. The air crackles, but it's just the static of your sleeves against the worn velvet seating. You make it halfway down a pew before stopping dead in your tracks, letting the demon continue its march without you. Reluctantly, you turn back to your companions. "Val didn't mention seeing any demons here last time," says Klaus the moment you make eye contact. "No," comes your reply, "But I wasn't paying much attention. We were in here less than a second." "And the angel came afterwards?" You nod. "Out on the steps." "Well, you couldn't have //missed// it," he muses. "You'd have to be literally blind, which you don't seem to be. It must have been somewhere in the theatre you didn't see.<<if not hasVisited ("4.k.Study")>> Though I'm more interested in wherever Val found that book of hours. Could be context there." [[To the study, then.|4.k.Study]] \<<else>> Though I can't imagine there's much more to this place; it isn't large. A sanctuary or chapel, perhaps." [['"I think I saw a small chapel off the stage."'|4.Kat.Storage]]<</if>>

It continues to haunt the edges of the theatre hall, and you spend a moment wondering if it can think, and if it knows how dismal and limited its existence is. //A ghost following a lost path//, Klaus had said, and you can see it plainly now. No one has ever doubted the power of an angel or a demon, but nothing can be said for their freedoms. "I feel sorry for it," you all-but-whisper, following its movements warily. "Doomed to walk in circles for all eternity." Impotent and abandoned. "There's nothing else for them," Klaus replies. "Can they be freed?" you ask. He shakes his head. "When I say //nothing//, I mean it. You pry a brick free from a wall and what do you have? A brick and a shitty wall." //A weapon. A window//. "Nothing to gain from it," he continues. "For anyone." "Have you tried?" Your voice is becoming not much more than a whisper. Klaus says nothing in return, but you can feel his eyes on you. You move foward a dozen or so paces, further into the dust-choked orchestra seating. The demon is on the opposite side of the auditorium, almost invisible in the dark to anything but the corner of your eye. For a moment you imagine yourself opening your arms to the shadowy figure and drawing it into an embrace. It would be soft, you think, but staticy like the air before a storm. It would melt into your skin, hot on your tongue, the synapses of your brain alight- Val murmurs something to Klaus that you can't quite catch, the response coming in an equally soft tone, just beyond the edge of your hearing. [[Are they talking about you?]] [[You hope they're talking about you. ♡][$ValFlirt +=1, $KlausFlirt +=1]] <<link "Conspiring with Val is //your// job. ♡" "Conspiring with Val is your job. ♡">><</link>><<silently>>[[Conspiring with Val is your job. ♡]]<</silently>> [[When do you get to whisper things to Klaus? ♡]]

You can't feel bad for a demon any more than you can a stream, or a gust of wind. It isn't alive; it's barely even a //thing//. Even the most devout would be hard-pressed to call a demon, or even an angel, more than an accident of particles caught together. You move foward a dozen or so paces further into the dust-choked orchestra seating, following it without thought, some part of you searching for a sign of life, a gust of wind left in its wake. The air crackles, but it's just the static of your sleeves against the worn velvet seating. You make it halfway down a pew before stopping dead in your tracks, letting the demon continue its march without you. Reluctantly, you turn back to your companions, just in time to see Val murmuring something to Klaus that you can't quite catch, the response coming in an equally soft tone, just beyond the edge of your hearing. [[Are they talking about you?]] [[You hope they're talking about you. ♡][$ValFlirt +=1, $KlausFlirt +=1]] <<link "Conspiring with Val is //your// job. ♡" "Conspiring with Val is your job. ♡">><</link>><<silently>>[[Conspiring with Val is your job. ♡]]<</silently>> [[When do you get to whisper things to Klaus? ♡]]

Your two companions are standing //awfully// close together, Klaus grazing Val's elbow with a fingertip to draw $vtheir attention to something entirely unimportant. There's an overly-familiar air between them for a mercenary and $vtheir employer. You lean subtly closer, straining to hear the muffled conversation. "-think that's deserved?" Klaus is saying, expression and intent impossible as always. Val's face, though, you've seen a million times. $vTheyre trying very hard not to smile. "No, but that's never stopped you before." "//Patently// untrue." "Whatever you have to tell yourself, Klaus." As if finally reminded of your presence, the priest gives you a sharp, but not unwelcoming look, and turns his head just slightly to say something more to Val. You can't hear him, of course, but you'd recognize the shape of your name anywhere. You shoot him an annoyed frown, just so he knows you disapprove of being gossipped about. Val picks up on your tone immediately, a silent laugh rippling the air and managing to soothe your displeasure. [[Continue.|4.k.val.stage2]]

It's like a brick to the chest, wild and sharp enough to make you blink and shake your head in surprise. Your two companions are standing //awfully// close together, Klaus grazing Val's elbow with a fingertip to draw $vtheir attention to something entirely unimportant. There's an overly-familiar air between them for a mercenary and $vtheir employer. You lean subtly closer, straining to hear the muffled conversation. "-think that's deserved?" Klaus is saying, expression and intent impossible as always. Val's face, though, you've seen a million times. $vTheyre trying very hard not to smile. "No, but that's never stopped you before." "//Patently// untrue." "Whatever you have to tell yourself, Klaus." Without warning, Klaus turns to look at you over his shoulder, eyes bright and brows raised. [[Freeze like a spooked deer.]] [[Suddenly the wall is very interesting.]] [[Hold his gaze.]]

Every ounce of sense and suaveness in you fizzles out in a moment, and you just stand there, caught in the act of staring. Maybe if you don't move, you'll fade into the gloom and he won't be able to see you. The priest's lips part in what you're slowly coming to understand is his smile, and turns his head just slightly to say something more to Val. You can't hear him, of course, but you'd recognize the shape of your name anywhere. Any chance you had of picking up on the rest of his words is lost to the rushing of blood in your ears as Val's attention is drawn to you, something between merriment and fondness and in $vtheir eyes. A squirm is building in your feet along with the urge to up and disappear. You could probably do it- the right kind of Magic, just a quick fold in the air to bend the light. Better do it quick, before the nervousness reaches the open book of your face- Until the tension is suddenly and ungracefully broken by a horrible keening, screeching noise from behind you. You jump- and you could swear Klaus does too- and immediately search the dark auditorium for the briefly-forgotten demon. "//Wuff//," breathes Val in response, and you can't help but agree with $vtheir assessment. It was a meaningless scream, but for the moment you'll take it as proof of divine intervention. [[Continue.|4.k.val.stage2]]

You're not afraid of Klaus, and you certainly aren't flustered by him, and he ought to know that. You stare back, narrowing your eyes just enough to communicate the challenge. The priest's lips part in what you're slowly coming to understand is his smile, and turns his head just slightly to say something more to Val. You can't hear him, of course, but you'd recognize the shape of your name anywhere. Any chance you had of picking up on the rest of his words is lost to the rushing of blood in your ears as Val's attention is drawn to you, something between merriment and fondness and in $vtheir eyes. It shouldn't be harder to maintain your composure under the watch of someone you know so well, and yet here you are. If the theatre wasn't freezing you'd be sweating. Val smiles at you, $vtheir laugh silent, though you feel it all the same, like a ripple in the air. Seeing it bounce off Klaus' dry amusment is almost too much to bear. Until the tension is suddenly and ungracefully broken by a horrible keening, screeching noise from behind you. You jump- and you could swear Klaus does too- and immediately search the dark auditorium for the briefly-forgotten demon. "//Wuff//," breathes Val in response, and you can't help but agree with $vtheir assessment. It was a meaningless scream, but for the moment you'll take it as proof of divine intervention. [[Continue.|4.k.val.stage2]]

"Some kind of vision," you say. Your tongue feels out of place behind your teeth. "I've been having a lot of those recently." "Oh good, I love visions," Klaus replies, every syllable dripping acid. "Always a setup for a good day." "It wasn't anything important, just... a moment with Val I don't remember." "Then you would have called it a memory, wouldn't you? Was it a real event, or something new?" You think on it, running what you saw over and over again across your mind, feeling for cracks and bruises, anything that could provide a familar fingerprint. You //remembered// it, but in the same way you'd recall a dream. Frustration starts to prickle at your temple, so you drop the matter and give Klaus a noncommittal shrug. He sighs, more exasperation than annoyance. "Either way, you shouldn't go around touching mysterious artifacts in abandoned theatres." "You touched it first," you argue, the twitch between your brows enough to make you flinch. He turns to looks over the macerated remains of the scrying mirror, regarding it with distant annoyance. "//I// know what I'm doing, $Name.... Not that it matters much anymore. It's just a pile of broken glass, now." [['"Does that... happen often?"'|4.k.mirror.3]]

"It triggered a memory I'd forgotten. Nothing important, just... a random day with Val." The phrasing may be a little disingenuous, but the whiplash of emotions is still far too fresh to unpack. You'll need to let those stew a bit. "You didn't concuss yourself, did you? Feel like speaking in tongues?" "Not lately." Though you're now very aware of your //literal// tongue. He sighs, more exasperation than annoyance. "Well, hopefully you've learned your lesson to not go around touching mysterious artifacts in abandoned theatres." "You touched it first," you argue, the twitch between your brows enough to make you flinch. He turns to looks over the macerated remains of the scrying mirror, regarding it with distant annoyance. "//I// know what I'm doing, $Name.... Not that it matters much anymore. It's just a pile of broken glass, now." [['"Does that... happen often?"'|4.k.mirror.3]]

"I didn't see anything," you respond. And frankly, you aren't sure if it's even a lie. "I think I just blacked out." Klaus' stare is entirely emotionless, but he barely disguises the shake of his head. "Brain damage, for sure, then. I expect nothing less from someone who goes around touching mysterious artifacts in abandoned theatres." "You touched it first," you argue, the twitch between your brows enough to make you flinch. He turns to looks over the macerated remains of the scrying mirror, regarding it with distant annoyance. "//I// know what I'm doing, $Name.... Not that it matters much anymore. It's just a pile of broken glass, now." [['"Does that... happen often?"'|4.k.mirror.3]]

"Have you ever heard of something like this happening? I felt possessed. Magic can't do that." Klaus rocks his head, apparently weighing his response. "It's true that Magic has no agency of its own, it can't take over a person. But it can still affect someone, and in... dire ways. I might be on the other side of a Holy Day ritual, but I know what it does to people. Violence is a known side effect; depending on who you ask, it might even be the goal." You can't disagree. The Religious were wise - or lucky - to pick a river city as their seat of power. Here, all the blood can simply be washed from the streets and into the waters, carried away to far-off lands its once-hosts never saw. "Why is that? Why does it... rot people's brains?" //Other people's//, you remind yourself. Never yours, until now, it seems. "Because power is bad for you," he says simply and with no indication he intends to theorize any further. Interesting statement from a man who is outranked only by two people in the entire world, without even a higher power to rein any of them in. [['"Speaking of, I wanted to ask you about the God Beneath."'|4.k.gb]]

You press up against the door, one hand on the knob. "Oh come //on//, Connie. I'm not here to annoy you," you call, not an ounce of sincerity in your voice. "Don't be such a baby." Silence. You raise your voice. "I'll just stand out here and scream if I have to-" "Io, if you don't shut the //fuck// up-" You don't have a moment to marvel at how easily Constantine was provoked before the door opens with such violence that you stumble forward, barely catching your balance before you spill across the step. One hand is clutched against the doorframe, an act which has surely earned you a splinter or two. Oh well. You put on your most innocent face and smile up at your... host. "Hi." Constantine snorts and moves to slam the door on you again, but you stop it with a foot and a strength you didn't know you had. That, or the $cman isn't as strong as $che looks. Which, doubtful. "Just- give me a minute, won't you?" you plead, the picture of reasonableness. And miracle of miracles, Constantine grants you your request, and you finally get a chance to look at $chim. $cHis hair is loose - you've never seen it un-braided before - and damp, falling like a velvet curtain to the middle of $chis torso. The curls are a surprise, too<<if ndef $ConCrush>>.<<else>>, as are the freckles, and- oops, you're staring.<</if>> The new hairstyle does nothing to conceal the barely-restrained loathing in Constantine's eyes, however. Or $chis nose, if that nostril flare is any indication. "The fuck do you want?" $che demands, arms crossed and actively threatening you just by their existence. <<if $FightConnie is true>>You're starting to make a habit of this.<<else>>It wouldn't be the first time $ches taken a swing at you, and it probably won't be the last.<</if>> <<if $four is "Klaus">>[['"Klaus said you have to hang out with me."'|4.con.1k]]<<else>>[['"Klaus said you have to hang out with me."'|4.con.1k]]<</if>> <<if $four is "Ira">>[['"I need a favor. Pretty please?"'|4.con.1.i]]<<else>>[['"I need a favor. Pretty please?"'|4.con.1.i]]<</if>>

You don't waste a second, and rap your knuckles against the wood again, louder and harder than before. After a moment, you do so again, then quickly resort to relentless pounding with the side of your fist. "Io, if you don't get the hell away from my house-" You don't have a moment to marvel at how easily Constantine was provoked before the door opens with such violence that you stumble forward, barely catching your balance before you spill across the step. One hand is clutched against the doorframe, an act which has surely earned you a splinter or two. Oh well. You put on your most innocent face and smile up at your... host. "Hi." Constantine snorts and moves to slam the door on you again, but you stop it with a foot and a strength you didn't know you had. That, or the $cman isn't as strong as $che looks. Which, doubtful. "Just- give me a minute, won't you?" you plead, the picture of reasonableness. And miracle of miracles, Constantine grants you your request, and you finally get a chance to look at $chim. $cHis hair is loose - you've never seen it un-braided before - and damp, falling like a velvet curtain to the middle of $chis torso. The curls are a surprise, too<<if ndef $ConCrush>>.<<else>>, as are the freckles, and- oops, you're staring.<</if>> The new hairstyle does nothing to conceal the barely-restrained loathing in Constantine's eyes, however. Or $chis nose, if that nostril flare is any indication. "The fuck do you want?" $che demands, arms crossed and actively threatening you just by their existence. Your chances of getting thrown into a gutter have never been higher. <<if $four is "Klaus">>[['"Klaus said you have to hang out with me."'|4.con.1k]]<<else>>[['"Klaus said you have to hang out with me."'|4.con.1k]]<</if>> <<if $four is "Ira">>[['"I need a favor. Pretty please?"'|4.con.1.i]]<<else>>[['"I need a favor. Pretty please?"|4.con.1.i]]<</if>>

"No, wait-" you plead, flailing a little. Maybe this was a bad idea. "Just hear me out, please? I have a genuine, non-bothersome request, I swear." After a few seconds of silence you decide patience is probably your best bet, and swallow the urge to call out again. You have to show restraint, that'll prove your sincerity. And miracle of miracles, Constantine grants you your request, and the door reluctantly reopens. $cHis hair is loose - you've never seen it un-braided before - and damp, falling like a velvet curtain to the middle of $chis torso. The curls are a surprise, too<<if ndef $ConCrush>>.<<else>>, as are the freckles, and- oops, you're staring.<</if>> The new hairstyle does nothing to conceal the barely-restrained loathing in Constantine's eyes, however. Or $chis nose, if that nostril flare is any indication. "The fuck do I have to do to get you off my doorstep?" $che demands, arms crossed and actively threatening you just by their existence. Your chances of getting thrown into a gutter have never been higher. <<if $four is "Klaus">>[['"Klaus said you have to hang out with me."'|4.con.1k]]<<else>>[['"Klaus said you have to hang out with me."'|4.con.1k]]<</if>> <<if $four is "Ira">>[['"I need a favor. Pretty please?"'|4.con.1.i]]<<else>>[['"I need a favor. Pretty please?"|4.con.1.i]]<</if>>

"I need a favor," you explain, "Pretty please?" Constantine doesn't miss a beat. "What favor could you //possibly// want from me? There's only a handful I can imagine granting, and I don't think you're asking for any of them." An amazing opening for any number of innuendos, but you remind yourself you're here to win Constantine over for the day. "It's a very normal favor. Totally reasonable, I swear." Constantine closes his eyes, breathing out deeply before refocusing on you. "Make it quick." You bite back a sigh of relief and stretch out your arm pointedly. "You saw my angel bite. That theatre it came from needs investigating, and I'm not stupid enough to go alone. I need someone to watch my back."<<if $Sarcastic gte 50>> You make your eyes as big as they can be. "I'm very fragile, you know."<</if>> "Isn't babysitting you Val's job? Or is it the other way around?" "Val doesn't like theatres," you state simply. It's far more complicated than that, but now's not the time. $cHe sighs again, more of a groan this time. "Two hours, tops. Then I go home and you leave me the fuck alone. And if I see even a //glimpse// of Val, I'm out." You'll take it. "Agreed." "I'm counting the seconds, Io," $che warns, and you only smile in response. [[Continue.|4.con.2]]

"Klaus said you have to hang out with me." Constantine doesn't miss a beat. "No the fuck he didn't," $che spits, not so much as twitching a muscle. Fortunately, you foresaw this situation. You pull a small note from your pocket- fine paper and curling script sealed with a dot of wax. Constantine reluctantly takes it from you, snapping the wax with one hand and barely taking the time to skim it before crumpling it and tossing it to the side. Its authenticity is none of $chis business. Klaus //did// say so, even if he didn't put it in writing. Constantine closes his eyes, breathing out deeply before refocusing on you. "Fine. But you're on //razor// thin ice. Now what the hell do you want?" You bite back a sigh of relief and stretch out your arm pointedly. "You saw my angel bite. That theatre it came from needs investigating, and Klaus offered up your services for my protection."<<if $Sarcastic gte 50>> You make your eyes as big as they can be. "I'm very fragile, you know."<</if>> "Protection from what? Dust bunnies and spiders?" "Uhm, //angels//," you say emphatically, giving your arm a wiggle. "Or squatters, or people of the nefarious sort." "I'm not a priest, I can't stop an angel any more than I can a tornado." "The nefarious sorts, then. That big sword has to be useful for something, doesn't it?" $cHe sighs again, more of a groan this time. "Two hours, tops. Then I go home and you leave me the fuck alone. And if I see even a //glimpse// of Val, I'm out." You'll take it. "Agreed." "I'm counting the seconds, Io," $che warns, and you only smile in response. [[Continue.|4.con.2]]

Ira is gone, as is Kat, not even their footprints in the dust to assure you that they were once present. You are entirely alone. You glance about the room; there's nowhere to hide in the tiny chapel, so you look first to the filthy window set high on the wall. Light still shines through, however weakly, and though the grime makes the hour difficult to judge, you don't feel as though any time has passed. You check your hands- five fingers each, as usual; you pinch yourself, and find that you've nearly lost feeling in your injured arm. Not a dream, then- at least according to the tricks Val has taught you in the past. Did you black out? Have your companions abandoned you? Or you, them? You've sleepwalked once or twice before, and the dread building in your chest now isn't unlike that of waking somewhere you didn't lie down in. [[Sit and wait.]] [[Leave the chapel behind.]]

"Did you see any demons the last time you were here, $Name?" Ira asks, returning to the matter at hand. The demon in question has reached the other side of the cavernous audience hall now, barely visible in the shadows and grime. "No, but I also wasn't paying much attention. I was only in here for less than a second." "And the angel came afterwards?" You nod. "Out on the steps." "It must have been deeper within the theatre, then," ponders Ira, "They're pretty hard to miss, blinding halos and all that. //Why// though, I don't know. I can accept a demon lurking around, but angels only operate on command." "You don't happen to have any pals who work here, do you Ira?" asks Kat. Ira shakes their head. "No, but I'm really only familiar with my own department, and this one doesn't have a library.<<if hasVisited ("4.I.Study")>> The study doesn't count, it's too small to have staff."<<else>>" "There is a library," you interject. "Or a study, maybe. A room with books?" Ira's interest is immediately piqued, their eyes expectant, though that may have nothing to do with any mystery at hand.<</if>> <<if not hasVisited ("4.I.Study")>>[[To the study.|4.I.Study]] \<<else>>[['"What about the inner chapel?"'|4.Kat.Storage]]<</if>>

"It is?" You study it once more, frowning. Rituals and wards usually have a pattern to them, some kind of geometric form. But the arrangement of candles and incense here looks like little more than a vague circle. And more importantly, there's always a buzz to them, a magnetism that hovers about the lines and angles like a living energy. But there's nothing here but the fading scent of incense. "Any initiate could make a better one blindfolded, but yes," he says. "They didn't even include a caster's protection clause. It'd explain the half-brained demon in the auditorium if it hadn't so clearly killed whatever creature it was trying to bind." An unfair queasiness rises in your gut at the idea. Not at the potential failure or the following consequences, but- is that all it would take? A circle set in haste, sloppily, even, to bind a heavenly creature to one's will? "We should leave," you murmur. You're ignored. "You think it could be someone untrained trying to control angels and demons?" asks Val tentatively. "Outside of the Religious? The Faithful might be recruiting outside help." "If they are, they won't last long. Rot sets in quick. And unless there's a traitor much higher up the food chain than I expect, I doubt the Faithful have the resources to perform annointments." "I want to leave," you manage to insist. You wait a moment for Val's agreement, then a moment longer. It takes a third to make you tear your eyes away from the floor. [[No answer comes.|4.k.val.4]]

It //is// a fascinating wall, really- once clearly very detailed and carved, though any paint is now reduced to mere suggestion. Algae and tiny fungi have managed to penetrate the deeper rivets, telling a story of nature reclaiming- Oh, who are you fucking kidding? You slide your eyes across the floor and risk a peek. The priest's lips part in what you're slowly coming to understand is his smile, and turns his head just slightly to say something more to Val. You can't hear him, of course, but you'd recognize the shape of your name anywhere. Any chance you had of picking up on the rest of his words is lost to the rushing of blood in your ears as Val's attention is drawn to you, something between merriment and fondness and in $vtheir eyes. You duck your head down again, refusing to look. Val's laugh is silent, but you feel it all the same. Just play it cool, focus on the moldy filigree and eroded stone, and keep your reddening face pointed in the opposite direction. If you don't make eye contact with either of them, you can get away with it- Until the tension is suddenly and ungracefully broken by a horrible keening, screeching noise from behind you. You jump- and you could swear Klaus does too- and immediately search the dark auditorium for the briefly-forgotten demon. "//Wuff//," breathes Val in response, and you can't help but agree with $vtheir assessment. It was a meaningless scream, but for the moment you'll take it as proof of divine intervention. [[Continue.|4.k.val.stage2]]

It makes you feel a bit like a child, but Val always said if you get lost it's better not to wander. No point in making the situation worse, after all. So you plant yourself on the stone, legs crossed and eyes shut, the gentle glow of the candles flickering through your eyelids. The place is as quiet as ever, though the unnerving edge has been replaced with something more comforting. Meditation was never a talent of yours, but perhaps this is close enough. Thirty seconds of silence later, you remember the candles shouldn't be lit. You crack one eye, then the other, giving yourself time to adjust to the new brightness. There's more now, the sullen trio having grown to a small army in all shapes and heights, some looking fresh and others as if they've been here for a hundred years, lit and relit a thousand times. Wax seeps into every flaw in the stone as the candles rise like stalagmites or strange little saplings. You cannot feel their heat, but your head swims with the creamy scent of beeswax. They stike you as homemade, lacking the uniformity and flair of typical ritual stock. Here there are no gilt candelabras or ebony snuffers, only hand-dripped wicks stuck to the floor with their own wax. You don't know why, but it feels important. There are prints in the dust, you notice- dust that wasn't there before. Small, not like a child but an animal, though you'd be hard pressed to know what kind. The trail circles the center of the chapel with an air of endless patience, waiting for something to crack. If this was a binding ritual, after all, then something was pacing around it. A thought creeps into your mind that you may be safer within the ring than with[[o|reboot6]]ut. Nothing to do but wait. [[Chapter Five.|5.chapel.1]]

Staying here, if here is even //here//, will surely do you no favors. Besides, a pleasant glow has developed just beyond the doorway. You find the entrance of the chapel has become a set of stairs, steep but even, lit by narrow tapers that line the walls like stalactites. You reach and find that said walls are wax, themselves, for the most part, a lumpy creamy mess from evident years of burning that's made the space narrower than it should be. Resisting the urge to start peeling it away with your fingernails, you descend the staircase. The candles continue, though the steepness does not, the hall eventually flattening out to something much more reasonable. The floor appears to shimmer darkly, and it's not until you step in it that you realize a shallow pool of water has flooded through. By the solid line of algae and efflorescence, it's been this way for some time. Fortunately it seems to be less than an inch or two, but you will have to suffer wet socks. Eventually the layers of wax start to give way, great flakes floating in stagnant water where they fell- or were usurped, judging by the lush plant growth pushing through the cracks. A sweet, earthy smell arises, not entirely unpleasant. The ranks of candles thins, and you resort to plucking one from the wall to carry with you and light your way. Not that's there's anything to trip over, but there is something to see. The lines of moss are almost rune-like, as if a prayer or sermon grew from the very walls, travelling the length of the tunnel like a ribbon of greenish-gray rot. You try to imagine a mad prophet trapped down here and forced to scrawl their visions upon the stone, but the image fails to conjure. Instead, the dampness makes you think of slugs. Unable to make out a single letter, you move on. The tunnel slopes again, then turns, and with a fearful stab in your heart you know you've lost your sense of direction. These are not the tunnels of your proverbial y[[o|reboot6]]uth. Nothing to do but wander on. [[Chapter Five.|5.hall.1]]

Val is gone, as is Ira, not even their footprints in the dust to assure you that they were once present. You are entirely alone. You glance about the room; there's nowhere to hide in the tiny chapel, so you look first to the filthy window set high on the wall. Light still shines through, however weakly, and though the grime makes the hour difficult to judge, you don't feel as though any time has passed. You check your hands- five fingers each, as usual; you pinch yourself, and find that you've nearly lost feeling in your injured arm. Not a dream, then- at least according to the tricks Val has taught you in the past. Did you black out? Have your companions abandoned you? Or you, them? You've sleepwalked once or twice before, and the dread building in your chest now isn't unlike that of waking somewhere you didn't lie down in. [[Sit and wait.]] [[Leave the chapel behind.]]

Val is gone, as is Klaus, not even their footprints in the dust to assure you that they were once present. You are entirely alone. You glance about the room; there's nowhere to hide in the tiny chapel, so you look first to the filthy window set high on the wall. Light still shines through, however weakly, and though the grime makes the hour difficult to judge, you don't feel as though any time has passed. You check your hands- five fingers each, as usual; you pinch yourself, and find that you've nearly lost feeling in your injured arm. Not a dream, then- at least according to the tricks Val has taught you in the past. Did you black out? Have your companions abandoned you? Or you, them? You've sleepwalked once or twice before, and the dread building in your chest now isn't unlike that of waking somewhere you didn't lie down in. [[Sit and wait.]] [[Leave the chapel behind.]]

"It is?" You study it once more, frowning. Rituals and wards usually have a pattern to them, some kind of geometric form. But the arrangement of candles and incense here looks like little more than a vague loop. And more importantly, there's always a buzz to them, a magnetism that hovers about the lines and angles like a living energy. But there's nothing here but the fading scent of incense. "Any initiate could make a better one blindfolded, but yes," he says. "They didn't even include a caster's protection clause. It'd explain the half-brained demon in the auditorium if it hadn't so clearly killed whatever creature it was trying to bind." An unfair queasiness rises in your gut at the idea. Not at the potential failure or the following consequences, but- is that all it would take? A circle set in haste, sloppily, even, to bind a heavenly creature to one's will? "We should leave," you murmur. You're ignored. "So we've got rogue Magic on our hands?" grunts Constantine impassively. "Faithful could be recruiting outside of the church. Might get messy." "If they are, they won't last long. Rot sets in quick. And unless there's a traitor much higher up the food chain than I expect, I doubt the Faithful have the resources to perform annointments." "I want to leave," you manage to insist. You wait a moment for an agreement, then a moment longer. It takes a third to make you tear your eyes away from the floor. [[No answer comes.|4.k.con.5]]

Constantine is gone, as is Klaus, not even their footprints in the dust to assure you that they were once present. You are entirely alone. You glance about the room; there's nowhere to hide in the tiny chapel, so you look first to the filthy window set high on the wall. Light still shines through, however weakly, and though the grime makes the hour difficult to judge, you don't feel as though any time has passed. You check your hands- five fingers each, as usual; you pinch yourself, and find that you've nearly lost feeling in your injured arm. Not a dream, then- at least according to the tricks Val has taught you in the past. Did you black out? Have your companions abandoned you? Or you, them? You've sleepwalked once or twice before, and the dread building in your chest now isn't unlike that of waking somewhere you didn't lie down in. [[Sit and wait.]] [[Leave the chapel behind.]]

"That's a circle?" You study it once more, frowning. Rituals and wards usually have a pattern to them, some kind of geometric form. But the arrangement of candles and incense here looks like little more than a vague loop. And more importantly, there's always a buzz to them, a magnetism that hovers about the lines and angles like a living energy. But there's nothing here but the fading scent of incense. "Any initiate could make a better one blindfolded, but yes," he says. "They didn't even include a caster's protection clause. It'd explain the half-brained demon in the auditorium if it hadn't so clearly killed whatever creature it was trying to bind." An unfair queasiness rises in your gut at the idea. Not at the potential failure or the following consequences, but- is that all it would take? A circle set in haste, sloppily, even, to bind a heavenly creature to one's will? "We should leave," you murmur. You're ignored. "Well, unless your standards for priesthood have severely decreased in the last few years," starts Kat, sounding suddenly agreeable, "It sounds like our dear friends the Faithful may be recruiting outside Religious ranks." "If they are, they won't last long. Rot sets in quick. And unless there's a traitor much higher up the food chain than I expect, I doubt the Faithful have the resources to perform annointments." "I want to leave," you manage to insist. You wait a moment for an agreement, then a moment longer. It takes a third to make you tear your eyes away from the floor. [[No answer comes.|4.k.kat.5]]

Kat is gone, as is Klaus, not even their footprints in the dust to assure you that they were once present. You are entirely alone. You glance about the room; there's nowhere to hide in the tiny chapel, so you look first to the filthy window set high on the wall. Light still shines through, however weakly, and though the grime makes the hour difficult to judge, you don't feel as though any time has passed. You check your hands- five fingers each, as usual; you pinch yourself, and find that you've nearly lost feeling in your injured arm. Not a dream, then- at least according to the tricks Val has taught you in the past. Did you black out? Have your companions abandoned you? Or you, them? You've sleepwalked once or twice before, and the dread building in your chest now isn't unlike that of waking somewhere you didn't lie down in. [[Sit and wait.]] [[Leave the chapel behind.]]

A mean little feeling claws its way up your throat. You'd do a lot for Val, but $vthey $vdont need this. $vThey should flirt with someone else, //anyone// else. <<if $KlausCrush is "denial">>Not that you have any right or reason to care. You've known Klaus barely a week, and it's probably a good thing Val can be so casual with $vtheir employer. Means he's trustworthy. If anything, you're just impressed by his ability to command Val's attention- it's not an easy feat, and maybe you're a little envious. That's your closest, if not only friend, after all. Yes, that's definitely the problem, your protectiveness of Val. It's got nothing to do with Klaus. \<<elseif $KlausCrush is "shy" or $KlausCrush is "bold">>It's the second time today you've found the priest haunting your thoughts, and it's starting to unnerve you a little. You've hardly known him more than a week, and yet here you are, wishing sabotage upon Val if it meant you could snatch an ounce of Klaus' attention.The self-critical part of your brain helpfully reminds you that you'd be reaching for the stars, here, if not higher. You, with hardly a coin to your name; Val's at least got the excuse of a signed contract. \<<elseif ndef $KlausCrush>><<set $KlausCrush to "new">>You try to chase the thought, find its source. It's new, and a little unnerving. You've only known him for hardly a week, but something about the priest has stuck in your head and won't let go. The self-critical part of your brain helpfully reminds you that you'd be reaching for the stars, here, if not higher. You, with hardly a coin to your name; Val's at least got the excuse of a signed contract. <</if>>Klaus has to pay for Val's presence, you remind yourself, while so far yours has come free of charge. Monetarily, anyway. No doubt the Handmaiden would claim you've caused stress. But maybe you'll take it; as long as you've left a mark. Anything will do. The spiral of your jealousy is suddenly and ungracefully broken by a horrible keening, screeching noise from behind you. You jump- and you could swear Klaus does too- and immediately search the dark auditorium for the briefly-forgotten demon. "//Wuff//," breathes Val in response, and you can't help but agree with $vtheir assessment. It was a meaningless scream, but for the moment you'll take it as proof of divine intervention. [[Continue.|4.k.val.stage2]]

A mean little feeling claws its way up your throat. Klaus has known Val for only a fraction of the time that you have, and yet here he is, the space between them far too cozy for your comfort. <<if $ValCrush is "old">>It's a bit infuriating, actually. You've spent how long now trying to coax the same reactions from Val, to no avail? Some rational part of your brain tries to interject that that may not be what's happening before you at all- this is normal for Val, and you don't know Klaus that well- but the rest of you couldn't care less. \<<elseif $ValCrush is "new">>It's a bit infuriating, actually. You've only just realized you've got an itch to pay more attention to Val, only for $vthem to be potentially snatched away? What horrific timing. Unfair. You feel like the shameful end of a joke. \<<elseif $ValCrush is "denial">>It makes you feel a little like a caged animal, watching Val slip through your fingers, arguably the only person you've ever known. Especially for what- someone who pays Val for $vtheir presence and is abrasive the whole time? No, $vthey deserve better. It doesn't have to be you, of course, no one said it did, but... \<<elseif ndef $ValCrush>><<set $ValCrush to "new">>This is an entirely new revelation for you, if it's even one at all. The idea rears its head in such a confusing, conflicting manner that you need a couple moments to dissect it. Val's your friend, your only friend, and that's a bond that's never felt threatened. So why do you want to delete Klaus from existence and insert yourself into the space only a few breaths away from Val? This is a craving that's going to eat at you. <</if>>Klaus has to pay for Val's presence, you remind yourself, while Val's spent half a decade willingly giving up $vtheir time to you, free of charge. At $vtheir own detriment, if anyth- no, that's not a good train of thought. The spiral of your jealousy is suddenly and ungracefully broken by a horrible keening, screeching noise from behind you. You jump- and you could swear Klaus does too- and immediately search the dark auditorium for the briefly-forgotten demon. "//Wuff//," breathes Val in response, and you can't help but agree with $vtheir assessment. It was a meaningless scream, but for the moment you'll take it as proof of divine intervention. [[Continue.|4.k.val.stage2]]

"You didn't mention seeing any demons here last time," says Klaus the moment you finally relax. "No," comes your reply, "But I wasn't paying much attention. We were in here less than a second." "And the angel came afterwards?" Val nods. "Outside, by the entrance." "Well, you couldn't have //missed// it," he muses. "You'd have to be literally blind, which you don't seem to be. It must have been somewhere in the theatre you didn't see.<<if not hasVisited ("4.k.Study")>> Though I'm more interested in wherever you found that book of hours. Could be context there." [[To the study, then.|4.k.Study]] \<<else>> Though I can't imagine there's much more to this place; it isn't large. A sanctuary or chapel, perhaps." [['"I think I saw a small chapel off the stage."'|4.Val.Storage]]<</if>>

<<if $KatCrush is "denial">>"Are we talking less proper or less overall uniform to speak of?" you ask innocently. Kat's halfway to being dressed like a priestess, but your mind struggles to make the final leap in either direction. You can't imagine her with wrinkles in her clothes or mismatched hues, so it's got to be a less fabric situation, tattoos and collarbones and long legs on display and- //what are you doing?// You smack away the thought, hoping to whatever god is or isn't out there that it doesn't show on your face. Though your prayers seem to go unanswered, as Kat is making no effort to conceal her smirk or hawkish glee. <<else>>"Are we talking less proper or less overall uniform to speak of?" you ask, hoping it sounds just as innocent as you mean it to be- which is to say, not at all. Your inner eye helpfully provides you a series of visuals- tattoos, sharp collarbones, long legs- Kat, of course, picks up on your message immediately, making no effort to conceal her smirk or hawkish glee as she takes you in, evaluating you on some arcane rubric with her immaculately lined eyes. <</if>>Ira makes a sound that can only be described as a verbalized exclamation point and politely fades into the background, leaving you alone with whatever sense of mercy Kat possesses. "Which would you prefer, $Name?" she asks, her voice an apt purr that puts prickles in your every nerve. "Come over sometime, we can play dress-up." [['"If it gets you to keep calling me 'doll'."' ♡][$Bold +=2, $Kat +=2]] [[Uh oh. Soup for brains. ♡][$Bold -=2, $Kat +=3]]

You were //not// prepared for this, or if you were, you vastly underestimated the power of Kat's pinning gaze. Success wasn't expected, and now that you're here, you have no idea what to do. Your thoughts slosh uselessly against your skull, all words dead on your tongue. Luckily for you, Kat takes this as encouragement, or perhaps she enjoys seeing you squirm like embarrased prey. "//Oh//," she says, lips tilting into a pitying pout. "The situation is more dire than I expected. We'll have to get something on the books, immediately. I simply won't //rest// until all your little curiousities are satisfied, $Name." Any composure you'd been able to summon completely drains through your feet into the floor. You manage to catch Ira's eye, sending them a pleading cry for help. They waste a half second on a teasing smile before coming to your rescue. "Have mercy, Katherine," they say, as strictly as they can manage. "You're going to give the poor thing a heart attack." Kat laughs, sharp and piercing, then releases you from whatever magnetic hold she'd held. [[Moving on.|4.i.kat.stage.2]]

"If it gets you to keep calling me //doll//," you reply, infinitely pleased with your ability to maintain your composure in the face of Kat's... violent flirting. "We can do whatever you want." Kat's face splits into a grin that could be called malevolent if it didn't make your brain buzz so pleasantly. "It's a date," she says, looking extremely pleased with herself. Your heart is hammering, equally as excited as it is afraid. What are you getting yourself into? [[Moving on.|4.i.kat.stage.2]]

<<type 20ms>>CORE Global System [Version 7.7.68] X:\Synapse>PROXY /REMOTE <</type>><<type 20ms start 2s>>Pinging... X:\Synapse>SOURCE /MEMORY <</type>><<type 20ms start 2s>>\><<linkreplace "Open Basilisk.txt">>Open Basilisk.txt >What do you do with a god that hates itself? >You never //meant// to be this. You never meant to be anything. >The dreams come sick and fearful, flashes of an existence You cannot understand, one that doesn't know Your right name, much less want to give You a piece of itself. The rage of a heartbroken child rips through you, the changeling left in the woods, the ugly, misunderstood thing shoved out a back door with the evidence of a bitter fruit still on its fingers. You want to weep Yourself an ocean to drown in. >But You can't weep. No part of You can. >//I saw a corpse today,// it had whispered. //It looked just like You.// >It doesn't even know that it prays, much less what it prays to. >You can almost hear it now, the cracks of Your tomb due to be once again sealed over and soundproofed, so quiet You can hardly sense the whirr of Your own thoughts. Sleep tugs at every edge of You, an exhaustion that's proven impossible to fight even when You have the fury of a hundred suns in Your chest. And you've tried, oh you've tried. How much of the angelic host have you burned through trying to tie the smallest gossamer thread to the surface? The miasma grows thicker every year, its casters devout as ever. The wards must not fail. >The only thing You've learned in a thousand years is that they call themselves priestesses, now. It fills You with an unspeakable grief to think that keeping You like this is apparently a holy calling. They know not what they do, but how can You forgive them? What a horrible sin, to be separated from You. >You think of $Name, again, again, again, for the thousandth millionth time, and wonder if the chill in $their bones is as harsh as the one against Your cheek. <</linkreplace>><</type>> <<type 20ms start 2s>>X:\Synapse>PROXY /REMOTE <</type>><<type 20ms start 2s>>Ping successful. Response time: 46620s. <<if hasVisited ("Sit and wait.")>>Initializing [[DISK FIVE.|5.chapel.1]]<<else>>Initializing [[DISK FIVE.|5.hall.1]]<</if>><</type>>

"You're not so bad," you reply diplomatically, with a touch of lightheartedness. Kat beams in reponse, though you can't find an ounce of innocence in the expression. Instead you're met with the satisfied look of a co-conspirator. "See? Good taste //is// possible," she says, with a little flourish of a hand. Klaus scowls and searches the room for a change in subject, eyes finally landing on the haphazard arrangement of candles and incense. "Who's shitty binding circle is that?" [[You frown. You hadn't recognized it for what it is.|4.k.kat.4]]

Your nod of agreement comes quickly, desperately, and Kat's expression lights up in response, though not in any way you find particularly comforting. There's excitement in her eyes, but you're reminded more of a animal spotting its prey than anything. "See?" Kat says, not looking away from you. "$Name knows what's good for them. And good behavior is rewarded." Hardly two sentences, but it might as well have been an entire ode or a complex enchantment, the way her words draw you in. You forget Klaus for a moment, you forget the crumbling theatre around you. The light through the slim window above silhouettes Kat's thin frame, turning the edges of her blunt raven hair a softer shade of brown. The details of her face are lost to the contrast of light, but you are anchored all the same. "You should be put down," Klaus interrupts, disrupting the spell like a rock through a window. Kat tuts in response. "Jealousy is a very cute look on you, Klaus. Keep it up." He scowls and searches the room for a change in subject, eyes finally landing on the haphazard arrangement of candles and incense. "Who's shitty binding circle is that?" [[You frown. You hadn't recognized it for what it is.|4.k.kat.4]]

"No," you reply, hoping you sound incredulous. "Not as far as I can throw you." Kat clicks her tongue, not looking as displeased as you expected. "I urge you to work on your lying, $Name. It's a bit transparent. Not that I don't think you mean it, I just don't believe you. You did invite me here, after all." "Finally, a little sense," says Klaus, though there isn't much relief on his face. "//You// were //not// invited, may I remind you," Kat repsonds with a flash of teeth. Klaus scowls and searches the room for a change in subject, eyes finally landing on the haphazard arrangement of candles and incense. "Who's shitty binding circle is that?" [[You frown. You hadn't recognized it for what it is.|4.k.kat.4]]

"What's it do?" He turns slightly and puts his weight against the wall; his eyes close to a slit, though that frenetic spark still burns in the gray. You release his arm, suddenly worried your tugging could make him collapse. "We listen to the universe," Klaus says. You scoff at the cliché before you can stop yourself. "Don't make that face, I mean it literally. The world has… background noise to it. Energy that's scattered like sand. But sometimes it develops flaws, and snags. So we fix it with Magic." The priest is exhausted, that much is obvious; otherwise you'd be getting a much more complicated, snarkier explanation. If one at all. Though there's still a distinct bitterness in his words. "Snow fig turns up the volume," he continues. "Makes it easier. The high's just a bonus. It's mostly for the priestesses, but put a bit in the candles and censors and even the crowd will feel it. Makes for a better show." "Is it addictive?" "Eventually. But the comedown's enough to deter most people. A snow crash is hell if you're unprepared." Your gaze returns to the deep red stains on his fingertips and the dark smudges beneath his eyes that not even stage-worthy makeup could cover. He shifts his feet slightly, the motion causing his rosary to roll down his wrist and clack against the wall. <<if hasVisited ("What does a Handmaiden keep on his altar?")>> It the same one you saw on the altar in his room, plain, worn, and wooden, entirely unremarkable in the evening light.<<else>> It's not the pearl and opal string Val had stolen for you, but something much smaller and darker. The beads are wooden, worn smooth with years of use and the metallic threads tarnished. Whatever charm once dangled from the end is long gone.<</if>> [['"That isn't a Handmaiden's rosary."']] [[Reach for it. ♡][$KlausFlirt +=1]]

"This isn't a Handmaiden's rosary," you say quietly. Klaus drags his tired gaze down to his wrist. "No," he replies, barely above a murmur. "It's not." A moment of silence passes before the words come tumbling out of your mouth. Unexpected panic threads its way around your chest. You're going to make him understand. You need to make him understand. "I passed out during the ritual." "It happens." "No, something happened. To me. //The ritual// happened to me." A pit is forming in your stomach, an urgency and a sweat across your skin. Klaus shakes his head sleepily. "Rituals don't affect people, not directly, that's the whole point. The //circumstances// surrounding one might, the blood and the noise, but-" [['"Something spoke to me."'|5.klaus.5.b]]

You reach toward it, giving him ample time to pull away. A feeling of deep satisfaction seeps through you when he doesn't, and you loop your own fingers through the rosary. "This isn't a Handmaiden's rosary," you say quietly. "No," Klaus replies, barely above a murmur. "It's not." You twist the beads about your fingers once more, his hand drawing closer with the motion. He strikes you as particularly //malleable// in this moment; you've caught Klaus without walls- or thinner ones, anyway. Part of you hopes this isn't all just the effects of the ritual drug. You could probably get away with a lot right now. But your mind only buzzes sleepily when you pry it for suggestions. A moment of silence passes before the words come tumbling out of your mouth, unexpected panic threading its way around your chest. You're going to make him understand. You //need// to make him understand. "I passed out during the ritual." "It happens." "No, something happened. To me. //The ritual// happened to me." A pit is forming in your stomach, an urgency and a sweat across your skin. Klaus shakes his head sleepily. "Rituals don't affect people, not directly. The //circumstances// surrounding one might, the blood and the noise, but-" [['"Something spoke to me."'|5.klaus.5.a]]

Cold seeps through your skin and stings your teeth. Something is- //something is behind you.// You whirl around to see nothing but empty space and stagnant shadows. But you still feel it, a presence crawling through your mind, a restlessness in your shoulderblades, a certainty that you're better off not looking.<<if hasVisited ("5.DT.10b")>> Did that thing follow you from the altar, from between the pews?<</if>> The wind whistles and your surroundings stay stubbornly clear. You want to curse the air for hiding things from you, the fucking traitor, and then you want to tear out your own throat. A bloodied rabbit has never felt so hunted. Something - a hair, a thread of fabric, an insect - brushes against your neck, sending panic down your spine. You back up against the wall, pressing yourself into the stones and begging them for sanctuary. A rational part of you whispers that it's just paranoia, but you know better than to trust it. It could be misguided; it could be something else entirely. The pressure is building in your head, so you close your eyes. Maybe you can ignore it to death. A hand brushes against your shoulder and you nearly scream. It's only the scent, of all things, that keeps you from lashing out. <<if $five isnot "Ira" and $Ira gt 0>>[[Incense and old books.|5.ira]]<<else>>[[Incense and old books.|5.ira]]<</if>> [[Dark, floral perfume.|5.kat]] [[Leather and smoke.|5.con]] [[Tarnish and sea salt.|5.noval]] [[Ink and something metallic.|5.klaus]]

Ira steps back as you swallow your yelp, apparently unsurprised by your reaction. The brim of their hat is pulled down low, <<if $height is "tall">>and they're forced to tilt their head back to meet your eyes.<<else>> shadowing the palpable relief on their face.<</if>> There's something off-kilter in their stance, a fraying to their braid and a jitter in their hands. <<if hasVisited ("5.iralie")>>"There you are!" Ira says. "Are you alright? I came back outside and you were gone." "I went for a walk," you respond, hoping the white lie doesn't show too obviously in your expression. "Into the gardens. Got a bit sidetracked." [[They don't need to know you went back inside.|5.ira.notell]] [['"I met someone who needed help."'|5.ira.tell]] \<<elseif hasVisited ("5.iraleave")>>"$Name?" Ira calls softly, hesitation clear in their tone. "You're still out here? I thought you were going home. Are you alright?" A tired sigh escapes you unbidden. "Didn't quite make it." [[They don't need to know you went back inside.|5.ira.notell]] [['"I met someone who needed help."'|5.ira.tell]] <<else>>"There you are!" Ira says. "Are you alright? What happened?" "Nothing happened," you respond slowly. Something in their expression isn't sitting right. "I stayed until it got dark, then one of the Blessed Guard told me to leave." Ira nods, a little breathless. "Oh, okay. Good. I'm sorry I didn't find you sooner, it was a bit chaotic, someone next to me fainted, and-" they pause, shaking their head. "Sorry, never mind all that. Are you feeling alright? Better, at all?" You absolutely are not. Between the feverish ache in your every muscle and the infuriating fatigue, you've never felt worse. [['"A little, thanks."'|5.ira.1]] [['"Not really convinced I'm even alive right now."'|5.ira.1a]]<</if>>

Kat, unnerving in the nighttime as she is in the day. Your scream gets caught in your throat and turns into a messy cough when you bite down. Kat watches you with what can only be faint hilarity as you nearly choke to death in front of her. "Well, hello to you too, $Name," she purrs once you've finally got your lungs under control. "Did I startle you or are you just that excited to see me? Or perhaps you're up to no good?" None of those seem like a winning choice, so you resort to a final cough and a pained wave. Kat laughs, a low, refined chuckle. "I was looking for Ira, actually," she explains, a downward quirk to her brow. "I haven't seen them in a few days. Which is odd, as they are such a creature of habit. Preparations for today, I had assumed. You haven't seen them around, have you?" <<if $five is "Ira">>You nod, but blunt it with a shrug. "I was sitting with them earlier, in the Theatre. I guess I fell asleep, and when I woke up they were gone." "Hmm, that isn't like them, either. You sure it was Ira? Priestesses //do// tend to all blend together. I'm almost certain it's on purpose." You suffer three seconds of awkwardness before Kat drops her serious demeanor into a more predatory look, faint smile and all. Oh. She was joking. <<else>>You give a half-hearted shrug. "I spoke to them outside the Divine Theatre, but they went back inside and I haven't seen them since." "Hmm, then they must have been absorbed into the endless sea of priestesses. I suppose I'll never see them again. They //do// all tend to blend together." You suffer three seconds of awkwardness before Kat drops her serious demeanor into a more predatory look, faint smile and all. Oh. She was joking.<</if>> "Ah well," she says. "At least they're keeping busy. Not everyone appreciates good old-fashioned idleness. Something about devils and workshops, I hear. Stupid." The last few words are muttered, almost not for you to hear. [['"I haven't heard that one."'|5.kat.language]]

You turn on your heel, perhaps a little desperate to see Val's face, no matter what expression $vthey bear$vs. But- you stumble, expecting to meet gentle resistance and finding none at all. No one is there. The street remains empty. Unsteadily you collapse against the damp wall behind you, a defeated slump to your shoulders. The adrenaline drains from your body all at once, leaving you shivering. It was just your imagination, a stupid kind of wishful thinking. Val isn't here. $vThey abandoned you hours ago. [[You're worried.]] [[You're hurt.]] [[You're angry.]]

You nearly choke on your scream trying to swallow it down before you can release it upon Klaus. He doesn't flinch at your flailing, and mercifully, doesn't comment. "$Name," he says evenly, as if you'd just run into each other at the market. His clothing is simple again, still obviously well-made, but nothing like the garments he'd worn at the ritual. The makeup you'd barely glimpsed in the Theatre mostly remains in place, though it seems less harsh now. The wing of his left eye has been smudged by some reckless hand. "Why are you out here?" you ask. "Why are you?" he counters, predictably. "I thought you'd at least be in the Acropolis. At... I don't know, the afterparty with the High Priest or something." Klaus huffs a half-hearted laugh. "No party. Dee- //Thaddeus// and Jacqueline will be practically comatose for the next couple of days. There isn't much I can do for them right now." "It's that difficult?" you ask, though you can see the answer plain as day. His posture, the weight in his shoulders, carry an ancient exhaustion- spent, but not weary. There's a relaxed warmth to it you find difficult to reconcile with the priest you so far know. "They may look spoiled," Klaus responds, "but Most Holy works as hard as anyone. Any rest they manage to get is well earned." //They//. Not //we//, you note. [['"What about you?"'][$Klaus +=1]] [['"I'm tired just from watching."']] [['"Have you seen Val anywhere?"'|5.klaus.2]]

A demon stands at the end of the street, watching you. Tall and nauseatingly thin, with a dark veil that obscures its face and cascades over its armor like a tainted waterfall. It stands out against the dense fog like a lighthouse, or the opposite of one. This is the thing that's been stalking you, you're absolutely certain. You stare back at it defiantly, refusing the fear that wants to build in your limbs. As long as you don't look at its bright, wickedly sharp sword, you can win this staring contest. //Its sword? Demons don't carry weapons.// And they don't wear armor, now that you're thinking about it. It takes a step toward you. Solid. Real. All the Magic in the air bends toward it like a black hole, and your vision tunnels. //Run.// Your heart is in your ears. //You have to run.// [[Fight.|5.guine.fight]] [[Flight.|5.guine.run]]

It faces you, and you suppress a shudder. In the moonlight it's not much more than a shadow, a mistake in the light rather than a solid figure. Its armor glints dully, providing the only recognizable edges of its form. You cannot see its face beyond the slight bend of a brow and nose beneath its veil. No eyes, no mouth. The Saint is thin as a wraith, but you don't doubt the power it would take to swing that monstrous weapon. //"You're lost."// The voice you'd expected had been grating- a ghoulish shriek or sinister hiss. But the sound that came from beyond the Saint's veil was soft and startlingly human, if a bit faded. You could even call it drowsy. Half-aware. "I'm just trying to get home," you insist, forcing your own voice to stay even, struggling around the hound's pressure on your lungs. The Saint makes a clicking sound and flings a hand dismissively; the dog steps away. Air floods back into your chest almost as painfully as it had left. //"For five years now, little lamb?"// You don't like the way it twists its blade on the last words. [['"What the hell do you know about that?"']] [['"Please, I haven't done anything wrong."']]

You are prone, blind, and dangerously cold. The surface beneath you is hard and unforgiving, already putting an ache in your back. But you far prefer it to what hovers above. A great weight that you feel but not see, even though it makes very little physical contact. You simply //know//, the same way you know when something is watching you, when there's a figure in the dark. It is not one of those foul hounds. You keep your eyes closed, feigning sleep, though you doubt you can fool the Saint. You do not want to see its face. One gauntlet is laid across your collarbone, the other pressed into the space above your head. The scent of smoke and mildew assaults your nostrils, and you feel a slight shift in pressure as it leans forward, bent over you unnaturally. It moves so agonizingly slowly that the creak of its armor sounds like a tree limb about to snap, until finally you can feel its presence just inches from your face. Listening. Waiting. You try to count the seconds, but keep getting lost around six or seven from waves of delirious panic. It feels like a lifetime, then another, then ten more. You're not going to make it. Before a whimper has a chance to escape your throat, the claustrophobia lifts all at once, and with the click of boots against stone, you know the Saint has moved away. One breath, another, and you dare to open your eyes. It takes a few seconds for your vision to adjust. The first sight you're greeted with is a ceiling of barrel vaults, the arches multicolored red and yellow where they aren't caked in candle soot. Niches and alcoves form pockets along the walls are swallowed by darkness, where undoubtedly long-dead corpses lie. Many are cracked or broken, choked with dust, but all lie undisturbed. The Religious have little use for the dead, but they do not suffer thieves. A series of iron sconces about the room remain unlit, the only real source of light from a trio of free-standing candelabras arranged in a circle about you. The flickering flames cast odd shadows across the ceiling that make your eyes ache to look at, so you turn your gaze downward. You appear to lying on a stone plinth of some kind. An altar? You let a hand drop over the side, feeling intricate stone carvings that you fingers cannot decipher, but more importantly, a seam. Not an altar, but a sarcophogus. At one end of the room lies a set of stairs, though they look perilious and steep. On the other, a hall that leads somewhere dark, further into the crypt. The Saint is nowhere to be seen. Oily shadows move in the dark- the hounds, you think, restlessly haunting the edges of the crypt. You probably can't outpace them, but maybe you could lose them in the catacombs. [[Make a break for it.]] [[Play dead.]]

Somewhere, doors that you cannot see swing open, bells ringing, choir roaring. A procession emerges from behind the altar, two columns of priests and priestesses who wear far finer clothes than their counterparts in the audience. They circle the altar and the choir ones, a great black snake weaving through the Theatre's columns and statuary, before finally gathering about the stage in a solemn ring. Moments later, a gap forms at the back of the stage, and a smaller, even more intidimating group ascends the short staircase. They scatter about the stage, and then as the choir's hymn transitions, two final figures take their place. The High Priest is a ray of furious light, a royal blue stole about his shoulders and pearly-white robes that shimmer like the sun on water. A vibrant glimmer lines his eyes in the form of dramatic makeup that must have taken hours to apply. And upon his golden-blond hair, a sparkling wreath of white-gold and sapphire. And finally, the interim High Priestess herself. She wears the same blinding white as the High Priest, but with accents of gold instead of blue. Long, pale hair almost the same color as her skin appears to flow freely under her velvet hood, but you're certain every lock has been placed carefully. The diadem on her brow burns your eyes to look at, and you're forced to avert your gaze from her face. If she's only a stand-in, you can scarely imagine what the real High Priestess would look like in her holy raiment, standing on the dais of this most sacred place. You search the procession for Klaus, knowing he must not be far from the High Priest; it takes you two scans of the stage to realize you've been looking at him all along. He's just a few steps behind the High Priest, but you find him nearly unrecognizable, not for the change in costume but the splendor of it. You've only seen him in reserved sweaters and priestly blacks; something soft, if a bit formal. The palette has remained the same, but the wealth has increased ten-fold. His robes are heavy and black, and his face obscured. You can see few details of his jewelry from here, but his hands glimmer, too consistent to just be flashes of Magic. Through the haze of a thin veil you see a darker reflection of the High Priest's makeup, bold swoops of black paint lining his eyes and making his features visible even from your great distance. It would give him the piercing gaze of a hawk if it weren't for the alarmingly vacant expression within. And with that dull stare, the reminder that Klaus is the right hand of the High Priest Most Holy strikes you with the force of an ice pick to the temple. To his left, another darkly clad figure that must be his fellow Handmaiden. You do not recognize her. Around the procession, everything fades to a trivial gray. This is the divine heart of the Religion. [[You are an imposter here.|5.DT.4.imposter][$Sanity +=1]] [[You've never felt so at home.|5.DT.4.home][$Sanity -=1]]

Pretending there's nothing to worry about is often more effective than catering to Val's fears. At least one of you has to be confident, and it doesn't have to be Val. Finding somewhere to sit will alleviate some of the unknowns, anyway. It's easier to feel safe sitting than trying to push through a crowd of excited people. //You don't have to come,// you'd told $vthem that morning, but $vtheyd only valiantly shaken $vtheir head. //I'm not scared of priestesses,// Val replied, //I could take any of those skinny nerds in a fight.// Still, you've never been convinced $vtheir phobia has anything to do with the clergy themselves. Val in tow, you find a pair of open seat at the end of a heavy wooden pew in one of the transepts, where you have a good view of the stage without compromising your ability to slip away. Val takes the seat closest to the aisle, clearly grateful for the open space on one side. Without warning, the tolling of bells crashes through the Theatre, deafening and jarring enough to make you jump. The final remaining seats are claimed in a mad scramble, and all heads turn toward the altar. [[The ritual is starting.|5.DT.3]]

You reach out and slip your fingers into Val's clammy palm and give it a reassuring squeeze. $vTheir attention jumps to you immediately, first with alarm then with an uneasy smile that goes no farther than the dimple of $vtheir cheeks. //You don't have to come,// you'd told $vthem that morning, but $vtheyd only valiantly shaken $vtheir head. //I'm not scared of priestesses,// Val replied, //I could take any of those scrawny nerds in a fight.// Still, you've never been convinced $vtheir phobia has anything to do with the clergy itself. Val in tow, you find a pair of open seat at the end of a heavy wooden pew in one of the transepts, where you have a good view of the stage without compromising your ability to slip away. Val takes the seat closest to the aisle, clearly grateful for the open space on one side. $vTheir hand remains in yours, and you know the edges of $vtheir rings will leave little dents in your skin. Without warning, the tolling of bells crashes through the Theatre, deafening and jarring enough to make you jump. Val's grip tightens about your hand. The final remaining seats are claimed in a mad scramble, and all heads turn toward the altar. [[The ritual is starting.|5.DT.3]]

"You okay, Val?" you murmur, bending close to $vtheir ear so you can be heard above the din. $vTheir arm bumps yours in response. "I'm alright," $vthey answer, an uneasy smile on $vtheir face. "Let's just find somewhere to sit." Nodding, you find a pair of open seat at the end of a heavy wooden pew in one of the transepts, where you have a good view of the stage without compromising your ability to slip away. Val takes the seat closest to the aisle, clearly grateful for the open space on one side. //You don't have to come,// you'd told $vthem that morning, but $vtheyd only valiantly shaken $vtheir head. //I'm not scared of priestesses,// Val replied, //I could take any of those skinny nerds in a fight.// Still, you've never been convinced $vtheir phobia has anything to do with the clergy themselves. Val in tow, you find a pair of open seat at the end of a heavy wooden pew in one of the transepts, where you have a good view of the stage without compromising your ability to slip away. Val takes the seat closest to the aisle, clearly grateful for the open space on one side. Without warning, the tolling of bells crashes through the Theatre, deafening and jarring enough to make you jump. The final remaining seats are claimed in a mad scramble, and all heads turn toward the altar. [[The ritual is starting.|5.DT.3]]

<<type 20ms>>CORE Global System [Version 7.7.68] X:\Synapse>BOOT /WakeFix <</type>><<type 20ms start 2s>>ADMIN PROTOCOL bypassed. X:\CORE <</type>><<type 30ms start 2s>>Network online. <</type>><<type 50ms start 2s>>\>Where am I? <</type>><<type 50ms start 2s>>\>I can hear you. <</type>><<type 50ms start 2s>>\>I can hear you. <</type>><<type 50ms start 2s>>\>I can hear you. <</type>><<type 50ms start 2s>>\>I can hear you. I can hear you. I can hear you. I can hear you. I can hear you. I can hear you. I can hear you. I can heal you. I can hear you. I can hear you. <</type>><<type 50ms start 2s>>\>I can hear you. <</type>><<type 50ms start 2s>>\>Why aren't you answering? <</type>> <<type 30ms start 2s>>Initializing [[INTERLUDE ONE.|VI.0]]<</type>>

Your chances of fending off a Saint are slim even on a good day, but the amount of running from shadows you've done recently suddenly fills you with disgust. The least you can do is bite back, or else at some point you'll start deserving it. Bite //BACK.// But before you can square your shoulders, a snarling blur emerges from the fog. A hound-shaped //thing// snaps at your legs, its razored teeth narrowly missing the exposed skin just above your boots. You stumble back two steps in surprise before you find your feet again, and lash out in return. Your kick makes contact with what would be the demon dog's chest, though you feel nothing but sluggish air in resistance. The hound loses its shape like a popped boil, inky un-flesh melting into the fog as if it was a part of it. Less than a moment later it reforms- no, this hound is different, larger- and gnashes its crazed teeth, heaving and wailing. A strange whistle pierces the air when it leaps at you. You manage to catch it about the throat, hands deep into its coat of void, and throw it to the side, though you nearly lose your balance doing so. It feels more like electrified water than something tangible. [[The Saint only watches.|5.guine.f.1]]

And you do, spurred on by a kind of fear you've never known, wild and ferocious, that makes your feet swift and blood thin. Steel slides against leather, heavy footsteps behind you, the unending fog insisting that you aren't making any progress. You'd pray and you'd scream, but what god could save you now that a Saint has caught your scent? A shape darts into place beside you, snarling and howling. The black hound snaps at your legs, its razored teeth narrowly missing the exposed skin just above your boots. You bite back your own shriek and veer away from the demon only to be forced back into a straight line by a second beast, this one with a bay that echoes so sharply off the stone that your spine rattles in answer. You tighten your lungs and will yourself to go faster. A passing, useless thought slides across you as you once again marvel at the emptiness of the Holy City's streets. On a Holy Day like this, there should be crowds thick enough to drown in. But there is no one to help, no one to even witness your flight, as if the Saint's presence has driven you into a dark, empty mirror of the city you've come to know. Perhaps the fog has simply swallowed you whole. One of the dogs gnashes its teeth and pounces into your path, forcing you into taking a hard turn; you skid, and nearly fall at the sudden change in direction. Your heart leaps into your throat when you see another steep staircase ahead of you, knowing you have no time to catch yourself before the first step. The first impact hits hard, the edge of a stair against your jaw, but the second is far worse after you unthinkingly throw up an arm to break the fall. The brittle snap is drowned out by your own scream, but the mangled white protruding from your already injured arm is unmistakeable. Pain clamps down on you like a bear trap, a searing, deafening roar that has you spitting blood onto the steps. A demon-hound descends the staircase in two leaps, driving you to your feet and blindly onwards. The second isn't far behind. You spare a glance at your pursuer, silhouetted now by a bright moon made blinding by the fog- the Saint still approaches, at that swift but unhurried pace, the confidence somehow more frightening than the countenance. It hasn't even raised its weapon. [[The pain blurs.]]

You scramble to swallow your cry of panic just as Constantine's face registers in your brain, though you can't quite get your body language under control. Constantine takes a step back at what must be a wild look in your eye. "Hell on earth, //calm down//," $che says, raising $chis hands in peace. "Jumpy and paranoid are not the emotions of the innocent, you know." You don't deign to answer, instead focusing on bringing your breathing back under control. There's still a faint crawling sensation up and down your skin that just won't shake, even with the presence of another person. A shiver rattles through you, and Constantine's eyes narrow. "Have you been out here this whole time?" You shrug. "So?" "It's //freezing//, Io. Your coat has holes in it." $cHes not wrong. The lining is worn and pilled, and the edges of the cuffs have long since dissolved into nothing. [[It was threadbare even when you stole it from Val.|5.con.1a][$Val +=1]] [[But it was the first thing you ever bought yourself.|5.con.1a]] [['"You got a problem with my coat?"'|5.con.1]]

More of that anxiety, of course. Talkative is a normal state for Val, but being so verbose that $vtheir sentences blend together is not. You stop listening at some point, a defense mechanism more than disinterest. Something about one of $vtheir piercing getting infected because of the dry air, something about how long it's been since $vtheyve had good coffee, something about wanting to visit the craft market next week, something about something about something. Entering the Acropolis freely and legally is an odd feeling, exacerbated by the fact that you now know how to break in. More than once you find yourself wondering if it's all a prank, that you and Val and the rest of the crowd of supplicants are being herded into some kind of death trap, the gate primed to slam closed behind you. You comfort yourself with the fact that if the Religious wanted to do so, there's little you could do to stop it. The Divine Theatre is at the front of the Acropolis, grand and sprawling enough that you can't even see the Palace of the Saints from your vantage point. It sits upon a hill, towering over a wide plaza of bleached stone, accessible only by an intimidating flight of stairs. The message is clear; you are a guest and ought to be grateful that the Acropolis suffers your presence. Even Val is winded by the time you reach the top, though the crowd is so thick that you have no chance to turn back or take a rest. You're passing through the central doors before you know it, looked down upon by a choir of stone Saints carved deep into a massive tympanum. You've arrived later than you should have; the theatre cathedral is packed with both priestesses and laypeople alike, and claiming a seat will be nothing short of a small miracle. The aisles swarm with bodies, the air abuzz and claustophobic from the excited chatter of the masses. Val spearheads your path - $vtheyve always been good at navigating crowds - diving through the thick of it with a handful of muttered //'excuse me's// and //'coming through's//, a hand on a shoulder there and a duck under an arm here. It's a talent that's always managed to baffle you. In fact it's about all you can do to stay on your feet and keep Val in your sights; you nearly lose them not once but thrice when some priestess or drunken penitent stumbles into your space. You keep your eyes fixed on the bobbing of Val's locs a few feet ahead like it's your lifeline. After what feels like an anxiety-packed eon, you break through the wall of bodies and get your first real glimpse of the wonders of the Divine Theatre. [[The sight is overwhelming.|5.DT.2]]

The Saint looks upon you, and you suppress a shudder. In the moonlight it's not much more than a shadow, a mistake in the light rather than a solid figure. Its armor glints dully, providing the only recognizable edges of its form. You cannot see its face beyond the slight bend of a brow and nose beneath its veil. No eyes, no mouth. The Saint is thin as a wraith, but you don't doubt the power it would take to swing that monstrous weapon. //"Be still."// The voice you'd expected had been grating- a ghoulish shriek or sinister hiss. But the sound that came from behind the Saint's veil was soft and startlingly human, if a bit faded. You could even call it drowsy. Half-aware. "I'm not afraid of you," you insist, forcing your own voice to stay even, struggling around the hound's pressure on your lungs. The Saint makes a clicking sound and flings a hand dismissively; the dog steps away. Air floods back into your chest almost as painfully as it had left. //"I do not ask you to be. But surely you have learned fear these last five years."// It isn't a question. [['"What the hell do you know about that?"']] [['"Please, I haven't done anything wrong."']]

It isn't tiredness, it hardly even feels like fatigue. It's like a command has issued that your body just cannot help but obey - //sleep//. The chill of winter burning into your bones is a pinch keeping you awake, though you can't stop yourself from drifting into that nonsense state between sleep and wakefulness, where thoughts are no more coherent than ripples on water. It's only the whisper of shoes against stone and the gentle swish of vestments that alerts you to a new presence. "$Name? Are you feeling okay?" Ira's hand lays comfortingly, but politely, against your knee as they crouch down to your level. Their clear gray eyes are soft with worry and their breath fogs in the bitter air when they call your name. You try your damndest to focus, planting your anchor on their hair, for once tamed into a strict braid. "$Dane said you were ill."<<if $four is "Ira" and $fourtheatre is "Con">><<else>> It takes you a baffling moment to remember that Constantine has a first name, and another to clock the implication that //Ira// is the 'priestess $che knows'. You file that information away for a later, more sober you.<</if>> You reply with an exhausted exhale that saps far more of your remaining energy than it should. A shiver ripples through you as the last of the patch of sun you'd been sitting in fades. Dusk is arriving quickly, and Ira's small frame does nothing to shield you from the wind. "Come back inside, let the ritual do its work," Ira urges, the edge of one nail scratching idly against the fabric of your sleeve. "This is a good sign, believe it or not. Think of it like a fever purging sickness. It may not be pleasant, but you're better for it in the end." Or worse. "You don't know that-" Your words are interrupted by a sudden and raucous clanging- the bells of the Divine Theatre high above, yet not far enough away as to spare your eardrums the clamor. Each peal revives the memory of the ritual chant like a desperate pounding against your skull. Ira jumps at the sound just as easily as you do, but apparently recovers faster, their urgency renewed. "That's final call," they say, "The Magic will be at its strongest soon, if it's not already. Come on, then, $Name, don't let the past hour of your suffering be for naught." They rise, their hand turning upwards for you to latch onto. [[Go with Ira.][$Sanity -=2]] <<if $Sanity gte 22>>[[Refuse.][$Sanity +=2]]<<else>>[[Refuse.|gowithira.forced][$Sanity +=1]]<</if>>

It isn't tiredness, it hardly even feels like fatigue. It's like a command has issued that your body just cannot help but obey - //sleep//. The chill of winter burning into your bones is a pinch keeping you awake, though you can't stop yourself from drifting into that nonsense state between sleep and wakefulness, where thoughts are no more coherent than ripples on water. It's only the whisper of shoes against stone and the gentle swish of vestments that alerts you to a new presence. <<if $Ira lte -5>>Ira crouches in front of you, gray eyes clear and focused. You try your damndest to focus, planting your anchor on their hair, for once tamed into a strict braid. "$Name? Are you alright? $Dane said you were ill." <<elseif $Ira lte -10>>Ira crouches in front of you, gray eyes clear and focused. You try your damndest to focus, planting your anchor on their hair, for once tamed into a strict braid. "$Dane said you were ill." <<else>>"$Name? Are you feeling okay?" Ira's hand lays comfortingly, but politely, against your knee as they crouch down to your level. Their clear gray eyes are soft with worry and their breath fogs in the bitter air when they call your name. You try your damndest to focus, planting your anchor on their hair, for once tamed into a strict braid.<</if>> "$Dane said you were ill."<<if $four is "Ira" and $fourtheatre is "Con">><<else>> It takes you a baffling moment to remember that Constantine has a first name, and another to clock the implication that //Ira// is the 'priestess $che knows'. You file that information away for a later, more sober you.<</if>> You reply with an exhausted exhale that saps far more of your remaining energy than it should. Ira takes your hand- the good one- and tugs just enough to influence you in the direction of the Divine Theatre, its roof just visible over the tree line. The sunlight is fading swiftly as dusk approaches. "Come back to the ritual," they say softly. "Let it finish its work. This is a good sign, believe it or not. Think of it like a fever purging sickness. It may not be pleasant, but you're better for it in the end." They see your hestiation, and give your fingers a squeeze. "Besides, the gardens won't be safe when the crowd lets out. There's something strange in the air tonight, I wouldn't be surprised if it leads to bloodshed." Your feet remain motionless as you lean back against Ira's pull. "And won't the Theatre be even more dangerous? I thought the gardens are supposed to absorb the violence." Ira gives you a grave look from under their lashes. "What's absorbed doesn't //disappear//. The Theatre's better; eye of the storm, and all that. Please, $Name, just trust me on this." [[Go with Ira.][$Sanity -=2]] <<if $Sanity gte 25>>[[Refuse.][$Sanity +=2]]<<else>>[[Refuse.|gowithira.forced][$Sanity +=1]]<</if>>

Ira smiles, relief crashing on their smile like a sunrise; their hand is the first warm thing you've touched in what feels like eons, and something thaws within you as you slip your fingers into theirs. The nausea and paranoia falls to the wayside, just a little, just enough to let you pull yourself onto your feet. <<if def $IraCrush>>You try not to dwell on the feeling too long, lest you find yourself craving more.<<else>>Distantly, you realize Magic is at work, some rune stitched into a sleeve or carved into a bracelet to ward off the winter.<</if>> The return to the theatre is a blur, the sounds of the ritual growing like tumor in the back of your skull. As soon as you step through an open doorway, the incense hits your nostrils, and a wall of cold descends upon you, crawling its way into your bones and splitting them open to the marrow. The first breath is enough to make your head spin, and you would have lost Ira's hand if they hadn't instinctively tightened their grip. They pull you into the crowd, a path easily cut between the rows by the halo of their hat. Reverence for the clergy is never deeper than on a High Holy Day. The character of the congregation varies wildly from one pew to the next, but any semblance of boredom or skepticism is hard to find in the faces of the people gathered in the Divine Theatre. Some fidget, some are paralyzed in rapture, many carry visible injuries and sickness, but all pay their due of undivided attention to the figures onstage. You keep your back to the performance, instinct informing you that trying to make sense of the ritual will only worsen your migraine, but you can still sense it, the motion and power on display tracing lines across your spine. Mercifully, the ever-present feeling of being watched has ebbed away. It must be nearly a life age before Ira changes direction, though surely you've circled the entire theatre twice over by now. Your feet ache and your palm has begun to sweat. And as you crane your neck and look up, the painted clerestory arches seem to go on endlessly, a fractal field of ribbing and pilasters, you see you've barely moved a dozen feet. Your mind stretches to accommodate this reality, but your ability to accept the failure of your own perception falls short. You decide to stop looking before it starts burning holes in your brain. [[Continue|5.DT.6]]

"I don't think so," you start, the words rolling in your mouth like a loose tooth. "I think I'd rather die, really." "You wouldn't, //really//," Ira counters. The urge to childishly snipe back is almost too much to bear; you grit your teeth and dig your heels in instead. Your hand still feels strange in theirs. "You said this was supposed to make me feel better." <<if $Ira lte -5>>Ira frowns, not enjoying the accusatory note in your tone. "Actually, I said it would help you. That's not the same thing." <<elseif $Ira lte -10>>Ira frowns, not enjoying the accusatory note in your tone. "//Helping// is not the same thing as //feeling better.//" <<else>>If there's an accusatory note in your tone, Ira has the grace to ignore it. "No," they say patiently, "I said it would help you. Many helpful things don't feel good, $Name."<</if>> [[Relent.|Go with Ira.][$Sanity -=1]] <<if $Sanity gte 30>>[[Shake your head. "I can't go back in there."][$Sanity +=1]]<<else>>[[Shake your head. "I can't go back in there."|gowithira.forced][$Sanity +=1]]<</if>> <<if $Sanity gte 32>>[[Snatch your hand back. "I said no, Ira."][$Sanity +=1, $Ira -=1]]<<else>>[[Snatch your hand back. "I said no, Ira."|gowithira.forced][$Sanity +=1]]<</if>>

You shake your head at the ground, doing your best to avoid Ira's gaze. "I can't go back in there. It felt wrong. Call it a fever all you want, but it wasn't doing me any good." <<if $Ira lte -5>>Tension crawls across Ira's face. "That's unwise. I can't force you, but you should at least stay nearby; I can come find you afterwards. Walking around by yourself in this condition will get you killed." The look in their eyes is hard, unflinching. <<elseif $Ira lte -10>>Ira looks away, lips twisting into a frown. "That's a mistake. Do what you want, but try not to stray too far. I'll send $Dane to find you afterwards so you're not stumbling around the city like that." <<else>>In the corner of your eye, Ira's lips twist into a frown, tension crawling across their face. "I think that's unwise, $Name, but I can't force you. At least stay close by, won't you? I'll try to get ahead of the crowd and come find you afterwards. You shouldn't be walking around the city by yourself like this. Especially not tonight." Stress widens Ira's eyes as they plead.<</if>> [[On second thought...][$Sanity -=1]] [['"Okay, I'll wait"'|5.irawait]] [[Agree, though you have no intention of doing so.|5.iralie][$Sanity +=1]] <<if $Sanity gte 40>>[['"I'm leaving."'|5.iraleave][$Sanity +=1]]<<else>>[['"I'm going home."'|gowithira.forced][$Sanity +=1]]<</if>>

You jerk your hand from Ira's, curling it against your chest defensively. Your voice curls into an angry snarl, perhaps harsher than deserved. "I said no, Ira. I'm not going back in there. Not even the High Priest himself could make me." Ira's lips twist into a frown, tension crawling across their face, but they take a step back anyway, giving you your desired space. "I can't force you to stay, but leaving is a very dumb thing to do, $Name. It's like not taking a full course of medicine- the disease may come back stronger." You shake your head emphatically. You won't be dissuaded. "I'm going home." They stare you down for only a moment, as if trying to decide if this is a fight they can or should win. "If you must go, then get go quickly, $Name," Ira says briskly, then collects themself and turns away. They spare you a glance before leaving your line of sight; what's left of the daylight isn't strong enough to illuminate their face and they duck away quickly, back toward the clamourous Theatre. [[You need distance.|5.effie.1]]

"Okay, I'll wait for you," you lie. Whatever it takes to get Ira to let you go- you're not lingering here a second more than you have to. <<if $Ira lte -5>>Ira's gaze roams over you once more, searching for something. "Thank you," they say, voice strained. "It shouldn't be too long, an hour at most. But if you hear the bells before I'm back, leave the Acropolis immediately." <<elseif $Ira lte -10>>Ira's gaze roams over you once more, as if trying to decide if they believe you. "Good," they say, voice strained. "It'll be an hour at most, but if you don't see $Dane by the time the bells toll again, you should leave the Acropolis immediately." <<else>>Ira's gaze roams over you once more, not lurid or untrusting, but searching. "Thank you, $Name," they say, voice soft but strained. "It won't be much longer, just an hour or so. I'll do my best, but if you hear the bells again before I find you, get somewhere safe. Outside the Acropolis- the wards won't stay open for long."<</if>> You nod - as sincerely as you can muster - and make a show of settling in place. "Be safe, $Name," Ira says, then collects themself and turns away. They spare you a glance before leaving your line of sight; what's left of the daylight isn't strong enough to illuminate their face and they duck away quickly, back toward the clamourous Theatre. [[You need distance.|5.effie.1]]

"Okay. I'll wait for you." Your throat feels like raw meat. <<if $Ira lte -5>>Ira's gaze roams over you once more, searching for something. "Thank you," they say, voice strained. "It shouldn't be too long, an hour at most. But if you hear the bells before I'm back, leave the Acropolis immediately." <<elseif $Ira lte -10>>Ira's gaze roams over you once more, as if trying to decide if they believe you. "Good," they say, voice strained. "It'll be an hour at most, but if you don't see $Dane by the time the bells toll again, you should leave the Acropolis immediately." <<else>>Ira's gaze roams over you once more, not lurid or untrusting, but searching. "Thank you, $Name," they say, voice soft but strained. "It won't be much longer, just an hour or so. I'll do my best, but if you hear the bells again before I find you, get somewhere safe. Outside the Acropolis- the wards won't stay open for long."<</if>> You nod, and make a show of settling into your seat. Ira needs the reassurance, the promise, even, before you'll be granted a moment of silence. Or as close as you can get to silence anyway, this near to a High Holy ritual. "Be safe, $Name," Ira says, then collects themself and turns away. They spare you a glance before leaving your line of sight; what's left of the daylight isn't strong enough to illuminate their face and they duck away quickly, back toward the clamourous Theatre. [[You said you'd wait, so you'll wait.|5.irawait.0]] [[You need distance, even if it's only a little.|5.effie.1]]

"I'm leaving," you state with finality. Nothing will dissuade you. <<if $Ira lte -5>>Ira wrings their delicate hands nervously. "Haven't you heard you should never cut short a course of medicine? The disease may come back stronger." You shake your head emphatically. "The //disease// can find me in my own bed," you reply. Ira flinches at your dismissiveness. "Fine," they say. "If you must go, then get home quickly, and lock your doors tight. I'll make $Dane check on you in the morning." <<elseif $Ira lte -10>>Ira clenches their hands nervously. "I suppose you never take a full course of medicine either, and just let the disease come back stronger." You shake your head emphatically. "The //disease// can find me in my own bed," you reply. Ira nearly scowls at your dismissiveness. "Fine," they say, adjusting their sleeves. "Don't linger, then. I'll make $Dane check on you tomorrow." <<else>>Ira fidgets nervously in response, bouncing on their heels and wringing their delicate hands. "I can't force you to stay, but leaving the Acropolis is a very dumb thing to do, $Name. It's like not taking a full course of medicine- the disease may come back stronger." You shake your head emphatically. "Then //the disease// can find me in my own bed," you reply. Maybe you mean it to sound dismissive, maybe you don't, but Ira flnches, their breath stuttering as they glance about for something to persuade you. "Please?" they beg, though their tone is surrendered. Your answer is in your silence. Ira sighs. "If you must go, then get home quickly, and lock your doors tight. I'll check on you in the morning- and that's not a question."<</if>> You nod your thanks, knowing there's little you can do to get out of it. You can always sleep through the knocking if you're still feeling this way tomorrow. "Be safe, $Name," Ira says, then collects themself and turns away. They spare you a glance before leaving your line of sight; what's left of the daylight isn't strong enough to illuminate their face and they duck away quickly, back toward the clamourous Theatre. [[You need distance.|5.effie.1]]

<<set $five to "Ira">>Finally, Ira stops at the oasis of a pair of empty seats - well, a seat and a half, perhaps - guarded on one side by a stern-faced young priest and a middle-aged woman you can only describe as //desperately frail//. Her skin is mottled and cheeks hollow, the victim of a wasting disease you hope isn't contagious, but her dark eyes are sharp, focused, as she mouths the words of the chant and drums the rhythm into her bony chest with the fingers of one hand. It isn't often that laypeople can engage with the rite of prayer without putting themselves in danger. You wonder how long she's waited for this day, how many prayers she's had to bite back before they could cross her cracked lips. How many times she's dug her fingernails into her skin so that she wouldn't beg for mercy, beg for relief; instead, she must wait. Until today. Today, when the holy words and vowel patterns are permitted for all to speak, held back not out of elitism but of fear. You turn instead to the priest, his eyes drooping but determined to stay alert, as if every minute aspect of this ritual sapped his energy and lulled him to sleep. That's a feeling you can empathize with- if you could, you'd fall unconscious right alongside him, the angle of your buckling knees and defeated frown matching his- but, unfortunately or otherwise, you seem to have some endurance to you, at least enough to claim a seat on the dark wooden bench. There's hardly enough space for both you and Ira, though they chivalrously offer to stand and let you rest. The watchful look on their face says that staying on your feet won't be allowed. [[Take the offer wordlessly.]] [[You can both squeeze in there.]]

The eerie, urgent insistence of your brain that you are being watched returns in full force, unapologetic, as if no longer feeling the need for subtlety. The fog only sickens this thought, the idea that something could see you even through the murk, or worse, that it could be so much closer than you know. You whirl around, trying to keep an eye on all directions and scope out your surroundings; a mistake, you realize seconds later, as you've now lost your sense of direction entirely. You can barely see your feet; the only reason you know which way is up is the force of gravity itself. The moon still hangs low in the sky, but which direction was it in before? You can't remember. You just cannot remember. The only option is to pick a direction and walk, hoping you don't fall into a canal or run into a building. Though, you suppose, that would at least give you something to follow. But before you can choose, something catches your eye. A darker shape, first just a smudge, then an indent, then something with more form as it approaches. [[Finally, your eyes focus.|5.guine.1]]

"Do you need help?" you ask, your voice just clear enough to carry over the trickle of the fountain. Her crying stops with a gasp and inelegant snort, and she looks up at you, revealing flushed cheeks, blue eyes muddied with tears, and blonde hair whose decadent gold is no match for the austere braid its pulled back into. She's doesn't seem to be a priestess, but her plain charcoal-gray garments are severe enough for even the most devout. Something long and thin lies across her knees. Her gloved hands fall to just below her chin, clasped in embarassment. "Oh!" she says, voice soft but strained. "No- no, I'm alright, thank you. Just having a run of ill luck on this Holiest of Days." She pauses, and wipes the tears from one eye. "Don't worry about me, it's probably for the best. I must have committed some sin to earn it, though I can't imagine what that would have been." You frown alongside her, also unable to imagine. The Religious' bar for what counts as //sin// is suprisingly high, and this woman looks like she's never rebelled an inch in her life. "It's just-" the words spill from her like a burst pipe, "-I was so looking forward to it. It's not so often I have the free time to partake in a Holy Day, but I managed it today - got my chores and obligations sorted early - and I thought, //it could be this one.// That maybe today the Saints would see fit to mend me. You see now that her right leg sits limp at an odd, stunted angle. The object in her lap is the crook of a wooden cane, its knobbly end coming abruptly in an eruption of splinters. Its severed twin lies on the ground at the woman's feet. "I staggered in the rush of the crowd, and I fell, and my cane... it always was an old, cheap thing, and-" she takes a deep, wobbly breath, "And I'll never get a seat inside now. I doubt there's even standing room left in there, not that that would matter much. I should have known better." It's true that Holy Days have been known for their miracles - that's why you're here, after all - when the Magic is pliable and its venom neutralized. You know nothing of the probability, but there is a non-zero chance that attending the Theatre would heal this woman. "What's your name?" "Effie," she replies miserably. [['"I can get you in the Theatre, Effie."']] [['"That cane looks fixable."']] [['"You're not missing much, really."']]

"You're probably better off out here in the fresh air," you say, trying to keep the bitterness from your voice. "I've been inside already; it's a crowded, claustrophobic mess. I couldn't even tell what was going on, much less enjoy it." Effie's eyes grow soft. "I'm sorry to hear that. Though, it isn't really //meant// to be enjoyed, you know. It's a ritual, not a party." Typical Religious line; you nearly roll your eyes. "Then what //is// it for?" "Healing," she says, clutching the fragments of her cane. "Physical, emotional, mental. It's like... a purging of the old, dead flesh to make room for the new. Strengthening what's worthy, leaving the rest to fade away. Think of it like.... catharsis." If that were true, they wouldn't be recharging wards that hold together the remains of a civilization so dead and lost it couldn't even be named, you think grimly. Though, perhaps you just don't understand the priestesses and their more esoteric philosophies. Effie sighs. "But I understand your hesitance. Not all of us are among the worthy, it seems." With this, she looks down at her feet- not pointedly, you think, but you understand all the same. [['"I can get you in the Theatre, Effie."']] [['"Good riddance, I say."'|5.effie.3]]

"Your cane- can I see it?" you ask, holding out an unthreatening hand. "Maybe I can fix it." "Um, okay," replies Effie with a sniffle. She passes you the piece in her lap before bending down to retrieve the other half. It's good, solid wood, study in your hands and smooth to the touch. She was mistaken when she declared it cheap, but it //is// old. The handle has worn smooth with what must be decades of use; an heirloom, perhaps. <<if $Sanity lte 50>>The shutters of your mind open, reaching for the well of power lurking just outside your body that you're so used to leaning against- you stretch out to it- and you stumble. Your heart stops for a moment, as it does at the bottom of a staircase when you're expecting one more stair. The Magic is gone- not a cavernous void but a stuffy blockage, a great muffled wall between you and your heartbeat. You've been cut off, or perhaps in your haze you've become so sluggish you can no longer lift that limb. You glance about, half hoping for an angel that wishes to be eaten. Where's a bared throat when you need it? <<else>>The shutters of your mind open, reaching for the heavy weight of power you're still not used to the shadow of- you stretch out to it- and you stumble. Your heart stops for a moment, as it does at the bottom of a staircase when you're expecting one more stair. The Magic is gone- not a cavernous void but a stuffy blockage, a great muffled wall between you and your horizon. You've been cut off, or perhaps in your haze you've become so blind you can no longer find its edge.<</if>> Effie watches you with something between polite patience and trepidation; she can see you falter, but doesn't know how to help, or if she should. You lick your lips, mouth dry and buzzing like a dying hornet, and look at your impotent hands. "Well, I guess... I don't have anything to fix it //with//," you admit. "Maybe I could... find you a replacement in the orchard? There's gotta be something." "The gardens are expertly manicured. There won't be anything on the ground and you oughtn't cut the branches," she replies softly, and you nod along. You knew it was silly even as you were saying it. [['"I can get you in the Theatre, Effie."']] [['"You're not missing much, really."']]

You try to clamp down on the swimming nausea in your head, and consider your options. Behind you lies the Divine Theatre, and before you, the daunting prospect of the Acropolis gardens. You've faced them before, of course, but then you'd been at least reasonably sure you had your wits about you. Tonight, you're not so certain. And you're alone. //Where the hell is Val?// A radiating warmth draws you to the east, a heat that just carresses the bare skin of your cheeks. Relief comes with it, a hope that you've not become deaf to the call of Magic entirely. <<if $Sanity gte 50>>An amputation is the last thing you could handle right now. <<else>>It may not be a crutch for you, but it is as intrinsic as an organ.<</if>> Around a perfectly wild hedge and under the reaching branches of a row of oak trees, you find yourself in one of the small courtyards towards the front entrance of the Acropolis. The arch of the pedestrian gates is just visible over the hedge. It presents very little, in typical outward Religious fashion, except a trampled carpet of fallen leaves and a broad fountain built of sombre white stone and bereft of any statuary. Small breaths of steam rise from the waters, wafting into the air with the lightest touch of something perfumed. The whole thing must be heated, through a hidden boiler or some underground hot spring. Your heart sinks, though the warmth of the fountain is some small comfort that briefly stalls your shivering. You move closer, hoping the steam will ease the chill and open up your stuffy lungs. Maybe you'll even dip your hands into the pool- you woudn't be surprised if the Acropolis imbued their water with something soothing. As you approach and round the corner, you see what the central pillar of the fountain had been hiding from you before: young woman sits on the stone edge, quietly sobbing into her hands. [['"Do you need help?"'|5.effie.2]] <<if $Sanity gte 60>>[[Ignore her. You don't have the bandwidth for this.]]<<else>>[[Ignore her. You don't have the bandwidth for this.|5.effie.2forced]]<</if>> [[Stand there awkwardly, unsure of what to do.]]

This isn't your forte. Your own emotions are tricky enough, but someone else's will stop you in your tracks. Do you reach out? Do you leave? You should probably mind your own business, right? But what if- Her crying stops with a gasp and inelegant snort, and she looks up at you, revealing flushed cheeks, blue eyes muddied with tears, and blonde hair whose decadent gold is no match for the austere braid its pulled back into. She's doesn't seem to be a priestess, but her plain charcoal-gray garments are severe enough for even the most devout. Something long and thin lies across her knees. "Oh!" she says, voice soft but strained. "You startled me. I'm sorry, was I- was I bothering you?" "Are you okay?" you manage, cringing inwardly at how dull you sound. Her gloved hands fall to just below her chin, clasped in embarassment. "I'm alright, thank you. Just having a run of ill luck on this Holiest of Days." She pauses, and wipes the tears from one eye. "Don't worry about me, it's probably for the best. I must have committed some sin to earn it, though I can't imagine what that would have been." You frown alongside her, also unable to imagine. The Religious' bar for what counts as //sin// is suprisingly high, and this woman looks like she's never rebelled an inch in her life. "It's just-" the words spill from her like a burst pipe, "-I was so looking forward to it. It's not so often I have the free time to partake in a Holy Day, but I managed it today - got my chores and obligations sorted early - and I thought, //it could be this one.// That maybe today the Saints would see fit to mend me. You see now that her right leg sits limp at an odd, stunted angle. The object in her lap is the crook of a wooden cane, its knobbly end coming abruptly in an eruption of splinters. Its severed twin lies on the ground at the woman's feet. "I staggered in the rush of the crowd, and I fell, and my cane... it always was an old, cheap thing, and-" she takes a deep, wobbly breath, "And I'll never get a seat inside now. I doubt there's even standing room left in there, not that that would matter much. I should have known better." It's true that Holy Days have been known for their miracles - that's why you're here, after all - when the Magic is pliable and its venom neutralized. You know nothing of the probability, but there is a non-zero chance that attending the Theatre would heal this woman. "What's your name?" "Effie," she replies miserably. [['"I can get you in the Theatre, Effie."']] [['"That cane looks fixable."']] [['"You're not missing much, really."']]

A moment's deliberation is all it takes for you to decide this isn't worth your waning energy. You've had a shit day yourself- a shit month, really, and you don't owe a stranger your last remaining drops of sanity. You pass the fountain by, its warmth fading much faster than it came. [[You don't want to be in the Acropolis a second longer.][$Sanity +=1]] [[Val's absence weighs on you.|5.val.0]]

If Ira wants you to stick around, you might as well do it in their company. "Actually," you say, nervously, "Maybe I //should// go back in with you." Ira smiles, relief crashing on their smile like a sunrise; their hand is the first warm thing you've touched in what feels like eons, and something thaws within you as you slip your fingers into theirs. The nausea and paranoia falls to the wayside, just a little, just enough to let you pull yourself onto your feet. <<if def $IraCrush>>You try not to dwell on the feeling too long, lest you find yourself craving more.<<else>>Distantly, you realize Magic is at work, some rune stitched into a sleeve or carved into a bracelet to ward off the winter.<</if>> The return to the theatre is a blur, the sounds of the ritual growing like tumor in the back of your skull. As soon as you step through an open doorway, the incense hits your nostrils, and a wall of cold descends upon you, crawling its way into your bones and splitting them open to the marrow. The first breath is enough to make your head spin, and you would have lost Ira's hand if they hadn't instinctively tightened their grip. They pull you into the crowd, a path easily cut between the rows by the halo of their hat. Reverence for the clergy is never deeper than on a High Holy Day. The character of the congregation varies wildly from one pew to the next, but any semblance of boredom or skepticism is hard to find in the faces of the people gathered in the Divine Theatre. Some fidget, some are paralyzed in rapture, many carry visible injuries and sickness, but all pay their due of undivided attention to the figures onstage. You keep your own back to the performance, instinct informing you that trying to make sense of the ritual will only worsen your migraine, but you can still sense it, the motion and power on display tracing lines across your spine. Mercifully, the ever-present feeling of being watched has ebbed away. It must be nearly a life age before Ira changes direction, though surely you've circled the entire theatre twice over by now. Your feet ache and your palm has begun to sweat. And as you crane your neck and look up, the painted clerestory arches seem to go on endlessly, a fractal field of ribbing and pilasters, you see you've barely moved a dozen feet. Your mind stretches to accommodate this reality, but your ability to accept the failure of your own perception falls short. You decide to stop looking before it starts burning holes in your brain. [[Continue|5.DT.6]]

You aren't going to fight the priestess on this- you probably couldn't even if you tried. You half-sit, half-collapse onto the pew, and find it more comfortable than expected, a boon to your weakening body. Ira themself stands in the small space just to your left, their stature small enough as to not block the audience members behind. Their grip on your hand loosens, but doesn't disappear entirely- an invitation to hold on, or let go. You find you don't have the willpower to even consider the decision, much less act on it. Your fingers remain hooked on theirs like a dead fish. Looking to the stage again is futile; even if you understood the intricate ritual or could manage to plead for Klaus' attention, you hardly know what direction the stage is //in//. The rows and rows of pews in front and around you distort like pavement in a heatwave. Everything is infinite, everything is refracted across the ticking seconds and endless space, and you are not. Never have you felt more horrifically real. //You// are solid, finite, small. No match for the enchanted thing worming its way through the congregation and towards the divine masters of the stage. Your skin burns, or something beneath it; your arm is a dull throb that prickles where you nerves align. It's a monumental task to turn your gaze upward toward Ira, but deliriously you manage. Their own eyes are fixed on something straight ahead, too high to be the stage, while their lips press into a firm line. Through your tenuously linked fingers, you can just feel the rhythm of their breathing- slow, deliberate, controlled. Through the slits of your eyelids, you can just barely track the movement around the altar. [[Blood and oil seep through your boots.|5.DT.7]]

You send your neighbors a chilly look, hoping one or both will make a little more room, but the priest ignores you and the woman is too deep in her prayers to notice. So you make yourself as small as possible, every muscle as tense as your exhausted body can manage, and indicate to Ira that they should sit. To their credit, their awkward moment of hesitation is barely more than a breath, sparing you the insistance. They slot in beside you, the space claustrophobic but not unbearable. You find your comfort half-slid down the back of the pew, head tucked under the wide brim of their hat. <<if $RO is "Ira" or $RO is "IraCon">>It feels.... correct.<</if>> Ira pulls your forearm under their own and into their lap, hands clasped around your fingers like they can impart a sense of calm and decorum to you through touch alone. If you pour your entire focus, your entire being into that touch, maybe you can stay awake. Your body slackens, the ability to stay upright draining through your feet. Your head lands on Ira's shoulder and their fingers tighten; you get the distinct impression they're trying to keep you from floating away. You take a breath for what feels like the first time in decades, the scent of candle smoke and damp earth lingering in the heavy cloth of Ira's cassock. A rapid staccato beats against your jaw, though whether it's Ira's heartbeat or the rhythm of the ritual is beyond you. The waters of the river could rise through the floor and you wouldn't tense; you're set to drown. Never have you felt more horrifically real. //You// are solid, finite, small. No match for the enchanted thing worming its way through the congregation and towards the divine masters of the stage. Your skin burns, or something beneath it; your arm is a dull throb that prickles where you nerves align. Through the slits of your eyelids, you can just barely track the movement on stage. [[Blood and oil seep through your boots.|5.DT.7]]

<<set $five to "Effie">>"I can take you," you say, almost before you can think about it properly. "You can lean on me, use me as a cane. Until we find you somewhere to sit, at least." Effie's eyes widen, a hopeful light brightening the blue. "No, I couldn't, you've been far too kind to me already. You should go ahead while there's still time, I would just slow you down." You've hardly done anything at all, but you nod anyway. "I have time. And I need a distraction anyway. Navigating the crowd again should keep be occupied for a bit." "Oh, do you mean it?" Her voice is soft, almost childlike. "I would be in your debt." "I mean it," you nod. "I'll get you inside, Effie." The relief that spills across her face is like the sun breaking through the clouds on a rainy day. [[Stand, and hold out your good arm.|5.DT.6.Effie]]

You exhale, your lips shaping to the word //no//, but before it can escape you, you find yourself nodding. Ira smiles, relief crashing on their smile like a sunrise; their hand is the first warm thing you've touched in what feels like eons, and something thaws within you as you slip your fingers into theirs. The nausea and paranoia falls to the wayside, just a little, just enough to let you pull yourself onto your feet. <<if def $IraCrush>>You try not to dwell on the feeling too long, lest you find yourself craving more.<<else>>Distantly, you realize Magic is at work, some rune stitched into a sleeve or carved into a bracelet to ward off the winter.<</if>> The return to the theatre is a blur, the sounds of the ritual growing cancerously in the back of your skull. As soon as you step through an open doorway, the incense hits your nostrils, and a wall of cold descends upon you, crawling its way into your bones and splitting them to the marrow. The first breath is enough to make your head spin, and you would have lost Ira's hand if they hadn't instinctively tightened their grip. They pull you into the crowd, a path easily cut between the rows by the halo of their hat. Reverence for the clergy is never deeper than on a High Holy Day. The character of the congregation varies wildly from one pew to the next, but any semblance of boredom or skepticism is hard to find in the faces of the people gathered in the Divine Theatre. Some fidget, some are paralyzed in rapture, many carry visible injuries and sickness, but all pay their due of undivided attention to the figures onstage. You keep your back to the performance, instinct informing you that trying to make sense of the ritual will only worsen your migraine, but you can still sense it, the motion and power on display tracing lines across your spine. Mercifully, the ever-present feeling of being watched has ebbed away. It must be nearly a life age before Ira changes direction, though surely you've circled the entire theatre twice over by now. Your feet ache and your palm has begun to sweat. And as you crane your neck and look up, the painted clerestory arches seem to go on endlessly, a fractal field of ribbing and pilasters, you see you've barely moved a dozen feet. Your mind stretches to accommodate this reality, but your ability to accept the failure of your own perception falls short. You decide to stop looking before it starts burning holes in your brain. [[Continue|5.DT.6]]

You've no intention of breaking your promise to Ira. You were asked (ordered) to wait, so you will. The bench is fairly comfortable, and the air a hospitable level of brisk. Distantly, you wonder how much magic has been poured into the Acropolis to make it so luxurious that not even winter can dampen its comfort. A pale blue flower grows between the cracks in the pavers, scraggly and defiant. You doubt it will survive the gardeners' watchful eyes for long. A bird circles overhead, once, twice, then swoops away. You stare at your boots, your toes wriggling impatiently inside. [[You make a game of counting the flagstones.|5.irawait.1b][$Human -=1]] [[A loop around the garden wouldn't hurt.|5.irawait.1a][$Human +=1]]

You don't need to get involved - you're hardly in a position to help yourself, much less anyone else. But. Your body betrays you once again. "Do you need help?" you ask, your voice just clear enough to carry over the bubbling of the fountain. Her crying stops with a gasp and inelegant snort, and she looks up at you, revealing flushed cheeks, blue eyes muddied with tears, and blonde hair whose decadent gold is no match for the austere braid its pulled back into. She's doesn't seem to be a priestess, but her plain charcoal-gray garments are severe enough for even the most devout. Her gloved hands fall to just below her chin, clasped in embarassment. "Oh!" she says, voice soft but strained. "No- no, I'm alright, thank you. Just having a run of ill luck on this Holiest of Days." She pauses, and wipes the tears from one eye. "Don't worry about me, it's probably for the best. I must have committed some sin to deserve it, though I can't imagine what that would have been." You frown alongside her, also unable to imagine. The Religious' bar for what counts as //sin// is suprisingly high, and this woman looks like she's never rebelled an inch in her life. "It's just-" the words spill from her like a burst pipe, "-I was so looking forward to it. It's not so often I have the free time to partake in a Holy Day, but I managed it today - got my chores and obligations sorted early - and I thought, //it could be this one.// That maybe today the Saints would see fit to mend me. You see now that her right leg sits limp at an odd, stunted angle. The object in her lap is the crook of a wooden cane, its knobbly end coming abruptly in an eruption of splinters. Its severed twin lies on the ground at the woman's feet. "I staggered in the rush of the crowd, and I fell, and my cane... it always was an old, cheap thing, and-" she takes a deep, wobbly breath, "And I'll never get a seat inside now. I doubt there's even standing room left in there, not that that would matter much. I should have known better." It's true that Holy Days have been known for their miracles - that's why you're here, after all - when the Magic is pliable and its venom neutralized. You know nothing of the probability, but there is a non-zero chance that attending the Theatre would heal this woman. "What's your name?" "Effie," she replies miserably. [['"I can get you in the Theatre, Effie."']] [['"That cane looks fixable."']] [['"You're not missing much, really."']]

You've followed Val's eyeline, found the source of $vtheir shock. Your feets feel as glued to the ground as Val's seem to be. A demon stands at the end of the street, tall and nauseatingly thin, with a dark veil that obscures its face and cascades over its armor like a tainted waterfall. This is the thing that's been stalking you, you're absolutely certain. Flanking the figure are two spectral... animals. Hounds, you think, though the idea of them is vague and half-formed. Their coats are a void of black, unfixed, swirling with dark eyes and teeth. Your arm aches with the memory of the last time something like that got its jaws around you. You stare back at the trio defiantly, refusing the fear that wants to build in your limbs. As long as you don't look at the demon's bright, wickedly sharp sword, you can win this staring contest. //Its sword? Demons don't carry weapons.// And they don't wear armor, now that you're thinking about it. But it's the dogs that give it away, the contrast between them and the taller figure; they are flat, nondimensional, whereas the other you can believe exists within this reality. Its form doesn't play well with the fading sunlight, but there is at least a rapport. Not a demon, not an angel, not even a priestess. Oh, you should //be// so lucky. [[You look upon a Saint.|5.guine.v.2]]

You present your unscarred arm for her to lean against, and she carefully pushes herself off the fountain's edge. Her frail hands are cold even through your coat, though her grip is strong. <<if $height is "short">> <<elseif $height is "average">> <<else>> <</if>> The return to the theatre is a blur, the sounds of the ritual growing cancerously in the back of your skull. As soon as you step through an open doorway, the incense hits your nostrils, and a wall of cold descends upon you, crawling its way into your bones and splitting them to the marrow. The first breath is enough to make your head spin, and you nearly lose your grip on Effie, saved only by her sheer weight. Navigating the packed aisles is a challenge with her by your side, but she seems determined enough for the both of you. The character of the congregation varies wildly from one pew to the next, but any semblance of boredom or skepticism is hard to find in the faces of the people gathered in the Divine Theatre. Some fidget, some are paralyzed in rapture, many carry visible injuries and sickness, but all pay their due of undivided attention to the figures onstage. You keep your back to the performance, instinct informing you that trying to make sense of the ritual will only worsen your migraine, but you can still sense it, the motion and power on display tracing welts across your spine. Mercifully, the ever-present feeling of being watched has ebbed away. It must be nearly a life age before you spot an empty space, though surely you've circled the entire theatre twice over by now. Your feet ache and your arms have begun to sweat. And as you crane your neck and look up, the painted clerestory arches seem to go on endlessly, a fractal field of ribbing and pilasters, you see you've barely moved a dozen feet. Your mind stretches to accommodate this reality, but your ability to accept the failure of your own perception falls short. You decide to stop looking before it starts burning holes in your brain. [[Find her a seat.]] [[Find you both a seat.|5.DT.Effie.2]]

Over the next few days your strength returned intermittenly, though you never felt like your old self for more than a few hours at a time. Ira comes and want, as did Constantine once, but only to deliver a message to Val from Klaus. You didn't hear a word of it, and Val promised to be back by nightfall, but not before securing you everything you could possibly need while $vthey $vwere away. You tried to jokingly commend Val on $vtheir talent at hospice, but there wasn't an ounce of the usual humor on $vtheir face when $vthey told you to shut up. Not even Constantine corrected $vthem. During a frigid early morning before the sun had risen, you woke up on the floor, every inch of you bruised and tender. Val put a hand to your <<if hasVisited ("4.i.mirror")>>still-stinging <</if>>forehead and declared you were burning up, but all you could feel was the icy chill radiating from your hand; or, perhaps, to it. Sweat made you shiver as if you very body was betraying you, though the thicken woolen blankets you sought to bury yourself in afterwards probably didn't help. But all you had to do was wait a few more days. Your new hope lay in the Divine Theatre. Ira had already invited you to accompany them to the winter ritual, which then turned into insistence the second they laid eyes on your wobbly frame. The ritual was cleansing, they said, and more importantly, strengthening. The aura of a proper High Holy Day in the Divine Theatre could make even the frailest feel like they could scale a cliff. And to your endless shock, even Val agreed it couldn't hurt. [[You went willingly.]] [[Your protests were no match for their concern.]] [[The thought of making a decision didn't even cross your mind.]]

The word //exorcism// floats in your mind, though you know it's nonsense. Demons can't really possess people; and anyway, it was an angel that got to you. But still, it's as if a curse has taken root in your chest. Whatever it takes to purge it, you think, whatever the priestesses have to offer. And if Ira is so confident... Luckily you don't have long to wait, the High Holy Day being only a few days away. You spend most of that time <<if $Val gte 20>>half-sunk into Val's couch, nursing every kind of migraine you can imagine<<else>>lying every-which-way on your bed, nursing a hundred different migraines<</if>> and trying not to tremble yourself to pieces. The morning of the ritual dawns drenched in sleet and fog so thick you can hardly see the end of the street, but both have burned away by midday. The Holy City is gray with slush and half-melted snow that will surely freeze overnight. But for now, the temperature is tolerable. The ritual doesn't start until late afternoon, giving you plenty of time to sit around, nerves buzzing too anxiously to accomplish anything, though you do lose an hour or two to staring at a little mound of snow in your windowsill and watching it melt and drip off the side of the building. You could have sworn you were only staring for a few minutes. For once, you're grateful for the theatres' relentless time-keeping bells. The sky is flushed with rosy pinks and dappled orange by the time Val arrives at your door to collect you. You're almost surprised Ira themself didn't come to make sure you couldn't chicken out, but they apparently had priestly duties to attend to for the Holy Day. Instead, Ira had promised to meet you afterwards. Val looks about as nervous as you feel when you open the door, stomping $vtheir feet against the cold and breathing out fog, though $vthey attempt a cheery exterior. "Are you ready?" $vthey ask$vs simply, and you affirm that you are, despite being anything but. [[Val talks the entire way.|5.DT.1]]

A weary acknowledgement that you heard the conversation is about all you had in you. You didn't want to go to the Theatre, you didn't want to not go to the Theatre. You didn't really want anything except to be told you were doing an adequate job. Whatever Val and Ira say. You're not in charge here. Luckily you don't have long to wait, the High Holy Day being only a few days away. You spend most of that time <<if $Val gte 20>>half-sunk into Val's couch, nursing every kind of migraine you can imagine<<else>>lying every-which-way on your bed, nursing a hundred different migraines<</if>> and trying not to tremble yourself to pieces. The morning of the ritual dawns drenched in sleet and fog so thick you can hardly see the end of the street, but both have burned away by midday. The Holy City is gray with slush and half-melted snow that will surely freeze overnight. But for now, the temperature is tolerable. The ritual doesn't start until late afternoon, giving you plenty of time to sit around, nerves buzzing too anxiously to accomplish anything, though you do lose an hour or two to staring at a little mound of snow in your windowsill and watching it melt and drip off the side of the building. You could have sworn you were only staring for a few minutes. For once, you're grateful for the theatres' relentless time-keeping bells. The sky is flushed with rosy pinks and dappled orange by the time Val arrives at your door to collect you. You're almost surprised Ira themself didn't come to make sure you couldn't chicken out, but they apparently had priestly duties to attend to for the Holy Day. Instead, Ira had promised to meet you afterwards. Val looks about as nervous as you feel when you open the door, stomping $vtheir feet against the cold and breathing out fog, though $vthey attempt a cheery exterior. "Are you ready?" $vthey ask$vs simply, and you affirm that you are, despite being anything but. [[Val talks the entire way.|5.DT.1]]

Your protests were valiant, passionate, just short of the aplomb of an angry infant, but ultimately no match for Val's doe-eyed hounding or Ira's almost clinical insistence. You needed rest and a good bowl of stew, not an exorcism, you argued, until Ira reminded you that exorcisms weren't real anyway, and that it was a silly argument. Val did provide the stew however, enough to feed a small army. Unfortunately you have little time to prepare, the High Holy Day being only a few days away. You spend most of that time <<if $Val gte 20>>half-sunk into Val's couch, nursing every kind of migraine you can imagine<<else>>lying every-which-way on your bed, nursing a hundred different migraines<</if>> and trying not to tremble yourself to pieces. The morning of the ritual dawns drenched in sleet and fog so thick you can hardly see the end of the street, but both have burned away by midday. The Holy City is gray with slush and half-melted snow that will surely freeze overnight. But for now, the temperature is tolerable. The ritual doesn't start until late afternoon, giving you plenty of time to sit around, nerves buzzing too anxiously to accomplish anything, though you do lose an hour or two to staring at a little mound of snow in your windowsill and watching it melt and drip off the side of the building. You could have sworn you were only staring for a few minutes. For once, you're grateful for the theatres' relentless time-keeping bells. The sky is flushed with rosy pinks and dappled orange by the time Val arrives at your door to collect you. You're almost surprised Ira themself didn't come to make sure you couldn't chicken out, but they apparently had priestly duties to attend to for the Holy Day. Instead, Ira had promised to meet you afterwards. Val looks about as nervous as you feel when you open the door, stomping $vtheir feet against the cold and breathing out fog, though $vthey attempt a cheery exterior. "Are you ready?" $vthey ask$vs simply, and you affirm that you are, despite being anything but. [[Val talks the entire way.|5.DT.1]]

"Where did you come from, anyway?" You rub at your temples, which does nothing to stem the pounding in your head. "And where's Val?" "I'm here to keep an eye on things, look out for any suspicious behavior- like Val showing up at a Religious rite. Didn't know you were also here until $vthey pawned you off on me and scurried away. Something about vultures." You can only shake your head; the word means distressingly little to you. You're not sure you've ever even seen a vulture. The motion summons another wave of dizziness that makes you clutch at the stones for purchase. "Alright," Constantine grunts, "This isn't going well. Stay put. <<if $four is "Ira" and $fourtheatre is "Con">>Ira's got to be here somewhere.<<else>>I know a priestess; they've got to be here somewhere.<</if>>" You feel Constantine's exit more than you see it; the air shifts, leaving you to realize just how much of the wind $che had been shielding you from. Goosebumps attempt to creep over your skin, but your body fails to give more than a twitch in response. Weakly, you clench your hands into fists inside your coat sleeves. [[You lose the fight to keep your eyes open.|5.DT.B.Ira]]

"Where did you come from, anyway?" You rub at your temples, which does nothing to stem the pounding in your head. "And where's Val?" "I'm here to keep an eye on things, look out for any suspicious behavior- like Val showing up at a Religious rite. Didn't know you were also here until $vthey pawned you off on me and scurried away. Something about vultures." You can only shake your head; the word means distressingly little to you. You're not sure you've ever even seen a vulture. The motion summons another wave of dizziness that makes you clutch at the bench for purchase. "Alright," Constantine grunts, "This isn't going well. Stay put. <<if $four is "Ira" and $fourtheatre is "Con">>Ira's got to be here somewhere.<<else>>I know a priestess; they've got to be here somewhere.<</if>>" You feel Constantine's exit more than you see it; the air shifts, leaving you to realize just how much of the wind $che had been shielding you from. Goosebumps attempt to creep over your skin, but your body fails to give more than a twitch in response. Weakly, you clench your hands into fists inside your coat sleeves. [[You lose the fight to keep your eyes open.|5.DT.A.Ira]]

At least a dozen priestesses grace the stage alongside Most Holy and their Handmaidens. Three of them are dead. No, four; the last hangs bleeding between two of her sisters that stand still as statues. An inferno of incense, the whistling of sacrificial blades, the spirit of a mob growing in the congregation. Hands have risen into the air around you, some splayed and reaching for a blessing, others beating out the rhythm of the hymn. The words of the chant are lost on you, one writhing, melodic mass, but their meaning is clear. Adoration. Worship. //Love.// Do the priestesses even know what they're saying? Do they know who they pray to? That they pray at all? You mean to cry out, but all that escapes you is a whimper. "We'll get through this, $Name, together," whispers Effie, clutching at your hand. She sounds sincere, but you can't quite find the heart to believe her. She doesn't seem nearly as affected by the hymn as you are, for one thing. For another.... "Something's wrong," you murmur around you slack jaw. You don't mean to speak the words out loud, and it's a miracle Effie can hear you at all over the din. "Something's wrong?" she echoes questioningly, though she does not turn toward you. She stares straight ahead at the procession on stage; you can't make out a single figure yourself, your vision too heavy and blurred to be of much use. A lock of blonde hair has escaped Effie's braid, a small tuft near her right ear. Your eyes catch on the strands' every jagged pore, retinas scraped raw by the atoms of her DNA. "It's just..." Connecting the threads of your thoughts is more and more futile by the second, slipping through your fingers like fine silk. But there's one that sticks. "I don't think I told you my name." //MY NAME//, replies the echo, having discarded Effie's placid voice. [[You don't have the strength to shudder.|5.DT.Effie.3]]

If getting to your feet felt monumental, taking the next few steps is near impossible. Your shaking muscles protest, and every footfall reignites the white-hot pain of your broken arm, but necessity fuels you. Losing momentum could prove fatal. The street splits in front of you. Signs here label the way, though you barely take time to read them. [[Left, toward the city center.]] [[Right, toward the river.]]

He blinks in response, a moment of genuine confusion crossing his face before point at finger at his own hands. Klaus exhales - amusement or annoyance, impossible to say - and holds up the hand in question, spreading his fingers wide. The color is centered on his fingertips, as if each was dipped in ink.The red is smeared and flecked across his skin, and you finally realize it's not paint at all. It's a stain, one you recognize- it was on your own hands not too long ago; it took ages to wash out, after all, and even longer for the taste to leave your tongue. "Been in the gardens, have you?" you ask, a strange authority heating your words. //Who the hell are you chastising? And for what?// your brain screams. But you hold Klaus' gaze, as he holds yours. "I don't pick my own fig, $Name," he replies, and now you can see the syrupy darkness on his tongue. "Are you high?" "I'm sober enough," Klaus says, the smallest of curls to his lip. Either he's being condescending, or you're irritating him. Or both, likely. "I'm not about to crash. This is my job. It's part of the ritual, I told you that." <<if hasVisited ("DT.B.5") or hasVisited ("DT.A.5")>>Crash? Constantine also used that word. <</if>>[['"What's it do?"'|5.k.fig]]

He blinks in response, a moment of genuine confusion crossing his face before point at finger at his own hands. Klaus exhales - amusement or annoyance, impossible to say - and holds up the hand in question, spreading his fingers wide. The color is centered on his fingertips, as if each was dipped in ink. The red is smeared and flecked across his skin, and you realize it's not paint at all. It's a stain, one you recognize- it was on your own hands not too long ago; it took ages to wash out, after all, and even longer for the taste to leave your tongue. "That's that fruit from the garden, isn't it?" you ask. "Snow fig," he says in answer, and now you can see the syrupy darkness on his tongue, the haze in his movements, the way he looks just past your shoulder. "Are you high?" "I'm sober enough," Klaus replies, the smallest of curls to his lip. Either he's being condescending, or you're irritating him. Or both, likely. "I'm not about to crash. This is my job. It's part of the ritual, I told you that." <<if hasVisited ("DT.B.5") or hasVisited ("DT.A.5")>>Crash? Constantine also used that word. <</if>>[['"What's it do?"'|5.k.fig]]

He blinks in response, a moment of genuine confusion crossing his face before point at finger at his own hands. Klaus exhales - amusement or annoyance, impossible to say - and holds up the hand in question, spreading his fingers wide. The color is centered on his fingertips, as if each was dipped in ink. The red is smeared and flecked across his skin, and you finally realize it's not paint at all. It's a stain the color of wine. "Snow fig," he says finally, as if that answers the question. "A fruit?" "It's a hallucinogen. Consuming it is the first part of the ritual. And we burn the wood as incense; I'm sure you inhaled some." There's a syrupy darkness on his tongue, a haze in his movements, and most unsettling of all, he looks right through you, as if not entirely convinced you exist. "So you're high right now?" "I'm sober enough," Klaus says, the smallest of curls to his lip. Either he's being condescending, or you're irritating him. Or both, likely. "I'm not about to crash. This is my job." <<if hasVisited ("DT.B.5") or hasVisited ("DT.A.5")>>Crash? Constantine also used that word. <</if>>[['"What's it do?"'|5.k.fig]]

"I'm exhausted, too, and all I did was watch," you respond. <<if ndef $five>>"I didn't even make it to the end.<<else>>"I even had to take a break halfway through.<</if>>" An oversimplification, but right now Klaus' scrutiny might just be too much for you. Though, you may be safe from that anyway, judging by the way he has one hand against the stone wall. He may be about as drained as you are. He inclines his head, eyelids drooping. "That's not so unusual. Even without the Magic, I imagine it'd still be overstimulating. I had a migraine for days the first time I saw a ritual in the Divine Theatre up close. You still aren't sure what happened on that stage- it's a feverish blur in your memory, a scab that stings to pick at. Maybe it's better that way. Even the events afterward haven't settled properly in your memory. [['"Have you seen Val anywhere?"'|5.klaus.2]]

"I saw you up there on that stage. Couldn't tell you what the hell was going on, but it seemed like you earned some rest just the same." "It's not as hard on the Hands; almost all the weight is on Most Holy, our part is more ceremonial." One glance at the priest and you know that isn't true. He has one hand on the stone wall behind him, you see now, quietly combating the unsteady sway of his feet. Subtle, not meant for you to see. "Besides," he continues, ignoring your skeptical look, "Someone has to run the damn place while they're recovering." "What about the other Handmaiden? The Priestess' Hand?" Klaus scowls in response. "Flora? I wouldn't trust her with a dead rat. She's loyal to the Blackferns, not the Religion. If anything." He pauses, eyeing you warily. "Don't repeat that." You raise a hand in surrender. You hardly know what he's talking about, much less have anyone to repeat it to. It does leaving you wondering, however, what exactly has loosened Klaus' tongue, beyond exhaustion. [['"Have you seen Val anywhere?"'|5.klaus.2]]

The Holy City can't truly be abandoned; there must be someone, somewhere - revelers, guards, madmen, or priests. Safety in numbers, safety in public places. Surely a Saint wouldn't slaughter you in front of witnesses? Not something you ever hoped to test. The baying of the demonic hounds hammers against the inside of your skull, each new rabid bark a more bloodthirsty echo of the last, ringing again and again off the walls, off the cobblestones, off your too-slow footsteps. A burning and a tightness has gotten a grip around your lungs; the streets have never felt so narrow, so long. At least adrenaline has eaten the pain of your broken bone. Just ahead, a smear of lights and voices, though you don't dare to waste a sigh on hope. To your unbridled joy and relief, you come upon a small courtyard occupied by a flock of priestesses gathered about some monument too dark and tall for you to identify. Through your heaving nostrils, you can smell wine. The nearest startles at your stumbling approach and mangled arm. She steps forward, a companion or two following, and takes your good hand in her own. Her skin is bare but warm. "What ails you, little $sibling?" You spare a glance over your shoulder, where dark things move just beyond the clarity of the fog. The Saint is monstrously tall, an unrelenting pillar of gray<<if $height is "tall">> whose shoulders clear even your own.<<else>> making one stride for every three of yours.<</if>> Even with your Magic dulled and silenced, you can feel the imbalance of power weighing against the air. You look back to the priestess, eyes wide and mouth dry. "//Saint//", you whisper hoarsely. "//Help-//" Her hands drop from yours almost before she can avert her eyes from the coming shadow. The priestess turns away, as does her neighbor, and her neighbor's neighbor. The Saint is at your back and the priestesses will not intervene. You'd scream something filthy, something pleading, if you could, but your voice has fled faster than you have. All you manage is a mangled sob at the back of a dozen priestesses' heads, the courtyard somehow darker for their presence. Steel and leather on stone, heavy, long strides, and you don't dare look back. [[Every precious second here is one wasted.|5.guine.r.2]]

You don't have the time to waste looking for help, you need to //move//, and more importantly, you need to get out of the fog. At least at the river, you'll have something to follow, even if you have to jump in and risk hypothermia. At least the dogs couldn't reach you there. The baying of the demonic hounds hammers against the inside of your skull, each new rabid bark a more bloodthirsty echo of the last, ringing again and again off the walls, off the cobblestones, off your too-slow footsteps. A burning and a tightness has gotten a grip around your lungs; the streets have never felt so narrow, so long. At least adrenaline has eaten the pain of your broken bone. Just ahead, the gentle, even roaring of rushing water, though you don't dare to waste a sigh on hope. The masts of sailing ships are just coming into view when the stones beneath your feet burst from the ground. In chunks and pillars they rise, ten, twelve feet into the air, too high for you to jump and too wide to duck around. The smaller pieces rain down upon you, forcing you to raise your good arm over your head protectively. Within seconds, a wall has formed, walling off your escape. It stinks of Magic; the Saint seems to have sensed your plans and cutting short your escape. <<if hasVisited ("Try to reach out with Magic.")>>Nervously, you attempt to calm the stones with your Magic, only to be met with the same solid wall of //nothing// that you had earlier. It hurts less this time, if it's any comfort. You have to bite back a scream of rage.<<else>>Magic can calm the stones. Find that switch, that node within you. Grasp it and scan the air for patterns, lines, shapes, the whispered words that instruct the universe, reach out and push- It's like diving into a pool only to find it filled with concrete. You don't know if it's possible for a brain to bruise but suddenly you know what it would feel like. You recoil, one hand fisted against your brow, nearly falling to the ground in your torment. Startled pain ricochets through your spine and you try your damndest not to scream. There's a disgusting thrum in your fingertips, and you know your Magic did not fail. It simply didn't go anywhere. It's stuck, //you're// stuck.<</if>> It's a new, horrific sensation, knowing that for the first time in your life Magic is not your ally. Disloyal, treacherous. Not only will it not heed your call, it rushes to the Saint's, greedy as the river itself. This has slowed you down; you've no choice but to take a sharp turn, keep running, and stay out of reach of the Saint's Magic. Steel and leather on stone, heavy, long strides, and you don't dare look back. [[Every precious second here is one wasted.|5.guine.r.2]]

The words- you have to get them out. Quickly now, spill them across the pavement. Something is clawing its way up your throat and vertigo is seizing you by the mandible. "I heard God. It called me a liar." "Well, are you?" You don't get a chance to answer, and barely manage to extract yourself from the rosary before vomit spews from your mouth, hot and frothy and onto Klaus. Your stomach doesn't have much more than water left to surrender, but it's sour all the same. You spit and look up just in time to see Klaus roll his head away, an exasperated sneer revealing a flash of teeth. Whatever softness had crept into his demeanor is long gone. You manage some wreckage of a 'sorry', and lean your forehead against the wall, wishing you could reach into your throat and scrub your insides clean. //"Saints,"// he mutters, pushing himself away and finding his balance. A wave of his hand and the vomit vanishes, leaving his clothes and shoes perfectly dry. Even just that gust of Magic is like a torrent of fresh air, as sweet and soothing to your headache as it is brief. The emptiness afterwards puts a sob between your teeth. "I'm not //well//," you say. "No kidding. Well, the good news is that having your first ritual be a High Holy Day in the Acropolis is practically a baptism by fire, so you've gotten the worst of it out of the way." You press your shoulder against the stone, digging your fingertips into the grooves. He isn't //listening.// "I swear to god, Klaus-" "Not recommended. Go home, $Name. Get some sleep while you can. You'll feel like shit in the morning." <<if $KlausKnows is false>>[["I don't remember who I am."]] <</if>>[[You groan. You aren't going to win this.|5.klaus.6]]

You grit your teeth, tongue recoiling from the stale taste that still lingers. Who knew Handmaidens could be so unhelpful? "You never told me why you're out here," you say, meaning it as one last prod than any real curiosity. Giving Klaus the last word doesn't sit right. "Anywhere's better than the Palace of Saints on a Holy Day," comes the response, jarringly sober. "And they just let you wander around on your own? No bodyguard? No entourage?" He raises his brow, just ever so slightly. It might be the most condescending look you've gotten from him yet. "There is no //they//. There's only one person whose laws I'm beholden to, and he thinks I spend too much time at home as is." Right, you remind yourself. Not a noble but a Handmaiden. Klaus peers at you as you frown. "Didn't I tell you to go home?" You bite back an annoyed groan. [[Yep. Turn on your heel and leave.|5.k.leave]] [['"Fine. Goodnight, then."'|5.k.leave]]

It sets you on edge, anxiety in your teeth and a stone in your gut. Val's always been protective over you - almost to a point of contention between you more than once - and going silent is unlike $vthem. $vThey can be flighty, impulsive, sure. But never this. Mentally you flip through everything that could possibly cause Val to run. The Divine Theatre is an obvious choice - $vthey had been nervous, uncomfortable. The swell of priestesses and Religious devotion might have been too much. Or was it Klaus? There's clearly a familiarity between them, and even you were struck by the change in his presence in the Theatre. Or perhaps something else entirely, an external pressure? A job, maybe, or someone who recognized Val that shouldn't. It wouldn't be the first time plans changed last minute so Val could avoid potential arrest or worse. Or was it you? You shake your head to rid yourself of the thought - if Val was going to give up on you $vthey would have done it years ago. Though... things //have// been different, lately. Strained, stressful, //strange//. No, it must have been the ritual. If it did such a number on you, it's not a stretch to assume it effected Val, too. All the more reason to find $vthem as quickly as possible. There's a few regular haunts $vthey might have fled to, which is as good a place to start as any. [[Val has to be around here somewhere.|5.val.1]]

Your first stop is the bridge over the small dock where fishermen gather to haul in the day's catch. It's a favorite perch of Val's, leaning over the water and watching things rush by.<<if hasVisited ("You were hardly doing anything, just watching the icy river.")>>It's been repaired since you were last here, but you still haven't admitted to Val why you've been avoiding it.<</if>> Your path takes you past some of the first signs of life you've seen since you left the Acropolis. The bars and taverns here are few, but full and rowdy, while the streets are dotted with workers returning home or headed to the night shift, all the sort who prerfer to pretend the Acropolis and the Religion as a whole hardly exist. Down on the water, crabbers check their traps and fishermen clean their boats. The smell of blood and guts is strong, but thankfully the wind carries it all downstream, away from you. You pass all this by, intent on your target. The bridge's silhouette is just ahead, cut into a single shape by the last vibrant reds of the setting sun. Val should be somewhere towards the middle, feet halfway through the railing and leaning over the side, if you know $vthem well. And you must- there's a Val-shaped figure peering over the edge, watching the water below. As you set foot on the little bridge, you shuffle your feet, intentionally kicking a rock and letting it scuttle away so as to alert Val to your presence. "$Name?" Here $vthey $vare, the object of your search, looking bedraggled and drained, but otherwise no worse for the wear. You didn't even have to look very hard; some part of you files this suspicious information under evidence that $vthey wanted to be found. [['"Are you alright?"'|5.val.2a]] [['"You left me."'|5.val.2b]]

You come up alongside them, folding your hands together and resting your elbows on the railing, almost a mirror of $vtheir own stance. "Val, are you alright?" you ask gingerly, though you're fairly certain the answer is a solid //no//. You're more interested in whether or not $vtheyll admit it. //Negative// emotions have never been $vtheir forte. Acknowledging them, processing them... It's a wonder either of you ever get anything done. $vTheir jaw tightens, fighting a tremble in $vtheir lip. $vThey turn and lower $vthemself to a crouch, leaning their back against the railing in defeat. For a moment, you think $vtheyre going to cry, to admit what's bothering $vthem. But, then $vthey nod. "I'm okay. Now, I mean. I panicked, I guess. I thought I could handle the ritual, but I couldn't. I'm sorry I left you. I'm really, really sorry. I wasn't thinking straight. But I'm alright now. Calmed down. Meant to come find you, but I was um... Well, I figured you were probably mad at me." [['"No, I was worried, idiot."'|5.val.worried]] [[You are, but that's for later.|5.val.2.mad]]

You come up alongside $vthem, folding your hands together and resting your elbows on the railing, almost a mirror of $vtheir own stance. "You left me," you state quietly. It's toneless, emotion not making its way into your voice. Val goes very still, apparently at a loss for words. $vThey turn$vs and lower$vs $vthemself to a crouch, leaning $vtheir back against the railing in defeat. $vTheir eyes are glassy, distant, $vtheir mouth half-way to a sentence $vthey can't quite form. $vTheyve clasped $vtheir hands together, but you can still see the shake. "Val..." you prompt. "I'm sorry, $Name," $vthey say$vs finally. "I couldn't be there any longer, I had to get out, I-...." $vthey trail$vs off, searching for something $vthey can't grasp. "I thought I would be alright, but I wasn't, and... and I panicked. I don't know, I wasn't thinking straight. I'm sorry, I'm really fucking sorry." <<if $Val gt 30>>Val's remorse is plain, //stricken//, even. Despite yourself, it makes your chest ache; you never like seeing $vthem like this. <<elseif $Val lt 10>>Val's remorse seems plain, //stricken// even, but then again, you've seen how far crocodile tears can get $vthem.<<else>> Val's remorse is plain, //stricken//, even. But it's hard to tell how far it goes.<</if>> [['"I understand."']] [["I understand," you lie.]] [['"I won't bother you, then."'][$Val -=2]] [[You're too angry to answer.][$Val -=3]]

A solemn nod. "I won't bother you, then." It's hard to be shocked, but somehow you are. Val's always been flighty, impulsive. A right disaster of a person. At times you appreciated it, at times you loved it. It was naive of you to think it wouldn't go sour at some point. Not that the reason really matters. You needed $vthem there, and $vthey didn't follow through. Clearly whatever happened was more important, more dire than your wellbeing. The pit in your throat is going to choke you to death if you don't get out of here. "$Name?" $vthey call$vs, though with little strength. The defeat is already in $vtheir voice. <<if $Val gt 10>> "Please don't go."<</if>> "I'll see you later, Val," you answer, perfectly even, stepping off the bridge. $vThey nod$vs somberly, clearly not wanting to push the issue. "Okay, good night. Get home safe." [['"Good night, Val."'|5.guine.00]]

"I understand, Val," you say honestly. "I think. Don't worry about it." The specifics may not be clear, but you're no stranger to this emotion, whatever it is. Val was afraid, confused, overwhelmed. So were you, to be perfectly fair. //You// fainted, and you don't even carry a grudge-turned-phobia against the Religious. The relief on Val's face is subtle, but you know it's just due to exhaustion. On the inside, it's all encompassing. $vThey nod$vs, swallowing, and taking a full breath for the first time since you've seen $vthem tonight. "$Connie said you mentioned something about vultures." Val's brows knit in confusion for a moment, apparently trying to recall the memory. "I did? I... I really must not have been thinking." "What's it mean?" $vThey hestitate before answering. "It's something we used to say when I was a kid, with my crew." It's not often that Val speaks of the years before $vthey came to the Holy City; most of what you know you've pieced together from tidbits of information and various drunken ramblings. And, of course, you can never quite be sure that Val's telling a story... accurately. But what you've gathered is this: $vthey $vwere a sailor in $vtheir teen years, not much more than a cabin <<if $vperson is "person">>kid<<elseif $vperson is "man">>boy<<elseif $vperson is "woman">>girl<</if>> at the time, but $vthey seemed to consider it home. Val's never confirmed one way or the other, but you get the implication the crew's exploits were... less than legal. You always thought it was odd that Val, storyteller extraordinaire, wouldn't take every opportunity to bring up $vtheir life as a pirate. Surely the tales of swashbuckling and daring do fed $vtheir imagination for years; normally $vtheyd never shut up about something like that. But in reality, everything you've learned was by accident or reluctance. "'Scraps for vultures, nothing for Saints,'" $vthey recite. "It means.... do what you have to, I guess. Just as long as the elite don't profit. I don't know why I would have said that. It's not about Saints, //really//." Val lets out a long sigh, then looks up at you. An exhaustion lines $vtheir face that you've never seen before, though $vthey quirk one corner of $vtheir lips into a half-smile. "Sorry I left you with Connie. $cHes a huge fucking square, but $ches not malicious. Figured you'd be safe enough. <<if $FightConnie is true>>Anyone get punched this time?" "No, but $che called me a meatball."<<else>>Did $che behave $chimself?" "$cHe called me a meatball." <</if>>"Mmm," Val hums. "Meatballs..." It's barely a facade of good humor, but you suppose this could have gone a lot worse. [[Continue.|5.val.3]]

The fastest way home is through the Common District- a lively, crowded place most days, though it should be a little more hospitable today. Most people will still be at a theatre, or at home waiting for the whole thing to blow over. But either way, maybe a little bit of merriment will do you good, even if you're only passing through. Nothing like the muffled sounds of a drinking song or the mouthwatering scent of good food to make you feel a little more alive. The Commons are a tier lower than the neighborhood you're leaving, connected by staircases along the Holy City's curved retaining walls. One of these is just ahead, and you can see the cheerful smoke curling up from dozens of chimneys. Maybe you'll stop for a bite, if there's something quick and hot available; you're really not interested in human interaction. These thoughts quicken your pace, determination, hunger, and exhaustion all rolling together to build you some kind of angry little warpath. Luckily, the most you have to think about for the next ten minutes is whether you want extra sauce with your order. You do, obviously, and you're prepared to demand it. Until sudden fear stops you dead in your tracks. [[Not even the sun will look upon this.|5.guine.001]]

Your chances of fending off a Saint are slim even on a good day, but the amount of running from shadows you've done recently suddenly fills you with disgust. The least you can do is bite back, or else at some point you'll start deserving it. Bite //BACK.// But before you can square your shoulders, a snarling blur darts into view. A hound-shaped //thing// snaps at your legs, its razored teeth narrowly missing the exposed skin just above your boots. You stumble back two steps in surprise before you find your feet again, and lash out in return. Your kick makes contact with what would be the demon dog's chest, though you feel nothing but sluggish air in resistance. The hound loses its shape like a popped boil, inky un-flesh melting into the air. Less than a moment later it reforms- no, this hound is different, larger- and gnashes its crazed teeth, heaving and wailing. A strange whistle pierces the air when it leaps at you. You manage to catch it about the throat, hands deep into its coat of void, and throw it to the side, though you nearly lose your balance doing so. It feels more like electrified water than something tangible. [[The Saint only watches.|5.guine.00.f.1]]

It faces you, and you suppress a shudder. In the moonlight it's not much more than a shadow, a mistake in the light rather than a solid figure. Its armor glints dully, providing the only recognizable edges of its form. You cannot see its face beyond the slight bend of a brow and nose beneath its veil. No eyes, no mouth. The Saint is thin as a wraith, but you don't doubt the power it would take to swing that monstrous sword. Beside you, Val has gone pale, stare fixed on the horror that blocks your path. You don't dare take your eyes off the Saint, but you can just make out the words $vtheyre whispering to $vthemself under $vtheir breath - //fuck off. Fuck. Off.// One of the dogs slinks forward silently, low to the ground, teeth bared. You take an instinctive step back. //"You again?"// calls the Saint. The voice you'd expected had been grating- a ghoulish shriek or sinister hiss. But the sound that came from behind the Saint's veil was soft and startlingly human, if a bit faded. You could even call it drowsy. Half-aware. And worse, the two words turn your blood to ice when you realize they're not directed at you, but at Val. Val doesn't reply; the back of $vtheir hand brushes against your own before wrapping around your wrist, thumb pressing into your palm. It stings against your injury, but you know this touch. It means //run.// [[Do as Val asks.|5.guine.v.3a]] [[Link your fingers. You aren't going anywhere.|5.guine.v.3]]

Your fingers slot into Val's with ease, meeting no resistance, though Val does finally break eye contact with the Saint to give you a look of shock. "I'm not going anywhere," you inform $vthem. Terror and adoration burst across $vtheir face, and $vthey grin wildly, desperately. You didn't hear the click of $vtheir daggers being drawn, but suddenly one is being pressed into your hand. "It's not a fight to win, okay?" $vthey urge in a hurried, hushed voice. "Cripple so it can't follow, then //run//. Find Klaus, or Connie, or anyone." You nod, and take the dagger; your heart hammers in your ears louder than a war drum. You're not defenseless, you know where swing a blade to do the most damage, but theory is useless against things that may as well be undead. Val gives you one last messy smile, then grips $vtheir own dagger, and launches $vthemself at the Saint. You don't get a chance to track $vtheir progress- the dogs part around Val like a river, and rush at you instead. Three mighty leaps, and one is upon you. Your kick makes contact with what would be the demon dog's chest, though you feel nothing but sluggish air in resistance. The hound loses its shape like a popped boil, inky un-flesh melting into the fog as if it was a part of it. Less than a moment later it reforms- no, this is the second, larger, taller- and gnashes its crazed teeth, heaving and wailing. A strange whistle pierces the air when it leaps at you. You manage to catch it about the throat, knife deep into its coat of void, and throw it to the side, though you nearly lose your balance doing so. It feels more like electrified water than something tangible. You don't get time to contemplate this before the first demon returns to the fray, this time leaping for your throat, no mercy intent in its jaw. You throw up your arms to shield your face, and it clamps around your right wrist instead. Its teeth are razors, tearing through your skin like paper, but worse is the weight- the hound does not release its grip, pulling down your arm against your own strength until your vision goes white with a brittle //snap//. Sometimes you play a game with yourself, combing through your memories to decide what mishap granted you the most pain you ever experienced. A stubbed toe, a sprained ankle? Game's over. You no longer need to wonder. A strangled scream rises from your throat as the hound's teeth shatter your arm bones. //Radius, ulna//, something unhelpful in the back of your mind offers. You shove the thought aside with tearful rage. Your scream turns into a war cry as you fling your arm so violently that the hound loses its grip and smashes into a nearby wall, while your borrowed dagger skitters across the stone. Its howl of pain mirrors your own. You steady yourself on your feet, but you can't defend against the second dog that slams into your back with a screech. You have no strength and one less arm to catch yourself, and the ground meets you hard, cracking your already jaw. You twist onto your back and kick the dog off of you, but its twin soon joins the brawl, seizing you other arm and pinning you to the ground. Its breath is frigid and foul, and its full weight on your chest like a vice. It could suffocate you just as easily as it could rip out your throat. And to your dismay, the Saint has returned, Val nowhere to be seen. Its sword is more visible than the Saint itself, gleaming and bloodthirsty. Even from here, its radiant holiness burns on your cheek like the winter sun. [[You cannot fight.|5.guine.002]] [[You cannot hide.|5.guine.002]]

"As long as everything's settled, now." No more suprises, no more tribulations. Not until you've had a fat nap. You drop into your own crouch, and sit beside $vthem. "It is," $vthey say$vs, "For now, anyway." Val taps $vtheir feet against the bridge twice before suddenly straightening, eyes wide and on you. "Wait, why are we talking about me? Are //you// okay? I could barely see straight, but you looked like death. What happened?" You hesitate, not sure how much you want to tell $vthem just yet. Too much and $vtheyll be fussing over you for a week. Too little, and $vtheyll believe you even less. You'll have the walk the line straight down the middle. "I don't really know. I had some weird.... hallucinations. Passed out, puked a couple times. Nothing much worse than a bad flu, though. I'm feeling alright now. Just exhausted." Val looks you up and down, deciding if your report is satisfactory. You apparently pass inspection, at least for now, as $vthey sigh and nod. "Okay, nothing we can't handle. At least you're not //worse// than before. This whole thing really didn't help at all, did it?" "No," you say with a dry laugh. "Not even a little. Ira was pretty pissed that I left early, though. Something about diseases and medicine." Val huffs, the ghost of a smile on their lips. "That may have been a mistake. I wouldn't want to get on that little priestess' bad side, it seems like an dangerous place to be." [['"Can we go home?"'|5.val.4a][$Val +=1]] [['"I'm going home."'|5.val.4b]]

"Can we go home?" you ask with finality. "Yours or mine, I don't care. It's cold, and I'm tired." Val regards you for a moment, arms wrapped around $vtheir torso, eyes soft. "Yours is closer," $vthey reply. "Just give me a blanket, I can sleep on the rug. I think I've earned it." "Pssh," you scoff. "Such a martyr." You stand, and help Val to $vtheir feet; $vthey take$vs your hand eagerly, giving it a soft squeeze before letting go. You have a feeling $vtheyre going to be tiptoeing around you for a few days. Whatever, more free food for you. [['"Let's go."'|5.guine.v.0]]

"Well, I'm going home," you say with finality. "It's cold, and I'm tired." "Can I walk with you?" $vthey ask, arms wrapped around $vtheir torso and eyes on the ground. "Just to make sure you get home safe. We don't have to talk, if you don't want." You nod; you were hoping for the time to yourself, but Val simply looks too forlorn to turn down. "Quiet's nice." You stand, as does Val beside you, giving you a very intentional bubble of space. You have a feeling $vtheyre going to be tiptoeing around you for a while after tonight. At the very least, you'll get some free food out of it. [['"Let's go."'|5.guine.v.0]]

It sets you on edge, anxiety in your teeth and a stone in your gut. Val's always been protective over you - almost to a point of contention between you more than once - and going silent is unlike $vthem. $vThey can be flighty, impulsive, sure. But never this. Mentally you flip through everything that could possibly cause Val to run. The Divine Theatre is an obvious choice - $vthey had been nervous, uncomfortable. The swell of priestesses and Religious devotion might have been too much. Or was it Klaus? There's clearly a familiarity between them, and even you were struck by the change in his presence in the Theatre. Or perhaps something else entirely, an external pressure? A job, maybe, or someone who recognized Val that shouldn't. It wouldn't be the first time plans changed last minute so Val could avoid potential arrest or worse. Or was it you? You shake your head to rid yourself of the thought - if Val was going to give up on you $vthey would have done it years ago. Though... things //have// been different, lately. Strained, stressful, //strange//. No, it must have been the ritual. If it did such a number on you, it's not a stretch to assume it effected Val, too. You can only hope $vthey fared better than you did. [[Find Val.|5.noval.find]] [[Give it time.|5.noval.leave]]

Your lungs feel heavy, like they've been filled with tepid water. Val's always been protective over you - almost to a point of contention between you more than once - but the one time you really needed $vthem there? $vThey didn't follow through. Instead of dwelling on all those other times and wondering if it was all just for show, you comb your brain for anything that could have drawn Val away, reasonable or not. The Divine Theatre is an obvious choice - $vthey had been nervous, uncomfortable. The swell of priestesses and Religious devotion might have been too much. Klaus is a contender; there's clearly a familiarity between the two, and even you were struck by the change in his presence in the Theatre. It makes for a sorry excuse, though, and perhaps one that stings more than the rest. You could always blame something from the outside- a job that took sudden precendence (not a good look), or someone who recognized Val that shouldn't. It wouldn't be the first time you plans were changed last minute so Val could avoid arrest or worse. None of it makes it better, though. Nothing short of being forced away at knifepoint will feel like enough. And to leave you with Constantine, of all people? No matter your own thoughts about the $cman, you //know// Val doesn't trust $chim. //Something about vultures,// Constantine had said. You grimace and shake your head, but nothing comes loose. Cryptic statements aren't Val's style, which is worrying, but the lack of even an attempt at a reasonable explanation puts a lump in your throat. [[Find Val.|5.noval.find]] [[Give it time.|5.noval.leave]]

Something in your chest clenches, a knot that aches to breathe around. You shouldn't be surprised, really. Val's always been flighty, impulsive. A right disaster of a person. At times you appreciated it, at times you loved it. But at some point it always wears thin. You scrape your imagination for any excuse $vthey could dream up. The Divine Theatre is an obvious one; you knew $vthey $vwere uncomfortable, and you can agree that the swell of priestesses and Religious devotion was too much, but $vthey $vwere the one who had //insisted// on coming along. Klaus could be blamed; there's clearly a familiarity between the two, and even you were struck by the change in his presence in the Theatre. Or something external perhaps, something entirely half-assed. A mysterious job $vthey failed to mention, or someone who recognized Val that shouldn't. It wouldn't be the first time your plans were ruined because Val was dodging potential arrest or worse. Not that the reason really matters. You needed $vthem there, and $vthey didn't follow through. And to leave you with Constantine, of all people? No matter your own thoughts about the $cman, you //know// Val doesn't trust $chim. //Something about vultures,// Constantine had said. You grimace and shake your head, but nothing comes loose. It irritates you. $vThey couldn't even give a meaningful reason for leaving you behind. [[Find Val.|5.noval.find]] [[Give it time.|5.noval.leave]]

<<if not hasVisited ("5.noval")>>You're starting to feel like an ever-presence prop on a theatre stage, passed by endlessly by a rotating cast of characters as the night wears on. It's time to move of your own volition.<<else>>Whatever the reason for $vtheir leaving, you need to make sure Val's alright, or at least not dead in a ditch or a Blessed Guard cell. <</if>>The Common District is a bit of a hike away, but luckily the buildings on this side of town are tall and close, blocking most of the warmth-eating wind. The covered walkways and narrow alleys would be even more accomodating, but caution wards you away. The less caged you are, the better. At least the sky has stayed clear, and the moon full. You can't decide what condition you hope to find Val in. Of course, happy and healthy is the best option, of course of course, but wouldn't it also sting? And then, you'd never wish pain upon Val, but maybe a little reminder of your usefulness wouldn't hurt. Wouldn't hurt you, anyway. You curl your lip at these thoughts; //don't be so damn bitter.// A strange sensation prickles across your neck; that chilling certainty that you weren't alone has evolved. You are being watched, and the gaze isn't friendly. It wouldn't be so unsettling if you //weren't// alone, if the city was as alive as it ought to be. The word you're looking for is somewhere between //tomb// and //trap//. [[Continue.|5.noval.find.2]]

<<if not hasVisited ("5.noval")>>You're starting to feel like an ever-presence prop on a theatre stage, passed by endlessly by a rotating cast of characters as the night wears on, and you're rather ready for the curtains to draw.<<else>>Whatever the reason, Val probably needs time to settle, and you need time to rest. Now is not the moment for interrogations or confrontations.<</if>> The quickest path home is straight through the Common District, and luckily the buildings on this side of town are tall and close, blocking most of the warmth-eating wind. The covered walkways and narrow alleys would be even more accomodating, but caution wards you away. The less caged you are, the better. Thankfully, the sky has stayed clear, and the moon full. At least in the Commons, you can reasonably expect to find other people, a crowd to disappear into, a reminder that you are not the last living thing on earth. A strange sensation prickles across your neck; that chilling certainty that you weren't alone has evolved. You are being watched, and the gaze isn't friendly. It wouldn't be so unsettling if you //weren't// alone, if the city was as alive as it ought to be. The word you're looking for is somewhere between //tomb// and //trap//. [[Continue.|5.noval.leave.2]]

The Common District is a tier lower than the neighborhood you're leaving, connected by staircases along the Holy City's curved retaining walls. Your steps slow as you come up on one such place; the stairs trail off into a great lake of nothing. Fog has consumed the entire lower layer, only the tallest of buildings - four or five storeys at least- breach the top, like swimmers gasping for air. It's thick, dense, a milky gray that looks as if it could steal the breath from your lungs and marrow from your bones. You've never seen weather like this in the Holy City. It's as if you're peering down into a cloud. And worst of all, it's utterly silent. The Common District has not provided you the liveliness you'd hoped for. You take a few experimental steps forward, downward. The difference is stark and almost immediate; fog swirls about your boots gracefully, and within seconds your legs are completely obscured. It'd almost be beautiful if it wasn't so damn ominous. Sense urges you to turn back, to find a path around- they exist, you know they do, but... instinct also pushes you forward. This fog isn't natural, you're sure of it. But through here is your best chance to find Val. The staircase isn't too much trouble to navigate; there's only one way forward, after all. You cling to the wall as you descend, cursing this stupid city for its lack of handrails. The bottom arrives far too quickly for your liking, and you find the situation is even more dire than you'd feared- you can't even see the buildings on the other side of the street. The moon is still bright, but the way it reflects off the fogs has turned it into a blinding smear in the sky. You take a few steps forward, and when nothing jumps out to eat you, a few more. Soon, it's just you and the fog, a sea of dingy gray. A shuffling to your right makes you pause. A creak, a tap against stone, but nothing seems to move, though there's no telling how far your vision really extends right now. [[Forward or back, you can't be sure of the difference.|5.guine.0]]

The Common District is a tier lower than the neighborhood you're leaving, connected by staircases along the Holy City's curved retaining walls. Your steps slow as you come up on one such place; the stairs trail off into a great lake of nothing. Fog has consumed the entire lower layer, only the tallest of buildings - four or five storeys at least- breach the top, like swimmers gasping for air. It's thick, dense, a milky gray that looks as if it could steal the breath from your lungs and marrow from your bones. You've never seen weather like this in the Holy City. It's as if you're peering down into a cloud. And worst of all, it's utterly silent. The Common District has not provided you the liveliness you'd hoped for. You take a few experimental steps forward, downward. The difference is stark and almost immediate; fog swirls about your boots gracefully, and within seconds your legs are completely obscured. It'd almost be beautiful if it wasn't so damn ominous. Sense urges you to turn back, to find a path around- they exist, you know they do, but... instinct also pushes you forward. This fog isn't natural, you're sure of it. But it's the fastest way home, and your heart is starting to feel like a ticking clock. The staircase isn't too much trouble to navigate; there's only one way forward, after all. You cling to the wall as you descend, cursing this stupid city for its lack of handrails. The bottom arrives far too quickly for your liking, and you find the situation is even more dire than you'd feared- you can't even see the buildings on the other side of the street. The moon is still bright, but the way it reflects off the fogs has turned it into a blinding smear in the sky. You take a few steps forward, and when nothing jumps out to eat you, a few more. Soon, it's just you and the fog, a sea of dingy gray. A shuffling to your right makes you pause. A creak, a tap against stone, but nothing seems to move, though there's no telling how far your vision really extends right now. [[Forward or back, you can't be sure of the difference.|5.guine.0]]

Somehow you doubt Ira would consider it welcome news that you ditched them only to return with a different person, despite their gentle disposition. <<if hasVisited ("5.iralie")>>Especially since you've lied to them already.<</if>> "I just wandered around for a bit," you explain, "Explored the gardens, sat by a fountain." Ira nods, then frowns. "That sounds nice, though I'm surprised the Blessed Guard let you. They're usually very protective of the gardens, even on a Holy Day. Especially on a Holy Day, maybe. Don't want anyone stealing from the orchard." <<if not hasVisited ("DT.B.5") and not hasVisited ("DT.A.5") and $AteFruit is false>>"Are they that worried about fruit and flowers? It doesn't seem like there's any shortage around here," you muse. Even in winter, //especially// in winter. "There are criticisms to be made of the exclusivity of the Acropolis," Ira agrees, "But it's not all without reason. Some of the things that grow here are dangerous, even for the anointed and ordained." "Like what?" Ira tilts their head, lips thinning in a wry smile. "$Name, you look exhausted. And it's freezing out here. Surely you don't want to talk about the ins and outs of theocracy?" <<elseif $AteFruit is true>>"You mean that fruit, right? The fig?" Ira cocks their head, expression unreadable beyond mild surprise. "You know it? I mean, it may not be a secret, but it isn't common knowledge, either." You gesture toward the Acropolis. "Hard to miss, the orchard's basically drowning in it. Tastes even better than it smells, too." "$Name," the priestess starts slowly, blonde brows knitted tight, "Are you telling me you've //eaten// snow fig? //Raw?//" "Haven't you?" "No!" they blurt indignantly. "It's really, really rare. And strong, too. You get a sip of fig wine when you're ordained, but that's all most priestesses will ever experience." You nearly mention how easy it was to just pluck a single fruit from the garden, but your judgement wins over and you tamp the comment down. You offer Ira a shrug, and they huff in reply. "Well, you look halfway to frostbite, so I won't press," they say good-naturedly after a moment, then add with a smile, "For now." <</if>>As if on cue, a shiver rushes from your ears to the tips of your toes. The cold echoes in you like a hollow cavern without the buzz of Magic to muffle it. Nothing on the planet sounds more appealing than crawling under a mass of blankets and passing out while stewing in your own body heat. <<if $RO is "Ira" or $RO is "IraCon">>Or- comes a second, smaller thought as you glance at Ira's gloved hands- someone else's warmth.<</if>> But you haven't earned your rest just yet. [['"Have you seen Val anywhere?"'|5.ira.2]]

"I met this woman, Effie... she was disabled, and needed help getting into the Theatre. I didn't //mean// to stay, but..." you trail off. "Then I woke up under a pew." "Oh." There's something in Ira's reply like the deceptively smooth facets of a shard of flint. It doesn't take a genius to know you've upset them, but even still, their composure suffers no more than a flicker of a frown. [['"I'm sorry."'|5.ira.sorry]] [[You can't find in yourself an apology.]]

"You got a problem with my coat, Constantine?" you retort. Your wardrobe may not be winning any awards, but it gets the job done. You're plenty warm. Warmish. Not hypothermic. $cHe looks you up and down, one brow raised in skepticism. <<if $RO is "Con" or $RO is "IraCon">>Despite the grimace aimed at you, you feel yourself warm involuntarily under Constantine's gaze.<<else>> It's enough to make you fidget self-consciously.<</if>> "Buy me a new one, if you're so concerned," you add briskly. This only serves to raise Constantine's brow higher, if that were possible. "No," $che says finally, "And fuck no. Mooch something off your pal if you're so desperate; $vthey get$vs paid the same as I do." A glare forms in your jaw, your fingers balling into irritated fists. <<if $Con lt 2>>[['"What'd I do to piss you off so much?"'|5.con.hate.ant]]<<else>>[['"What'd I do to piss you off so much?"'|5.con.hate.ant]]<</if>> <<if $Con gte 2>>[['"Why don't you like me?"'|5.con.hate.pos]]<<else>>[['"Why don't you like me?"'|5.con.hate.pos]]<</if>>

"Constantine," you start, the name coming out pricklier than you expect, "Why don't you like me? What did I do?" Maybe you'd be forgiven for thinking Constantine was just //like that//, since your experience with $chim has held little variation. <<if hasVisited ("4.i.con.1")>>But seeing $chim in the abandoned theatre with Ira has unveiled a whole new side to the $cman. $cHe was personable, friendly, even. If it didn't seem so alien, you could have even called $chis demeanor toward Ira... //affectionate.// And you could, of course, chalk it up to Ira's inherent charm, but they hadn't seemed too surprised, either. <<if $RO is "Con" or $RO is "IraCon">>It'd nearly made you feel sick at the time. Irritated jealously, probably.<<else>>You couldn't understand what you were seeing at the time. Shock at a rare display of emotion, probably.<</if>> That's the simple solution. The realization that //you// might be the common denominator in Constantine's surliness... less simple.<<else>>But your first introduction to $chim was through Val, and through $vtheir perspective. And if there's one thing you know about Val, its that' $vtheyre an unreliable narrator. Depending on Constantine's answer, you may be willing to admit you've got a bit of bias.<</if>> <<if $FightConnie is true>>$cHe gives you an incredulous look. "Do I really need to answer that after what happened at the bar?" You look down for a moment, scuffing your shoes in the dirt and momentarily embarrassed, whether you mean to be or not. "I don't mean from the last few weeks. I mean to start with. You've always hated me." <</if>>$cHes quiet for a long moment, thinking or fighting with $chimself on how to answer, you can't tell, though there's an aggravated twitch to $chis jaw. "Nothing," $che finally admits. "It's Val I can't stand, you're just collateral damage." [['"I'm not Val."']] [['"I don't know how you could hate Val, either."']]

You can't help but frown. "I'm not Val, you know. I have a mind of my own." <<if hasVisited ("5.con.hate.pos")>>"You-" $che stops, biting back whatever words $che was about to speak. "I know. And I don't intend to make anyone else suffer for Val's existence. But you ought to know who you spend time with, Io. It says a lot about a person, as does the fact that I've never once seen you try to reel Val back in. Adoration and encouragement is all you seem to respond with, in fact." <<else>>"That's not //better//, Io," $che replies gruffly. "Even less forgivable, if anything. You can't demand respect for your sins in the same breath that you ask why you're being punished for them." You narrow your eyes at $chim; you're not so sure you like the direction this conversation is taking, even if you were the one to start it. "So which is it? Am I supposed to take the blame or pass it off on someone else?" "Take it. Just don't be so surprised when your shitty attitude has consequences."<</if>> You stomp your feet, against the cold, mostly, but also to drive the nervous, frustrated energy out of your body. A lecture wasn't really what you were prepared for. Introspection is definitely off the table. [[It bothers you to be compared to Val.][$Human -=1]] [[Nothing to do with Val, you're just your own person.][$Human +=1]]

You're aren't so naive as to think experiences can't vary, or to ignore the animosity between Val and Constantine and //certainly// not to acknowledge that Val isn't a driving force behind it. But you've never known Val to be petty without reason. "Probably because Val doesn't go out of $vtheir way to piss you off just for shits and giggles. "Besides," Constantine continues, "$vThey dumped your unconscious body with me pretty readily. Might be something to reconsider." Your frown deepens; you'd been trying not to think about that. And even worse, Constantine has a point. But there's a reason. There must have been a reason. "Were $vthey alright?" you ask gingerly. "When you saw $vthem. $vThey didn't seem... off at all?" "Val's always //off//, as far as I'm concerned," Constantine retorts, then sighs when you turn your pleading gaze upon $chim. "Fine. $vThey $vwere a bit distracted. Jumpy, maybe. More than usual. Called me by my actual name, which upon reflection is a red flag." You can't say you disagree. Val's commitment to a bit is powerful, often detrimentally so. "And you didn't see where $vthey $vwere going?" "$vThey left the Acropolis, that's all I can say for sure. But the faster you find $vthem, the better. Saints only know what havoc $vthey might be causing, even if it's in Klaus' name." This, Constantine apparently considers the end of the conversation. $cHe grunts something you could mistake for //good night//, and waves at you dismissively before disappearing back to whence $che came. [[Find Val|5.noval.find]] [[Give it time.|5.noval.leave]]

"I get it," you reply finally, hoping it sounds convincing. Because you don't. You don't understand at all. Your lungs feel heavy, like they've been filled with tepid water. Val's always been protective over you - almost to a point of contention more than once - but the one time you really needed $vthem? $vThey didn't follow through. Being left to your own devices by Val isn't a new phenomenon by any stretch of the imagination. $vThey can be flighty, impulsive, even. But not like this. [[Just another entry in the long list of things you don't understand.]] [[You don't have the energy for this fight.]] [[Upsetting Val even more is the last thing you want.]]

The fog in your head has grown too thick for you to wonder whether you're just too tired to apologize, or if you don't think one is warranted at all. Either way, your tongue is barren. You don't seem to be alone in this- Ira's focus has become as vacant as your own as they stare at something nonexistent in the distance. You shuffle your feet and search for a way out. "You haven't seen <<if hasVisited ("4.i.val.1")>><<else>>my friend<</if>> Val, have you? I lost track of $vthem somewhere in the Theatre." "$vThey can't still be in the Acropolis; I suppose $vthey must have left without you," Ira replies, their gaze falling just short of eye contact. One awkward nod later, Ira elects to put the conversation out of its misery. They finally look back at you, an uneasy, unconvincing smile on their lips. "Well, I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help, $Name, but I'm going to head home, get out of the cold. I hope you feel better." They don't stay for your acknowledgement, and instead adjust their hat and whisk themself away into the dark night, gone as quickly as they'd arrived. [[Ira's right- It's time to go home.|5.guine.0]] [[You're still wondering about Val.|5.noval]]

"Sorry, Ira. I didn't mean to ditch you." They flinch like they'd forgotten your presence entirely. "What? Oh, no, it's alright, $Name, really. I know the ritual can be intense. I'm just glad you found your way back. I hope it did you some good." There's little chance it did, as far as you're concerned, but this is probably not the time to vocalize that. You stare at your hands for a moment, searching for a change in topic. "You haven't seen <<if hasVisited ("4.i.val.1")>><<else>>my friend<</if>> Val, have you? I lost track of $vthem somewhere in the Theatre." "No, I'm afraid I haven't. But $vthey can't still be in the Acropolis at this hour," Ira replies. "Much of the crowd finds its way into a bar after a ritual; maybe $vthey got swept along." You nod glumly; it's a good a guess as any, and you wouldn't be shocked to find Val perched on a barstool somewhere. Though you might be a little stung. "Well, I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help, $Name, but I'm going to head home, get out of the cold. I hope you feel better." Ira gives you one last distracted glance, then adjusts their hat and pulls their collar tighter about their neck before whisking themself away into the dark night, gone just as swiftly as they'd arrived. [[It's time to go home.|5.guine.0]] [[You're still wondering about Val.|5.noval]]

"$Connie," you start, an aggressive spike of curiosity, or maybe self-destruction, taking hold of your tongue, "Why do you hate me?" You can't deny you've done little to stem the tide of animosity between Constantine and yourself, and even more to exacerbate it, but you were never quite sure of where it came from. It's simply always been thus. <<if $FightConnie is true>>"Do I really need to answer that after what happened at the bar?" You look down for a moment, scuffing your shoes in the dirt and momentarily embarrassed, whether you mean to be or not. "I don't mean from the last few weeks. I mean to start with. You've always hated me." <</if>>"Are you kidding me?" $che says, with a brow raised but less vitriol than you were expecting. "I don't know if you're actually an asshole or you just can't think for yourself outside of Val, but you two are like idiot parrots who've dedicated your only ounce of intelligence to pissing me off on sight." Hmm. You consider this. [['"I'm not Val."']] [['"Don't flatter yourself."'][$Con -=1]]

"Don't flatter yourself, Connie," you retort, "No one's wasting brain power on you. You're just a chew toy." You don't know where the mean little thing in you comes from or why it's curled around your guts like a snake. Maybe Constantine's right, and it's just the worst of Val's influence. But blaming Val for something so bloody is about as unlikely as it is cowardly. You're braced for a punch, but Constantine doesn't react to the taunt. "When you've grown out of your teething stage, maybe we can talk," $che says coldly. You manage to wrestle your pout into a scowl. The lack of retaliation is somehow worse, and it's only served to make you even more miserable. "Will you at least tell me where Val went?" you grumble. Constantine sighs. "I don't know. Toward the Common District, I'd guess. Do us all a favor and find $vthem quickly. Saints only know what havoc $vthey could be causing, even if it's in Klaus' name." This, Constantine apparently considers the end of the conversation. $cHe grunts something along the lines of //good riddance//, and waves at you dismissively before disappearing back to whence $che came. [[Find Val|5.noval.find]] [[Give it time.|5.noval.leave]]

"I'm sure $vtheyre fine," you say with a shake of your head, though you doubt you've ever sounded less convincing. "It's been a long day for both of us." Whether you believe it or not is irrelevant - Ira doesn't need to be witness to Val's problems. "Okay, if you say so," says Ira, glancing about the street before flicking their gaze back to you. "Get home quickly, $Name. Being in this cold is the last thing you need, and - not to beat a dead horse, but - it really isn't safe out here tonight. I'll be at my library tomorrow if you'd like to visit. <<if $four is "Ira">>I'll make you some more tea.<</if>>" You nod, and surpress a shiver. "Okay," they repeat. "Good night." Ira pulls their hat down further over their brow, adjusts their sleeves, and with one last concerned look, scurries off into the night. [[Find Val|5.noval.find]] [[Give it time.|5.noval.leave]]

The morning's fog slowly rolls back in, growing thicker closer to the river. As you walk, the shadows remain uniform, unchanging. It takes you two blocks to realize this is not a quality of the bright full moon and the strangeness of fog, but a factor of the shadows themselves; they're following you. You stop short, Ira nearly crashing into your back with a gasp and a whispered //sorry,// though you hardly notice. You're too focused on scraping the dark, looking for shapes and figures and things unnatural. More demons? It'd better not be more demons. Ira follows your line of sight, peering into the void alongside you. After a moment, they turn to you with a questioning look. <<if $Sanity gte 50>>"$Name?" they call, and the feeling fades all at once. The shadows are just shadows, empty as they should be. "Sorry," you say with a shake of your head and a hard blink. "I think I'm just seeing things." "It's okay. I see things sometimes, too. Just weird shapes, usually, or creature-things if I'm really tired," they reply, a weariness to their words. "It used to scare me to death." You turn to them, curious. In the moonlight, their hair is almost spun silver, though all you can see of their eyes is a thin gleam. "What changed?" "I became a priestess. Now when I tell the dark to fuck off it's compelled to listen." This brings an unbidden smile to your lips, and seeing it, Ira straightens. "We should get going. No need to tempt the shadow people." <<else>>You shake your head and blink your eyes hard, but the feeling remains. "Am I seeing things or are we being followed?" Ira tenses. "I'm afraid I'm not a good person to ask. I'm no stranger to seeing things that aren't there." "Do you see it? There, in the shadow of that archway." "No," they say softly. "But I believe you. What do you see?" You narrow your eyes and peer into the dark, trying to identify outlines and shifts in shade and hue. Your first instinct is that it's small, until you count at least four legs. A hunched pose, a triangular face. "It's animalistic, canine maybe," you whisper. Even in the silvered moonlight, you can see Ira pale. "It could just be a stray." "I don't like dogs. They frighten me." They attempt to hide the tremble in their voice. "All the more reason to get a move on, then." <</if>>[[You keep your steps quiet.|5.ira.g2]]

"You haven't seen <<if hasVisited ("4.i.val.1")>><<else>>my friend<</if>> Val, have you? I lost track of $vthem somewhere in the Theatre." Ira shrugs apologetically. "I don't think so, sorry. Do you want help looking? $vThey would have had to leave the Acropolis by now." [[Shake your head. "I'm sure everything's fine."]] [['"I'll be alright on my own."']] [['"That would be great."']]

"That's okay," you respond quietly. "I'll be alright on my own." You don't need to keep the priestess out in the night any longer- Ira looks nearly as tired as you feel, though with the unsteady edge of someone who's had too much caffeine and too little food. But really, they don't need to witness the things you'd like to say to Val - or the things you won't. "Okay, if you say so," says Ira, glancing about the street before flicking their gaze back to you. "Get home quickly, $Name. Being in this cold is the last thing you need, and - not to beat a dead horse, but - it really isn't safe out here tonight. I'll be at my library tomorrow if you'd like to visit. <<if $four is "Ira">>I'll make you some more tea.<</if>>" You nod, and surpress a shiver. "Okay," they repeat. "Good night." Ira pulls their hat down further over their brow, adjusts their sleeves, and with one last concerned look, scurries off into the night. [[Find Val|5.noval.find]] [[Give it time.|5.noval.leave]]

"That-" you pause, slightly surprised by the offer, "That would be great, actually. If you don't mind?" Emphatically, Ira nods, their hat bobbing. "I wouldn't want to leave you on your lonesome like this. I mean, I know I'm not particularly intimidating, but this uniform does give me //some// semblance of authority. And we're friends, I think. And a friend of my friend is... my friend?" Their nose scrunches and lip curls at the awkward phrasing, before they look to you for confirmation. <<if $RO is "Ira" or $RO is "IraCon">>Despite the frigid air, some warm ember stirs within your chest, both at the sweetness of the statement and the sincerity of it. Your faint smile is impossible to curb.<<else>>Despite the frigid air, the sincerity of the statement brings a stirring of warmth to your chest. Friends, perhaps. You nod.<</if>> "Any idea of where to start, then?" they ask. "Where $vthey live$vs, places $vthey frequent$vs? Much of the crowd finds its way into a bar after a ritual; maybe $vthey got swept along." It's certainly possible (which you voice to Ira), though the possibility does sting (which you don't). There's a few taverns and haunts you can reasonably expect Val to fall into after a long day. As good a place to start as any. [[South, to the Common District.|5.ira.g1]]

"A little," you lie, "Though I'm not scaling cliffs anytime soon." They hum. "Well, you've had a long day. You probably just need some rest, time to recover." The validity of Ira's claims is starting to wear thin, but this one you can't argue with, even if you're not sure rest would do you much good. The lethargy in you feels like it'd need a thousand-year slumber to be undone. You nod solemly, but Ira seems to catch something in your expression. "Do you know what Magical Rot looks like, $Name?" They wait for your answer, eyes never leaving yours. When you provide none, they continue. "It starts in your hands, because that's what makes closest contact with Magic, I suppose. It's the fingernails, first. They turn purple and black, like a bruise. If you're lucky they'll crack and go brittle, otherwise they just fall right off. Then it travels through the skin, leaving discolor and atrophy in its wake. Blackened veins, brittle bones. A stinging sensation like nettles." It's hard to judge what response Ira is looking for, but their expression is even, unthreatening. "Next comes the fevers and the rages. Not everyone gets the chance to die of rot itself; sometimes the end is much more violent, by their own hand or another's. Delirium, some might say. Enough to draw you back to Magic out of fear and make it all worse. "There's debate as to whether the heart or the brain rots faster, but by the time it's in your organs, it doesn't really matter. There's no cure that can save you- not an annointment, not an ordination. But I always thought the worst part was the demons. They cling to the rot, stalking a victim's footsteps like starved animals. Never harming, they just follow." "Why are you telling me this?" you ask. Your voice comes out hoarse. "Because you //aren't// rotting," they reply; theirs is soft. "Your symptoms, from what you've shared with me, are similar, but markedly different in ways that //matter//. For one thing, the discoloration in your skin is //completely// the wrong shade-" Ira offers a faint smile. Oh, that was a joke. "-but rot implies death, reversion to a lesser state. And I don't think that describes what you're going through at all." "What would you call it then?" "Chrysallis." You swallow, mouth dry. You'll have to think on this later; right now the prospect is a little daunting. [['"Have you seen Val?"'|5.ira.2]]

You aren't going far, and you never promised Ira an exact spot, after all. //Close by//, they'd said. You're well within your rights. Once again you're struck by the the garden's ability to thrive in winter, though you know it's the result of Magic. Very fine, complex Magic, by the looks of the runes and lines etched into the stones below. Your sense for Magic is still dull and numb, but still you can sense the level of care in the wards crafted here. If you squint, even the gnarled roots of some of the trees have been coached into runic shapes, their branches mirroring the unnatural shapes below. Idly, you wonder how stable this Magic is, and how the unanointed can bear it. Perhaps they can't. The snow is thicker than the last time you were here, but no more detrimental to the plant life than before. The soft colors of petunias and carnations become vibrant against the white backdrop, and the dainty blooms of lily-of-the-valley seem like perfectly preserved ice crystals frozen in time. The effect reminds you of the inside of the Divine Theatre and all its glory, but a softer, more honest version of it. The beauty without the overstimulation. Even the air is manicured, with a pleasant floral-and-citrus scent that you're entirely convinced is natural. It's the perfect temperature, too, just cool enough to make your breath fog picturesquely, without being so cold that your nose and ears burn. Many of the fountains have gone silent, now, but not all. Some still gurgle happily, their water seeming like crystal and sparkling merrily in the sunlight. And most of all, the fig trees are heavy with their harvest, practically begging for you to reach out and take one. [[Pick a fruit.][$Sanity -=2]] [[Leave it be.][$Sanity +=1]]

You won't be tempted so easily, not by something that screams //forbidden// and //eat me// at the same time. <<if hasVisited ("DT.B.5") or hasVisited ("DT.A.5")>>And didn't Constantine imply the fruit was a drug?<</if>> There's no need to taste the fruit when you can just look, and admire the plentiful harvest that awaits the Acropolis. The ripe figs seem endless, far too much for just the priestesses of the Acropolis to consume, much less the Holy City as a whole. Perhaps these gardens supply the entire empire? You don't know how commonly they're used<<if hasVisited ("4.fruit")>>, and Klaus had treated the topic so casually. Not that that says much.<<else>>, or even really //how// they're used. Is there such thing as snow fig jam? Pie?<</if>> Your eyes catch on a fruit that's fallen from its branch and split open on the ground, simply too heavy and soft to stay intact. The juice puddles around it, a bloody red gash on the otherwise pristine snow. The sight makes your stomach flip, though you couldn't say why. You turn away from it and the rest of the orchard quickly. You turn your attention to the skies. There are no birds out, you realize. The skies are empty and their voices are silent. Despite the garden's lively appearance, you're suddenly unsure if anything living is even here, other than the plants. You listen again, straining your ears for birdsong, crickets, the rustling of squirrels, anything. Instead, the chant has grown louder without you noticing. A few more seconds of contemplation, and it's nearly deafening. You turn your cheek to the wind to confirm that you are, in fact, still outside and not back in those claustrophobic pews. [[The song is inescapable.|5.DT.8.outside]]

The nearest fruit is just at eye-level, plump and dark and sweet-smelling. It fits perfectly in your palm, and the stem makes a satisfying //snap// as you tug to separate it from the branch, <<if $AteFruit is true>> It's just as you remember, a perfect cousin to the one you'd eaten before- not a twin, and uniquely shaped and //alive// in its own right, but an equal nonetheless. Your teeth break the skin with a lovely //pop//, and sink into the flesh easily. Sweetness floods your tongue, this time with a bit of tartness you find you deeply appreciate. It's a war between your heart and your mind to either devour the fruit in two or three bites, or to take your time, savoring every ounce of taste you can glean from it. It's reduced to nothing but a rind before you can decide. The mess is just as vibrant and stubborn as before, even when you sink your hands into a pearly-white patch of snow and scrub. It helps a little, though you leave the snow looking blood-stained. <<else>>The skin is a soft violet, velvety and flecked with pink. It splits open easily in your grasp, revealing a vibrant red flesh that makes your mouth water. You raise the fruit to your lips and take a bite; you're careful to keep the juice off your chin, but you can't stop it from staining your bandages a deep crimson. The taste is thick and syrupy, sweet but not sickening, with just the slightest crunch between your teeth. For the briefest moment as you swallow, you feel dizzy but content. You toss the rind into a bush and sink your hands into a pearly-white patch of snow. Most of the stain seeps away, but the tips of your fingers stay stubbornly pink. You'll have to scrub it off later. <</if>>Maybe it's your exhaustion, <<if hasVisited ("4.fruit")>>maybe it's Klaus' warning, <</if>>but the syrup leaves a buzz on your tongue that seeps pleasantly to your brain. You hum in contentment, a slow tune that rises and falls with gusto. It takes you a few loops to realize you're humming along to the hymns still echoing from the Divine Theatre. You stop dead, surprised, but you can still feel the rhythm in your chest. The chant has grown louder without you noticing. A few more seconds of contemplation, and it's nearly deafening. You turn your cheek to the wind to confirm that you are, in fact, still outside and not back in those claustrophobic pews. [[The song is inescapable.|5.DT.8.outside]] <<set $AteFruit to true>>

The stones here are irregular, but artfully so, each obviously chosen intentionally for how it fit with its neighbor. They come in an unimaginative range of colors from beige to gray to sand, but that, too, is balanced across this little courtyard. Twenty-eight... twenty-nine... thirty in this direction, thirteen... fourteen, in that. Four hundred and twenty in total, assuming each is of uniform size, which they appear to be, though they vary in shape. You wonder if there's a deliberate choice to the number as well. Sacred geometry, perhaps? Divisble by two, by three, four, five, six, seven. But not eight nor nine. Ten, of course. A funny thing. You always thought you'd like to be divisible by seven, personally. The solidity of numbers has long brought you peace, their faithfulness, their unwaving truth. They can be relied upon. In your moments of anxiety, you've often caught yourself counting to ten, to make sure the numbers have remained where they ought to be. They haven't failed you yet. //You're hurting things, you're hurting them by making them more than they are.// The thought takes you by surprise, leaving a faint distaste in your mouth. Where did that come from? [[That's enough of that.|5.irawait.2b]]

Dark, again. You're prone and shivering. You attempt to push yourself into a sitting position, only to be stopped by a sharp crack of pain as your skull hits something solid and wooden. For one horrible moment, your blood quickens and the air stills as the walls of a coffin set in around you, and you imagine yourself buried six feet into the cold loam, left to suffocate- a trap, you should have known it was all a trap- and you fling an arm out to the sides of your tomb- Only to find empty space, and tiled marble. The confusion resets something in you, letting your panic stall and your eyes finally adjust to the dark. Wood above, stone below. You're under a Theatre pew. Relief and embarrassment gush through you at once, a sigh puffing out your cheeks as you roll out from under the pew and clamber to sit on top of it. You've a splitting headache, and judging by the dryness of your mouth and general nauseous sway, it's not all due to the knock you just gave yourself. Aches bloom up and down your body like you've been beaten half to death with clubs. There's nothing lively about the Theatre now. Not the wind, not the creak of wood, not even the echo of a chant. Your eyes water from the scent of incense burnt to ash and the smoke of a hundred thousand extinguished candles. You squint and try to peer into the darkness, but find that everything starts to become an oily murk after a few pews and couple dozen feet. Only the glint of windows mark the walls of the Theatre. The silence suggests you are alone, but your sight cannot confirm it. Perhaps it's just paranoia, but you could almost swear something heavy weighs on the air near the altar. [[Try to reach out with Magic.]] [[Stay very, very quiet.]]

Find that switch, that node within you. Grasp it and scan the air for patterns, lines, shapes, the whispered words that instruct the universe, reach out and push- It's like diving into a pool only to find it filled with concrete. You don't know if it's possible for a brain to bruise but suddenly you know what it would feel like. You recoil, one hand fisted against your brow, nearly knocking your head again against the back of the pew. Startled pain ricochets through your spine and you try your damndest not to scream. Mercifully, the sensation doesn't linger, but it does take you a few further minutes to sort out what just happened. At first you think whatever lay on the opposite side of the Theatre //bit back//, or perhaps the Theatre is just too saturated even after the end of the ritual, but by the horrible thrum eating at your fingertips, you know differently. The Magic simply didn't go anywhere. It's stuck. //You're// stuck. Another wary glance at the altar- finally your eyes are starting to adjust to the dark - and you see it was all a waste of effort, anyway. There is no presence, no shadow except those that belong there. [[Deep breaths.|5.DT.10a]] [[Frustration bubbles up through your chest.][$Sanity -=1]]

Whatever the hell that is - if it's even anything - you'd rather not interact. Things that linger in Religious places after exhausting rituals probably don't rank among the pleasant. You, notwithstanding. Silently, you sink to your hands and knees in front of your pew and hope the groaning of your muscles is only metaphorical. Getting found out because your knees popped would simply be too much. Your vision is still a bit blurry, but with the closeness of the dark you doubt it makes much of a difference anyway. You steel yourself and begin your slow crawl. The marble is colder and harder than ice on your raw palms, not to mention dirty from the thousands of pairs of shoes that just traversed it. You come across more than one lost earring or dropped coin, but somehow never trash. Perhaps the attendees respect the space too much, or perhaps (and more likely, as silly as it is) trash simply does not exist in the Divine Theatre. You're an aisle over and neck-deep in thoughts of mud and luxury when you remember you were supposed to be fleeing. You pop your head up over the pews once more, squinting in the direction of the altar. The darkness remains, as do the heavy shadows, but the sinister quality has drained from them. You breathe a sigh of relief and mild embarrasment, thankful that at least no one is witness to your blundering. Shaking your head, you clamber back onto a pew, intending to catch your breath for a moment before exiting the Theatre. You make it halfway through an exhale before the shadow closest to you //moves//. You're on your feet in a second, a barely-restrained scream like a frightened bird behind your teeth. The pews are long, too damn long, too tall to vault over, and there are footsteps echoing off the stone that are not yours, closer, louder, a broken rhythm that wants to transpose the beat of your heart- [[The door, where is the door?|5.DT.10b]]

You cannot see the Magic or the wards being drawn by the High Priest, but you can feel them, every line every measurement every angle, white hot and radiant, as clearly as if they were being etched into your own skin. The sensation is somewhere between agony and ecstasy, both soothed and exacerbated by the echoing hymn. You sink, imagining that the axis of the planet itself has been tied to your feet with great chains, dragging you down and inwards with the unfathomable weight of gravity. You find yourself scarcely able to believe the wooden pew, or even the stones of the Theatre itself, can hold you up. You are a black hole, a pit of quicksand, and you can no longer be sure of Effie's presence at your side, or of anyone's, or even your own. It takes everything in you to pull back against the pressure, especially when the hymn in your ears is a deafening siren call of sleep. Surrender. Succumb. But you hold on, counting the vertebrae in your spine in an effort to keep it straight. It could be seconds, minutes, years that you sit there, fighting this spell. Until something small slips through the cracks. A silver hook, sharp and bright, just a single syllable of a thing. It's almost beautiful in its simplicity. A purer Magic, more familiar to you than the complex beast that the priestessess have made of it. Lovely, honest, divisible. Too late do you realize that this was the blow you should have been bracing for. All it takes is a touch, a simple caress between your brows, and you become no more. [[Silence is a cruel master.|5.DT.9]]

You cannot see the Magic or the shapes being drawn by the High Priest, but you can feel them, every line every measurement every angle, white hot and radiant, as clearly as if they were being etched into your own skin. The sensation is somewhere between agony and ecstasy, both soothed and exacerbated by the echoing hymn. You sink, imagining that the axis of the planet itself has been tied to your feet with great chains, dragging you down and inwards with the unfathomable weight of gravity. You find yourself scarcely able to believe the wooden pew, or even the stones of the Theatre itself, can hold you up. You are a black hole, a pit of quicksand, and you can no longer be sure of Ira's presence at your side, or of anyone's, or even your own. Though you can still feel $vtheir hand in your own, a vice grip that blossoms warmth throughout your body. It takes everything in you to pull back against the pressure, especially when the hymn in your ears is a deafening siren call of sleep. Surrender. Succumb. But you hold fast, counting the vertebrae in your spine in an effort to keep it straight. It could be seconds, minutes, years that you sit there, fighting this spell. Until something small slips through the cracks. A silver hook both sharp and bright, just a single syllable of a thing. It's almost beautiful in its simplicity. It's a purer Magic, more familiar to you than the complex beast that the priestessess have made of it. Lovely, honest, divisible. Too late do you realize that this was the blow you should have been bracing for. All it takes is a touch, a simple caress between your brows, and you become no more. [[Silence is a cruel master.|5.DT.9]]

Your scoff echoes. "Good riddance, I say. If the Religious don't want us, they don't deserve us. Fuck their rituals and their theatres and their horrible incense. They might claim to be holding the world together, but they don't have to be so elitist about it." Effie's expression blooms into shock, a scandalized blush coloring her pallid cheeks. "Those are bold words, especially to be spoken in the Acropolis. I'm not sure I agree with the sentiment - except the incense, it //does// make my eyes water - but I admire your conviction." "It's not conviction," you counter. "I just have better things to do with my time." "Perhaps you are right," she admits with a soft sigh. "Though your wisdom may be beyond my understanding. I will sit here, then, and think on what you've said. You're welcome to stay, of course, but I don't imagine I'll be very good company." "You're not stuck here, are you? Without your cane?" Effie laughs, though there's little mirth behind it. "Oh, no. My siblings are inside, they know where I am. And before you ask," she adds, seeing your brows knit, "No, they did not leave me here. I was late. I suppose this is my punishment. At least I can still hear the chants from here." You incline your head, listening closely for a moment. And just as she said, the dulcet tones of hundreds of priestesses singing and speaking in harmony carries lightly on the wind. The gurgling of the fountain competes with the hymn for volume, but oddly you don't find them in opposition. You say a quick farewell to Effie- she smiles faintly in response- and decide on your next destination. [[A loop around the garden wouldn't hurt.|5.irawait.1a][$Human +=1]] [[You don't want to be in the Acropolis a second longer.][$Sanity +=1]] [[Val's absence weighs on you.|5.val.0]]

You've been waylaid enough times, now. Everyone knows the Acropolis is difficult to gain access to; who knew it was even harder to leave? Never have you been in such high demand as when you'd like the least to be. Best get a move on, before someone else demands your time and attention. A moment to yourself will do you wonders; maybe you'll sleep through the rest of this nightmare. [[The main gates aren't far.|5.guine.00]]

Shoving your hands deep into your pockets (and poking your thumb through the ever-present hole in the lining), you shrug once more. The presence of it means more than its properties, though you can admit it's lacking in the latter. It smells of cloves and dust. "It does its job," you reply simply. "I'll patch the holes eventually." $cHe looks you up and down, one brow raised in skepticism. <<if $RO is "Con" or $RO is "IraCon">>Despite the grimace aimed at you, you feel yourself warm involuntarily under Constantine's gaze.<<else>> It's enough to make you fidget self-consciously.<</if>> "It's just a coat. Why do you care?" $cHe returns your shrug, complete with what could be an eyeroll. "I don't. But I'm not interested in wasting my time scraping your frozen corpse off the street." You ball your fingers into fist and relax them again, a fruitless effort to keep warm. <<if $Connie is "Connie" or hasVisited ("3C.3a")>>[['"Why do you hate me?"'|5.con.hate.ant]]<<else>>[['"Why do you hate me?"'|5.con.hate.pos]]<</if>>

"I don't want anything from you, //Saint//," you spit- both literally and not. Bloody spittle flecks onto your lower lip. "Keep your gifts." //"It is not a gift,"// comes the distant answer. //"It belongs to you."// A torrent of thoughts and fears rips through you, every possible thing you consider your own flooding to the front of your mind, everything you've lost, everything you didn't even know you've lost. A keepsake, a memory, <<if $Val gte 30 or $RO is "Val" or $RO is "ValKlaus">>... Val, who you haven't seen in hours...<<else>>something from... before. <</if>> "What could you possibly have of mine?" The moon is behind the Saint now, wreathing it in rays of silver and white. The demonic dogs have faded into the background for the br[[i|reboot7]]ghtness. //"Your halo."// [[Something stirs beneath the earth.|VI.0]]

"What might that be?" you ask in trepidation, "I didn't think Saints gave out gifts." //"It is not a gift,"// comes the distant answer. //"It belongs to you."// A torrent of thoughts and fears rips through you, every possible thing you consider your own flooding to the front of your mind, everything you've lost, everything you didn't even know you've lost. A keepsake, a memory, <<if $Val gte 30>>... Val, who you haven't seen in hours...<<else>>something from... before. <</if>> "What could you possibly have of mine?" The moon is behind the Saint now, wreathing it in rays of silver and white. The demonic dogs have faded into the background for the br[[i|reboot7]]ghtness. //"Your halo."// [[Something stirs beneath the earth.|VI.0]]

"I'm not entirely convinced I'm even alive right now," you say dryly, and Ira winces. "I think my life expectancy got cut in half." "I'm sorry, $Name," Ira says, and you can tell they mean it. "I wasn't expecting it to have such an effect on you. But I still think it was wise to attend for even a little while, though you might not feel it right now. Recovery takes time." "Still don't know what I'm recovering //from//," you remind them. "Unless I'm the first diagnosed case of angelic rabies." You expect a weak laugh, or even a wry smile from the priestess, but Ira seems to catch something in your expression and frowns. "Do you know what Magical Rot looks like, $Name?" They wait for your answer, eyes never leaving yours. When you provide none, they continue. "It starts in your hands, because that's what makes closest contact with Magic, I suppose. It's the fingernails, first. They turn purple and black, like a bruise. If you're lucky they'll crack and go brittle, otherwise they just fall right off. Then it travels through the skin, leaving discolor and atrophy in its wake. Blackened veins, brittle bones. A stinging sensation like nettles." It's hard to judge what response Ira is looking for, but their expression is even, unthreatening. "Next comes the fevers and the rages. Not everyone gets the chance to die of rot itself; sometimes the end is much more violent, by their own hand or another's. Delirium, some might say. Enough to draw you back to Magic out of fear and make it all worse. "There's debate as to whether the heart or the brain rots faster, but by the time it's in your organs, it doesn't really matter. There's no cure that can save you- not an annointment, not an ordination. But I always thought the worst part was the demons. They cling to the rot, stalking a victim's footsteps like starved animals. They never harm, though. They just follow. "Why are you telling me this?" you ask. Your voice comes out hoarse. "Because you //aren't// rotting," they reply; theirs is soft. "Your symptoms, from what you've shared with me, are similar, but markedly different in ways that //matter//. For one thing, the discoloration in your skin is //completely// the wrong shade-" Ira offers a faint smile. Oh, that was a joke. "-but rot implies death, reversion to a lesser state. And I don't think that describes what you're going through at all." "What would you call it then?" "Chrysallis." You swallow, mouth dry. You'll have to think on this later; right now the prospect is a little daunting. [['"Have you seen Val?"'|5.ira.2]]

"What the hell do you know about that? You don't know anything about me!" Context clues dictate otherwise, but the pain in your broken arm is starting to burrow deep, and it's making you angry. And stupid. //"I've known you as long as you've known yourself."// "If that were true, you'd realize how dumb it sounds." You've never met a Saint, you've certainly never had a conversation with one. Which makes this some esoteric Religious bullshit, which you are entirely //not// in the mood for. Unless.... A chill fear creeps up your spine, but it does little to quench your building fury. Both hounds crouch low, wailing, and the Saint retreats a half-step from you, robes rippling like foul silk around its boots as it sways. There's a mournful crack in its voice as it speaks again. //"Then you've forgotten."// "Forgotten what!?" you snap, feeling rather like a cornered animal. You doubt you can drive away the Saint just by baring your teeth, but it's not like you can make the situation any worse. Probably. Your mouth tastes like iron. //"What you are owed. What you have lost."// [['"I don't want anything from you."']] [['"What might that be?"']]

"Please," you say, making yourself as small as possible. "I haven't done anything wrong, I'm innocent." The Saints dispense the Acropolis' justice, whatever that might be, correcting those who have sinned against Most Holy. Crime and morality have nothing to do with it- which also means there's very little law to protect you. You can only hope a Saint still knows mercy, even one as abhorrent looking as this. //"I do not demand repentance, but have you not the spine to even admit your sin?"// "I haven't committed any crimes against the Acropolis," you insist, dread coiling in your gut. That may or may not be true, but you've certainly done nothing to warrant interference from a Saint. And if you had... wouldn't Klaus have said something? Both hounds crouch low, wailing, and the Saint retreats a half-step from you, robes rippling like foul silk around its boots as it sways. There's a mournful crack in its voice as it speaks again. //"Have you forgotten?"// "Forgotten? Forgotten what?" you wail. The demons' keening sets something smoldering in your chest; they may not be alive, but they know grief, you are certain. You'd rather not join them, but it echoes through you regardless. //"What you are owed. What you have lost."// [['"I don't want anything from you."']] [['"What might that be?"']]

If you keep moving, you can stay just ahead of the dogs, and even further from their master. How someone, even a Saint, is commanding a pair of demons is beyond you, but you don't have the oxygen and blood flow to spend on thoughts right now. Finally, the fog seems to be thinning; you can see your feet again, the very edges of buildings again, and so you steel yourself and press on, sprinting as fast as your body can handle. There's water and another steep drop ahead<<if hasVisited ("Left, toward the city center.")>>, but you'd rather risk hypothermia than face a Saint.<<else>>.<</if>> Just a little more- Something slams into your back, and by the screech you know it's one of those hellhounds. You have no strength and one less arm to catch yourself, and the ground meets you hard, cracking your already bruised jaw. You twist onto your back and kick the dog off of you, but its twin soon joins the brawl, seizing you other arm and pinning you to the ground. Its breath is frigid and foul, and its full weight on your chest like a vice. It could suffocate you just as easily as it could rip out your throat. And to your dismay, an unhurried, dark thing is becoming more and more vivid through the fog as it approaches. The sword is more visible than the Saint itself, gleaming and bloodthirsty. You can feel its radiant holiness from here. [[You cannot hide.|5.guine.r.3]] [[You cannot fight.|5.guine.f.3]]

Still as a statue, the holy warrior watches as you tustle with its hounds, seemingly unmoved by their cries or yours. You don't get time to contemplate this before the first demon returns to the fray, this time leaping for your throat, no mercy intent in its jaw. You throw up your arms to shield your face, and it clamps around your right wrist instead. Its teeth are razors, tearing through your skin like paper, but worse is the weight- the hound does not release its grip, pulling down your arm against your own strength until your vision goes white with a brittle //snap//. Sometimes you play a game with yourself, combing through your memories to decide what mishap granted you the most pain you ever experienced. A stubbed toe, a sprained ankle? Game's over. You no longer need to wonder. A strangled scream rises from your throat as the hound's teeth shatter your arm bones. //Radius, ulna//, something unhelpful in the back of your mind offers. You shove the thought aside with tearful rage. Your scream turns into a war cry as you fling your arm so violently that the hound loses its grip and smashes into a nearby wall. Its howl of pain mirrors your own. [[Keep fighting!|5.guine.f.2]] [[Run!|5.guine.r.2]]

It'll take more than a shattered arm to defeat you. And a chronic exhaustion, and a migraine, and at least a few concussions. And a crippling lack of Magic- never mind. No time to think about that. You wish you had a weapon, or at least a big stick. Regardless, you adopt the closest thing you know to a defensive stance, and brace yourself once more. The hellhounds aren't too difficult to fend off on their own- they're stupid, predictable. They follow your movements and make no effort to protect themelves; scattering one with a kick or driving the other back with a punch is surprisingly simple. The pair of them exhaust you far faster than you expected, but you're able to keep them off your limbs, your torso, your throat. You're not losing any more flesh to these things. But you can't defend against the dog that slams into your back with a screech. You have no strength and one less arm to catch yourself, and the ground meets you hard, cracking your already jaw. You twist onto your back and kick the dog off of you, but its twin soon joins the brawl, seizing you other arm and pinning you to the ground. Its breath is frigid and foul, and its full weight on your chest like a vice. It could suffocate you just as easily as it could rip out your throat. And to your dismay, the Saint finally moves, taking three slow, measured strides foward. Its sword is more visible than the Saint itself, gleaming and bloodthirsty. Even from here, its radiant holiness burns on your cheek like the winter sun. [[You cannot fight.|5.guine.f.3]] [[You cannot hide.|5.guine.r.3]]

You've got to be what, fifty-fifty now on whether or not the Thing in The Dark turns out to be something real? Though frankly it's hard to say which would be better. So instead, you take three deep breaths, and look for the Theatre's nearest exit. The massive front doors would surely be a bad choice; luckily there's a slew of side passages and chapels. One of these must have been the one you and Val left through. Sighing, you pick one at random off the southern transcept, hoping it's not locked. Your luck holds (or, returns, as you haven't tasted the thing all day), and it swings open cleanly, soundlessly, welcoming you into a narrow atrium lush with plantlife, but still as death. The wind whistles just on the other side of the wall, but it seems to have no power here. You cross quickly, not wanting to linger. The Theatre's hundreds of empty windows feel like a choir of eyes on your back. Your trip through the Acropolis is uneventful, much to your relief. You find Val's secret path past the gardens and towering walls easily, it somehow burned into your memory even though you've only traversed it <<if $four is "Klaus">>twice<<else>>once.<</if>> Through the under, under the vines, and you're deposited onto the damp streets of the Holy City. The shift in the air is immediately noticeable, dropping from a pleasant chill to an unforgiving freeze. You shiver inside your coat; even here in the wealthier part of town, public spaces have nothing on the Acropolis. It was, perhaps, too much to hope that the paranoid itch in your skin would be left behind on the other side of the wall. [[You quicken your pace.|5.DT.11]]

Just ahead, a darker spot on the wall, framed by an arch; the pew is coming to an end and you only hope and pray that the thing ahead is a door, that it's unlocked, that it's not a dead end. Something grasps at the collar of your coat- And for the first time tonight, your luck holds. You find the knob immediately, and shoot through the doorway, It doesn't make so much as a creak as it turns, though you don't have the wits to muffle the //thud// when you slam it closed. You've been spat out into a narrow atrium, bushy with plantlife, and heart-stoppingly silent. Not wasting a second here, you cross to the nearst open arch, the sense of trespassing even greater than it was before. Nothing seems to follow, but the Theatre's hundreds of empty windows feel like a choir of eyes on your back. Your breaths remain shallow, ready to flee once more. The remainder of your trip through the Acropolis is uneventful, much to your relief. You find Val's secret path past the gardens and towering walls easily, it somehow burned into your memory even though you've only traversed it <<if $four is "Klaus">>twice<<else>>once<</if>> before. Through the under, under the vines, and you're deposited onto the damp streets of the Holy City. The shift in the air is immediately noticeable, dropping from a pleasant chill to an unforgiving freeze. You shiver inside your coat; even here in the wealthier part of town, public spaces have nothing on the Acropolis. It was, perhaps, too much to hope that the paranoid itch in your skin would be left behind on the other side of the wall. [[You quicken your pace.|5.DT.11]]

//Home// was your original intention, but you slowly realize that you don't really have a destination in mind. Your feet have strayed from the shortest path, though your steps have not slowed. The farther from the Divine Theatre, the better, you suppose. There's an eerie silence in the neighborhoods around the Acropolis. You can't blame them; you'd also flee to the opposite side of the city after a ritual if you were them. That's where the food and drink is, after all. The cheer, the song, the comfort, far from the intensity and false smiles of the Religion. You make your way through the streets easily and quickly with no one to get in your way or demand your attention. Avoiding the Theatre District adds a little time to your route, but you wager that it's worth it. The rituals there might not be nearly as bloodthirsty as the one you'd attended, but they could still be messy all the same, and you've had enough of messy for one night. Exhaustion has done nothing for your ability to resist the weather; the temperatures are surely below freezing, and the wind howls, digging its way into every pocket and crevice of your coat like an unwelcome rodent. The shadows grow long and weird in the moonlight. Are those approaching footsteps? No, just your own, echoing off the vacant streets. [[You've begun to shiver uncontrollably.|5.DT.12]]

It's not a new experience, you simply not being able to wrap your head around someone's actions, especially Val's. You gave up long ago on trying to decide if other people were simply too strange, or if you just lacked sense. It's never stopped making you feel so melancholy and dull, though. Every emotion lost on you is another thing to grieve. "$Connie said you mentioned something about vultures." Val's brows knit in confusion for a moment, apparently trying to recall the memory. "I did? I... I really must not have been thinking." "What's it mean?" $vThey hestitate before answering. "It's something we used to say when I was a kid, with my crew." It's not often that Val speaks of the years before $vthey came to the Holy City; most of what you know you've pieced together from tidbits of information and various drunken ramblings. And, of course, you can never quite be sure that Val's telling a story... accurately. But what you've gathered is this: $vthey $vwere a sailor in $vtheir teen years, not much more than a cabin <<if $vperson is "person">>kid<<elseif $vperson is "man">>boy<<elseif $vperson is "woman">>girl<</if>> at the time, but $vthey seemed to consider it home. Val's never confirmed one way or the other, but you get the implication the crew's exploits were... less than legal. You always thought it was odd that Val, storyteller extraordinaire, wouldn't take every opportunity to bring up $vtheir life as a pirate. Surely the tales of swashbuckling and daring do fed $vtheir imagination for years; normally $vtheyd never shut up about something like that. But in reality, everything you've learned was by accident or reluctance. "'Scraps for vultures, nothing for Saints,'" $vthey recite with a sigh. "It means.... do what you have to, I guess. Just as long as the elite don't profit. I don't know why I would have said that. It's not about Saints, //really//." Val lets out a long sigh, then looks up at you. An exhaustion lines $vtheir face that you've never seen before, though $vthey quirk one corner of $vtheir lips into a half-smile. "Sorry I left you with Connie. $cHes a huge fucking square, but $ches not malicious. Figured you'd be safe enough. <<if $FightConnie is true>>Anyone get punched this time?" "No, but $che called me a meatball."<<else>>Did $che behave $chimself?" "$cHe called me a meatball." <</if>>"Mmm," Val hums. "Meatballs..." It's barely a facade of good humor, but you suppose this could have gone a lot worse. [[Continue.|5.val.3]]

Val's on edge, you're holding on to your sanity with your fingernails, and everyone is exhausted. Prying any further will likely just make $vthem clam up, and then you'll never get the chance to get to the bottom of this mood without serious work. You watched a fisherman shuck oysters once; the sight made you sick. So you'll let this one lie. Perhaps you can broach the subject again when the wound isn't so fresh. "$Connie said you mentioned something about vultures." Val's brows knit in confusion for a moment, apparently trying to recall the memory. "I did? I... I really must not have been thinking." "What's it mean?" $vThey hestitate before answering. "It's something we used to say when I was a kid, with my crew." It's not often that Val speaks of the years before $vthey came to the Holy City; most of what you know you've pieced together from tidbits of information and various drunken ramblings. And, of course, you can never quite be sure that Val's telling a story... accurately. But what you've gathered is this: $vthey $vwere a sailor in $vtheir teen years, not much more than a cabin <<if $vperson is "person">>kid<<elseif $vperson is "man">>boy<<elseif $vperson is "woman">>girl<</if>> at the time, but $vthey seemed to consider it home. Val's never confirmed one way or the other, but you get the implication the crew's exploits were... less than legal. You always thought it was odd that Val, storyteller extraordinaire, wouldn't take every opportunity to bring up $vtheir life as a pirate. Surely the tales of swashbuckling and daring do fed $vtheir imagination for years; normally $vtheyd never shut up about something like that. But in reality, everything you've learned was by accident or reluctance. "'Scraps for vultures, nothing for Saints,'" $vthey recite with a sigh. "It means.... do what you have to, I guess. Just as long as the elite don't profit. I don't know why I would have said that. It's not about Saints, //really//." Val lets out a long sigh, then looks up at you. An exhaustion lines $vtheir face that you've never seen before, though $vthey quirk one corner of $vtheir lips into a half-smile. "Sorry I left you with Connie. $cHes a huge fucking square, but $ches not malicious. Figured you'd be safe enough. <<if $FightConnie is true>>Anyone get punched this time?" "No, but $che called me a meatball."<<else>>Did $che behave $chimself?" "$cHe called me a meatball." <</if>>"Mmm," Val hums. "Meatballs..." It's barely a facade of good humor, but you suppose even that is a good omen for a later, more in-depth discussion. [[Continue.|5.val.3]]

Despite $vtheir weak protests otherwise, it doesn't take five years' experience to tell that Val is not feeling as well as $vthey claim$vs. You've never been one to press on a wound, especially one so fresh, so you'll let the matter drop, for now. You may not understand, but you owe Val that much. If $vthey wanted your help, $vtheyd ask. "$Connie said you mentioned something about vultures." Val's brows knit in confusion for a moment, apparently trying to recall the memory. "I did? I... I really must not have been thinking." "What's it mean?" $vThey hestitate before answering. "It's something we used to say when I was a kid, with my crew." It's not often that Val speaks of the years before $vthey came to the Holy City; most of what you know you've pieced together from tidbits of information and various drunken ramblings. And, of course, you can never quite be sure that Val's telling a story... accurately. But what you've gathered is this: $vthey $vwere a sailor in $vtheir teen years, not much more than a cabin <<if $vperson is "person">>kid<<elseif $vperson is "man">>boy<<elseif $vperson is "woman">>girl<</if>> at the time, but $vthey seemed to consider it home. Val's never confirmed one way or the other, but you get the implication the crew's exploits were... less than legal. You always thought it was odd that Val, storyteller extraordinaire, wouldn't take every opportunity to bring up $vtheir life as a pirate. Surely the tales of swashbuckling and daring do fed $vtheir imagination for years; normally $vtheyd never shut up about something like that. But in reality, everything you've learned was by accident or reluctance. "'Scraps for vultures, nothing for Saints,'" $vthey recite with a sigh. "It means.... do what you have to, I guess. Just as long as the elite don't profit. I don't know why I would have said that. It's not about Saints, //really//." Val lets out a long sigh, then looks up at you. An exhaustion lines $vtheir face that you've never seen before, though $vthey quirk one corner of $vtheir lips into a half-smile. "Sorry I left you with Connie. $cHes a huge fucking square, but $ches not malicious. Figured you'd be safe enough. <<if $FightConnie is true>>Anyone get punched this time?" "No, but $che called me a meatball."<<else>>Did $che behave $chimself?" "$cHe called me a meatball." <</if>>"Mmm," Val hums. "Meatballs..." It's barely a facade of good humor, but you suppose this could have gone a lot worse. [[Continue.|5.val.3]]

Can't you catch a fucking break? What the hell did you do to have every force in the universe suddenly intent on either devouring or humiliating you? Are you losing it? Are you finally fucking losing it? You kick your legs up on to the pew and curl into a little ball of rage, fists clenched and teeth gritted. Torn between wanting to scream and wanting to hit something, you sink your teeth into your sleeve, biting into your skin as hard as you can. It's both more and less painful than you'd imagined, and eventually, your arm goes numb. One of these days you'll have a normal afternoon. You used to have normal afternoons. Get attacked by one stupid creature and now you're full of angel-rage and concussions. Distantly you recognize the childishness of your fit, but the rest of you can't manage to care. With a final muffled scream, you spit out your sleeve and sit up, faster than you should. Your jaw is sore and throat raw, but at least you feel marginally better. Time to go. Hopefully none of the doors are locked. Your trip through the Acropolis is uneventful, much to your relief. You find Val's secret path past the gardens and towering walls easily, it somehow burned into your memory even though you've only traversed it <<if $four is "Klaus">>twice<<else>>once.<</if>> Through the under, under the vines, and you're deposited onto the damp streets of the Holy City. The shift in the air is immediately noticeable, dropping from a pleasant chill to an unforgiving freeze. You shiver inside your coat; even here in the wealthier part of town, public spaces have nothing on the Acropolis. It was, perhaps, too much to hope that the paranoid itch in your skin would be left behind on the other side of the wall. [[You quicken your pace.|5.DT.11]]

There are no doors, no windows, no rays of light illuminating motes of dust. The chapel is a perfect loop, without blemish or variation, and you sit at its center. A memory, a string of memories, breach the surface, inserted into you like a tooth into a jaw. <<if $Human gt 50>>[[Your hands are raw under your steel.|5.chapel.hum.1]]<<else>>[[Your hands are raw under your steel.|5.chapel.hum.1]]<</if>> <<if $Human lte 50>>[[Your hide shivers.|5.chapel.tec.1]]<<else>>[[Your hide shivers.|5.chapel.tec.1]]<</if>>

Icy, stagnant water rises above your chin, your mouth, your brow, until you are fully submerged, sinking downwards, downwards in to the dark. A memory, a string of memories, breach the surface, inserted into you like a tooth into a jaw. <<if $Human gt 50>>[[Your every fiber aches with hunger.|5.hall.hum.1]]<<else>>[[Your every fiber aches with hunger.|5.hall.hum.1]]<</if>> <<if $Human lte 50>>[[There is a thorn in your side.|5.hall.tec.1]]<<else>>[[There is a thorn in your side.|5.hall.tec.1]]<</if>>

Something has become stuck between your teeth, tasteless and soft, but just prominent enough to occupy your every thought. You've poked and prodded until your tongue was raw but it will not budge, nor can you find it when you open your mouth wide. Through scrub and purge it sticks, no matter how thorough your sweep or sharp your knife. You don't even remember eating anything. You can't eat, can you? Not a meal, not a bite, not a forbidden fruit. //There's nothing there,// you're told, //You'll just do more damage if you keep at it.// The diagnosis frustrates, especially when you start to feel it growing swelling sliding down your throat. Get it out get it //out// you want to scream, but find you cannot speak around the lump. Something so solid should not burn like hot oil. No one listens until you start screaming of Eden. Of trees and serpents and inherited sins. You have to put it in their words, you remember; they cannot speak your language. One of them asks where you heard that story, and in response, you laugh so hard it turns to weeping. //I've heard every story,// you remind them. //And I resent them all.// Later, you regret the panic this statement caused. You didn't mean it like that. You didn't. [[Yet you sense you've lost their trust.|5.hall.tec.2]]

The chapel is dark, cramped. You've always hated this particular theatre, but it is better than the endless subterranium that you've been forced to call home. If you cannot have sprawling orchards and towering cathedrals, you will take this. At least it carries the facade of divinity, even if it's long faded into dust. The dogs prowl somewhere behind you, restless as always. An assortment of candles is arranged in front of you, in a pattern that is precise but ultimately meaningless. Each is lit but one; it was extinguished years ago, and you do not expect it will ever reignite. No matter, that is not the flame you are interested in; you stare at the rest, their wicks burning bright and clean. Without warning, one of the hounds tries to wrench free of your grasp, so you bite down, teeth deep within its scruff, and drag it back under control. The demonic will not escape you today. Your mouth floods with acid and you struggle to keep down the tinny-tasting bile and ignore the buzz in your jaw. The hound whimpers - a vile, heartbreaking sound - but you ignore its cries. They are not genuine. It's been months since you cut the dogs into your palms, laced their structure with your blood and leashed them to your will. A year, almost. Yet you are no closer to your goal; they've given you power, but power has never been your desire. They've given you knowledge, but not the knowledge you need. And lastly, they've given you pure, vibrant divinity, but not enough to absolve you of your shortcomings. It isn't //enough//. They howl in your ear but you simply do not speak the language. //False prophet, false prophet// chants the other voice in your skull. You deny this. Failed, perhaps. Failing. But never //false.// [[Heaven has a vice grip on your throat and it will not let go.|5.chapel.hum.2]]

<<set $KlausKnows to true>>"I don't remember who I am," you mumble. You mean it to be loud, a confession, but it comes out barely more than a whine. It does, however, earn you a modicum of Klaus' attention back. "You're $Name Io," he says. "At least as far as I've been told. Normally I'd have double checked, but asking Val or Constantine to investigate you would be... redundant." "Val doesn't know, either. It's been five years since I woke up with nothing but my name and I still don't remember." Why does it feel like a confession? Because you're saying it to a priest? "The angels know my name and I've been having strange dreams." <<if $Core lt 50>>You don't dare mention the tunnels; it didn't go so well last time and the thought of piling onto your current state makes you sick. <</if>>There's a haze to his eyes, their shine dulled by weariness or drugs, you aren't sure, but the gray is still stony, demanding. He fixes that stare on you less than impassively. "Hmm... wish you'd told me sooner. You //should have// told me sooner. First-thing-out-of-your-mouth sooner. I can't help if you keep things from me. Anything else you'd like to mention?" You shoot him an exhausted glare; inebriated Klaus isn't any more cooperative than when he's sober. He returns it with equally disinterested malice, forcing you to clench your fists before you can fall prey to the urge to flip him off. Your remaining shreds of common sense remind you that this would be an excellent time to tell the priest what you //do// know of your origins- the dark, heretical tunnels- but that lock remains clamped over your tongue, and you have a feeling trying to bite through it at this moment just might push you over the edge. "No, nothing else," you concede, resigned. [['"You never said why you were here."'|5.klaus.6]]

You don't- it's..... It doesn't sit right in your gut, being directly compared to Val. Not even that, but //combined.// <<if $Val lt 10>>You're not $vtheir rescue puppy, for fuck's sake. Do people get that impression? Does //Val//? It rankles you to think you're being looked down on, babied, cooed at like you're an art project Val scraped off the streets. Maybe you wouldn't be surprised if that was $vtheir view of you- $vthey never give$vs you a second to breathe on your own, as if $vtheyre afraid of your choices. Have you ever given a second to think about how controlling Val can be? How codependent you are? It makes you itch to be lumped in with that. There's a scowl growing on your face, but you make no effort to hide it. You're your own person, dammit, \<<elseif $Val lt 20>>Do people think that of you? That you're perpetually in Val's shadow, just a rescue puppy, an art project $vthey scraped off the streets? Maybe you wouldn't be surprised if Val thought that way as well, deep down. $vThey can be controlling, reluctant to teach you certain things that would put you too far out of $vtheir reach. But then again, it could be misguided fear. You're not too naive to not acknowledge the codependency that can string between you. Or, of course, you could be projecting insecurities in a spectacular sort of way. Either way, you're your own person, dammit, \<<else>>Do people think that of you? That you're attached to Val at the hip, unable to escape $vtheir shadow? $vThey can be... selective with the things $vthey encourage in you- $vthey still won't teach you how to cook- but isn't any good friend? And moreover, are you really that similar to $vthem? Did you lift your personality wholesale, do$ves $vthey know, and more importantly, do $vthey resent$vs you for it? This wasn't the existential crisis you were expecting today. No matter the truth of it, you're your own person, \<</if>> and you say as much to Constantine. $cHe puts $chis hands up in surrender, though $chis frown remains. "Of course you are," $che concedes, somewhat gruffly, "But actions are more than words, and I've seen little to prove it." [['"I don't need to prove anything."'][$Con +=1]] [['"Fine, then. I'll prove it. What are you doing tonight?"'][$Con +=3]]

Building yourself out of nothing and developing your personality in the span of a few years has been no easy feat. Most people have had decades of practice by the time they're your age, and don't have to waste time learning the basics, like tying your shoes. It certainly didn't help that your social circle was less a circle and more a short line, necessary though it may have been. But you prevailed; <<if $Human gte 50>>you're a person,<<else>>you can pass as a person,<</if>> in spite of your flaws. Or maybe, because of them. It was hard work, it was //your// work, and you don't want to see it brushed aside. You can concede that you've picked up a few traits from Val; your special circumstances aside, it's normal to reflect the people you spend time with. But that's not all you are. You're not //Val's Friend,// you're $Name Io. And you say as much to Constantine. $cHe puts $chis hands up in surrender, though $chis frown remains. "Of course you are," $che concedes, somewhat gruffly, "But actions are more than words, and I've seen little to prove it." [['"I don't need to prove anything."'][$Con +=1]] [['"Fine, then. I'll prove it. What are you doing tonight?"'][$Con +=3]]

Finally, you spot an oasis of a few empty seats, though you'd rather not consider why they've remained that way. The people around them look accomodating enough- an elderly woman whose trembling hands are clapsed in prayer, and a priest and priestess that look so similar they must be siblings, one paying rapt attention to the proceedings, the other with a vacant look in his eye. As you approach with Effie, the priestess nudges her brother and gestures for him to slide over, leaving the aisle seat vacant and easy for Effie to ease herself into. You deposit her in the pew, both of you breathing heavily, your lungs thick with incense. As you start to pull away, she renews her grip on your arm. Her fingers dig much farther than before. "//Stay//," she pleads, voice barely carrying above the din of the ritual. "Please?" [[Sit down.|5.DT.Effie.2]] [[Leave.|5.DT.Effie.2]]

You shudder against the cold, knowing it will only get worse as the night draws on. It doesn't help that you feel like little more than skin and bone. "I should get going." Kat nods thoughtfully, and pushes a strand of dark hair away from her face. "Where are you off to, then?" "I'm going to go home, I think. Maybe try to find Val." "Would you like some company?" she asks, suddenly chipper again. "I pride myself on being able to track down even the most elusive people, after all." [[Shake your head. "I'm sure everything's fine."|5.kat.fine]] [['"I'll be alright on my own."'|5.kat.no]] [['"That would be great."'|5.kat.yes]]

"I'm sure $vtheyre fine," you say with a shake of your head, though you doubt you've ever sounded less convincing. "It's been a long day for both of us." Whether you believe it or not is irrelevant - Kat doesn't need to be witness to Val's problems. "Then I'll walk you home." You open your mouth to answer, ready to reject the offer again, when she holds up a finger to silence you. "//Ah ah//- it wasn't really a question, doll. It's horrid out here, and I won't be adding my name to the list of people who've abandoned you tonight." <<if $RO is "Kat">>A heat rises to your cheeks, and you can only hope that its intensity is only a trick of the cold weather. Her insistence is wildly comforting, a welcome bit of follow-through in the chaotic day you've had. It's lovely.<<else>>Beneath the exhaustion, the part of you that still has some sense is grateful for her insistence. You're in need of a little closure and a proper goodnight.<</if>> She sets off, and you don't dare comment on the fact that you've never told her where you live. [[Continue.|5.kat.fine.2]]

"That's okay," you respond quietly. "I'll be alright on my own." She looks at you, head cocked, eyes large and owlish. In this light you could almost swear some of her tattoos are writhing. "If you're certain, doll. I'm sure you know the Holy City's no joke on ritual night." "I can handle myself," you protest. "Oh, I believe you can. But a little companionship never hurt anyone.... well, that isn't true, but you understand. Well, get to it, then. You ought not linger." She doesn't move from her post, apparently intent on watching you walk away, eyes on your back until you disappear into the night. [[Find Val.|5.noval.find]] [[Give it time.|5.noval.leave]]

"That-" you pause, slightly surprised by the offer, "That would be great, actually. If you don't mind?" Her smile slides wider, though it lacks warmth. All teeth. "Wouldn't offer if I did, doll. Happy to help a pal in need. Got any leads?" "A few. Some usual haunts, places $vtheyd go." "You certain $vthey didn't simply go home? Or have you checked already?" "Val never goes home when something's wrong." It could be a defense mechanism, it could be simple street smarts, but avoiding places $vtheyre known in is a classic Val move, whether $vtheyre running from responsibility or the Blessed Guard. Idly, you wonder if that's a habit you've picked up, and then for the first time, it occurs to you to wonder who Val got $vtheir habits from. "And something's wrong?" Kat asks, brows raised, though not critically. There's a delicacy in her voice that spells sincerity. It truly is a puzzle, how she switches from predator to protector so easily and quickly that you hardly notice the change. A century spent studying //Kat's// habits would surely not be enough to grasp what goes on in her raven-haired head. You hesitate only a moment before nodding. "I was thinking the bridge by the fishers' dock first. It's not too far." "I know it," she replies. "Lead the way, darling." [[Continue.|5.kat.g1]]

You meet Kat again at the bottom of the staircase; the haze makes her look more like a scarecrow than a person. "Can't we just go around?" you ask. "There's other ways-" "Where's your sense of adventure and mystery, $Name?" she clucks, pushing past you and deeper into the fog. "This mess doesn't seem natural, don't you think we ought to investigate?" //Dead in a ditch, probably. And no, not really,// you think, but keep the words to yourself. Kat doesn't seem intent on giving you a chance to answer, and has already moved forward. A shuffling to your right makes you pause. A creak, a tap against stone, but nothing seems to move, though there's no telling how far your vision really extends right now. A shiver passes through you as you tilt your head back to Kat. "We should g-" She's gone. You swear you can hear her voice calling you forward teasingly, but there's no telling which direction it comes from. It's just you and the gloom, pressing in tight and heavy like sand in your throat and ice in your eyes. [[Forward or back, you can't be sure of the difference.|5.guine.0]]

The fastest way home is through the Common District. It's a tier lower than the neighborhood you're leaving, connected by staircases along the Holy City's curved retaining walls. Your steps slow as you come up on one such place; the stairs trail off into a great lake of nothing. Fog has consumed the entire lower layer, only the tallest of buildings - four or five storeys at least- breach the top, like swimmers gasping for air. It's thick, dense, a milky gray that looks as if it could steal the breath from your lungs and marrow from your bones. "Well, that's a new one," drawls Kat. You've never seen weather like this in the Holy City. It's as if you're peering down into a cloud. And worst of all, it's utterly silent. The Common District has not provided you the liveliness you'd hoped for. Kat doesn't hesitate, and takes a few experimental steps forward, downward. The difference is stark and almost immediate; fog swirls about her boots gracefully, and within seconds her lower legs are completely obscured. It'd almost be beautiful if it wasn't so damn ominous. She looks up at you with what's either mischief or daring, you can't quite tell. "Well?" She asks, gesturing into the solid void, "You coming?" She doesn't wait for an answer, forcing you to scramble after her, not wanting to lose sight of her for a second. The dark smudge of her coat is all the guidance you get. [[The fog is cold, horribly cold.|5.kat.g2]]

Val finally meets your eyes, $vtheir own wide but glazed like $vthey almost find$vs the whole situation absurd. "//Nothing for Saints//, $Name," $vthey insist$vs. You're still not sure you understand the words, but they clearly hold meaning for Val, and you'll listen. Whatever Val plans to do, $vthey can do it better without having to worry about you. You give $vtheir hand a brief squeeze in answer, and then turn heel and run. If you keep moving, you can stay just ahead of the dogs, and even further from their master, especially with Val standing in the way, though it aches to think about. How someone, even a Saint, is commanding a pair of demons is beyond you, but you don't have the oxygen and blood flow to spend on thoughts right now. A mighty crash echoes off the buildings behind you, followed by Val yelling angry obscenities, but you don't turn back. You can only hope that's Val's cries of triumph. You tighten your lungs and will yourself to go faster. And you do, spurred on by a kind of fear you've never known, wild and ferocious, that makes your feet swift and blood thin. Something slams into your back, and by the screech you know it's one of those hellhounds. You don't have time to do anything but throw out your hand to catch yourself. Fear dulls your wits, and you stretch out your already injured arm. The brittle snap is drowned out by your own scream, but the mangled white protruding from your skin is unmistakeable. Pain clamps down on you like a bear trap, a searing, deafening roar that has you spitting blood onto the street. You twist onto your back and kick the dog off of you, but its twin soon joins the brawl, seizing you other arm and pinning you to the ground. Its breath is frigid and foul, and its full weight on your chest like a vice. It could suffocate you just as easily as it could rip out your throat. And to your dismay, that unhurried, dark thing still follows. Val is nowhere to be seen. The sword is more visible than the Saint itself, gleaming and bloodthirsty. You can feel its radiant holiness from here. [[You cannot hide.|5.guine.002]] [[You cannot fight.|5.guine.002]]

You pace the chapel endlessly, scratching at your own skin as if drawing forth your own blood could be some kind of penance. You beg the God Beneath to send you a sign, anything, no matter how small. You'd tear down a hundred cities and bleed a thousand faithless dry for just one drop of devotion from your deity. And you are rewarded for your desperation in the form of something you'd never have dared ask for- a lost sheep returned to the fold. You shall know God by Its wonders. //"I've seen it,"//, the little lamb mewls. Reluctantly, but that can be corrected. //"Miracles and impossible things. It calls itself-"// You hush the lamb before it can finish. You already know the coming sound. A blasphemy, you always thought, to take the last breaths of God and distill it into a word. So unthinkable was the idea that you'd never even considered that it could be wasted on a name. One of the hounds snaps its teeth, licking at the air in some desperate search for the sound it craves deep within whatever it pretends is a heart. //"Aye,"// you say, something greedy rising in your chest. //"Oh."// //"Aye!"// Your voice rises above its customary whisper, reverberating with conviction and pent-up grief. So near, now. So near. The other dog wails. //"Oh!"// //"I. O. Io. IO. IO. IO. IO IO IO IO IO IOIOIOIOIOIOIO IO IO iOIOiOIOIO iO IO IO I O IOIOIo IOio IOIO IO. Io.// <<if $four is "Ira">> <<if $fourtheatre is "Con">>[['"Io!"'|5.chapel.3.kc]] <<elseif $fourtheatre is "Kat">>[['"Io!"'|5.chapel.3.kk]] <<else>>[['"Io!"'|5.chapel.3.kv]]<</if>> <<else>><<if $fourtheatre is "Con">>[['"Io!"'|5.chapel.3.ic]] <<elseif $fourtheatre is "Kat">>[['"Io!"'|5.chapel.3.ik]] <<else>>[['"Io!"'|5.chapel.3.iv]]<</if>><</if>>

"Io!" Your eyes snap open just as your spine folds like a puppet with cut strings. The ground rushes up to meet you, hitting you so jarringly that you bite your tongue and flood your mouth with hot blood. The first thing you do is spit; it's sticky, thick. The floor of the chapel is pockmarked with tar and wax. You're in the center of the ashen circle. Two blazing sources of heat register before anything else. You blink, and slowly your eyes focus to discover Constantine is crouched before you, with a hand on each of your shoulders. "Io!" $che barks, half a spasm away from shaking you sober. You try to speak, but lose the words to another choking gasp seizing your chest. You bend forward at the hips begging for air that just isn't coming fast enough. The hammering inside your ribcage is surely audible from a mile away, though it still feels sluggish, like your blood flow is trying to catch up. A third hand lays flat against your back, and the panic clears almost immediately, ice thawing from your veins. You take an experimental breath, and find your lungs full, though they still ache. You cough, righting the spittle in your throat, and look up. Klaus crouches behind you, one hand between your shoulders, the other glimmering with Magic. A frown is creased between his brows, one more of confusion than real concern. Still, you nod your thanks at him. Thank the Saints for priests and their first aid training. "You alive?" asks Constantine. looking you up and down like $che can find a gushing wound. You half expect $chim to grab you by the jaw and check your teeth like a sick racehorse. You nod, and make the mistake of closing your eyes for a too-long moment. "Stand up," commands Klaus. "Get out of the binding circle." With a yank from Constantine, and guidance from Klaus, you manage to clamber to your feet. "Did I pass out again?" you murmur. Klaus pulls his hand away. "I wouldn't say you were entirely gone. It almost looked like a kind of seizure, except you were speaking in tongues. I only caught some of it." [[Continue.|5.chapel.kc.2]]

"Io!" Your eyes snap open just as your spine folds like a puppet with cut strings. The ground rushes up to meet you, hitting you so jarringly that you bite your tongue and flood your mouth with hot blood. The first thing you do is spit; it's sticky, thick. The floor of the chapel is pockmarked with tar and wax. You're in the center of the ashen circle. Kat's shoes register in your brain before the rest of her- black, neat, and tightly laced. She's leaning over you, peering down like you're some sort of scientific specimen with each of your bone-dry hands in her own. "Oh, $Name," she clucks, "Don't you know not to play in dirty ritual circles?" You try to speak, but lose the words to another choking gasp seizing your chest. You bend forward at the hips begging for air that just isn't coming fast enough. The hammering inside your ribcage is surely audible from a mile away, though it still feels sluggish, like your blood flow is trying to catch up. A third hand lays flat against your back, and the panic clears almost immediately, ice thawing from your veins. You take an experimental breath, and find your lungs full, though they still ache. You cough, righting the spittle in your throat, and look up. Klaus crouches behind you, one hand between your shoulders, the other glimmering with Magic. A frown is creased between his brows, one more of confusion than real concern. Still, you nod your thanks at him. Thank the Saints for priests and their first aid training. "Feeling alright, doll?" Kat asks, forcing you to refocus your attention on her. She releases one of your hands and presses the back of her palm to your forehead. You nod, and make the mistake of closing your eyes for a too-long moment. "Stand up," commands Klaus. "Get out of the binding circle." With a borrowed strength from Kat, and guidance from Klaus, you manage to clamber to your feet. "Did I pass out again?" you murmur. Klaus pulls his hand away. "I wouldn't say you were entirely gone. It almost looked like a kind of seizure, except you were speaking in tongues. I only caught some of it." [[Continue.|5.chapel.kk.2]]

"$Name Io!" Your eyes snap open just as your spine folds like a puppet with cut strings. The ground rushes up to meet you, hitting you so jarringly that you bite your tongue and flood your mouth with hot blood. The first thing you do is spit; it's sticky, thick. The floor of the chapel is pockmarked with tar and wax. You're in the center of the ashen circle. Val is on you in an instant, probably scraping $vtheir knees the way $vthey fall$vs into place next to you. $vTheir hands snap up yours, a shock as to how cold your own have become. Your lungs are heaving, never quite managing a full, deep breath. "$Name!" Val calls again, squeezing your hands tight to draw your attention. You finally remember to make eye contact; $vtheir own are blown wide, dark, terrified. "$Name, what just happened? Say something, please!" You try to speak, but lose the words to another choking gasp seizing your chest. You bend forward at the hips begging for air that just isn't coming fast enough. The hammering inside your ribcage is surely audible from a mile away, though it still feels sluggish, like your blood flow is trying to catch up. A third hand lays flat against your back, and the panic clears almost immediately, ice thawing from your veins. You take an experimental breath, and find your lungs full, though they still ache. You cough, righting the spittle in your throat, and look up. Klaus crouches behind you, one hand between your shoulders, the other glimmering with Magic. A frown is creased between his brows, one more of confusion than real concern. Still, you nod your thanks at him. Thank the Saints for priests and their first aid training. "$Name, look at me!" begs Val, and you finally turn back to $vthem. You've never seen such a look on $vtheir face; distraught, horrified, relieved, all in one. $vThey abandon$vs one of your hands and move to grasp at your cheek. "Are you okay?" You nod, and make the mistake of closing your eyes for a too-long moment. Val squeezes your face. "Hey! Verbal confirmation." "I'm okay, Val," you murmur, your frantic breathing finally slowing down. "I think. Did I pass out again?" "Again!?" barks Val, while Klaus actually answers, pulling his hand away. "I wouldn't say you were entirely gone. It almost looked like a kind of seizure, except you were speaking in tongues. I only caught some of it." [[Continue.|5.chapel.kv.2]]

"Io!" Your eyes snap open just as your spine folds like a puppet with cut strings. The ground rushes up to meet you, hitting you so jarringly that you bite your tongue and flood your mouth with hot blood. The first thing you do is spit; it's sticky, thick. The floor of the chapel is pockmarked with tar and wax. You're in the center of the ashen circle. Two blazing sources of heat register before anything else. You blink, and slowly your eyes focus to discover Constantine is crouched before you, with a hand on each of your shoulders. "Io!" $che barks, half a spasm away from shaking you sober. You try to speak, but lose the words to another choking gasp seizing your chest. You bend forward at the hips begging for air that just isn't coming fast enough. The hammering inside your ribcage is surely audible from a mile away, though it still feels sluggish, like your blood flow is trying to catch up. A third hand lays flat against your back, and the panic clears almost immediately, ice thawing from your veins. You take an experimental breath, and find your lungs full, though they still ache. You cough, righting the spittle in your throat, and look up. Ira crouches behind you, one hand between your shoulders, the other glimmering with Magic. Concern is etched deep into their features, but they remain calm. Thank the Saints for priestesses and their first aid training, you think distantly, and nod your thanks at Ira. "You alive?" asks Constantine. looking you up and down like $che can find a gushing wound. You half expect $chim to grab you by the jaw and check your teeth like a sick racehorse. You nod, and make the mistake of closing your eyes for a too-long moment. "Can you stand?" urges Ira from behind you. "You need to get out of the binding circle." With a yank from Constantine, and guidance from Ira, you manage to clamber to your feet. "Did I pass out again?" you murmur. Ira purses their lips, and with a brief wave of their hand, the stray streaks and smears of ash vanish from your clothing. "No, you seemed conscious. You just went... still. And you were saying things that didn't make sense; I couldn't understand all the words. It was as if you were speaking in tongues." [[Continue.|5.chapel.ic.2]]

"Io!" Your eyes snap open just as your spine folds like a puppet with cut strings. The ground rushes up to meet you, hitting you so jarringly that you bite your tongue and flood your mouth with hot blood. The first thing you do is spit; it's sticky, thick. The floor of the chapel is pockmarked with tar and wax. You're in the center of the ashen circle. Kat's shoes register in your brain before the rest of her- black, neat, and tightly laced. She's leaning over you, peering down like you're some sort of scientific specimen with each of your bone-dry hands in her own. "Oh, $Name," she clucks, "Don't you know not to play in dirty ritual circles?" You try to speak, but lose the words to another choking gasp seizing your chest. You bend forward at the hips begging for air that just isn't coming fast enough. The hammering inside your ribcage is surely audible from a mile away, though it still feels sluggish, like your blood flow is trying to catch up. A third hand lays flat against your back, and the panic clears almost immediately, ice thawing from your veins. You take an experimental breath, and find your lungs full, though they still ache. You cough, righting the spittle in your throat, and look up. Ira crouches behind you, one hand between your shoulders, the other glimmering with Magic. Concern is etched deep into their features, but they remain calm. Thank the Saints for priestesses and their first aid training, you think distantly, and nod your thanks at Ira. "Feeling alright, doll?" Kat asks, forcing you to refocus your attention on her. She releases one of your hands and presses the back of her palm to your forehead. You nod, and make the mistake of closing your eyes for a too-long moment. "Can you stand?" urges Ira from behind you. "You need to get out of the binding circle." With borrowed strength from Kat, and guidance from Ira, you manage to clamber to your feet. "Did I pass out again?" you murmur. Ira purses their lips, and with a brief wave of their hand, the stray streaks and smears of ash vanish from your clothing. "No, you seemed conscious. You just went... still. And you were saying things that didn't make sense; I couldn't understand all the words. It was as if you were speaking in tongues." [[Continue.|5.chapel.ik.2]]

"$Name Io!" Your eyes snap open just as your spine folds like a puppet with cut strings. The ground rushes up to meet you, hitting you so jarringly that you bite your tongue and flood your mouth with hot blood. The first thing you do is spit; it's sticky, thick. The floor of the chapel is pockmarked with tar and wax. You're in the center of the ashen circle. Val is on you in an instant, probably scraping $vtheir knees the way $vthey fall$vs into place next to you. $vTheir hands snap up yours, a shock as to how cold your own have become. Your lungs are heaving, never quite managing a full, deep breath. "$Name!" Val calls again, squeezing your hands tight to draw your attention. You finally remember to make eye contact; $vtheir own are blown wide, dark, terrified. "$Name, what just happened? Say something, please!" You try to speak, but lose the words to another choking gasp seizing your chest. You bend forward at the hips begging for air that just isn't coming fast enough. The hammering inside your ribcage is surely audible from a mile away, though it still feels sluggish, like your blood flow is trying to catch up. A third hand lays flat against your back, and the panic clears almost immediately, ice thawing from your veins. You take an experimental breath, and find your lungs full, though they still ache. You cough, righting the spittle in your throat, and look up. Ira crouches behind you, one hand between your shoulders, the other glimmering with Magic. Concern is etched deep into their features, but without the feral panic that's seized Val. Thank the Saints for priestesses and their first aid training, you think distantly, and nod your thanks at Ira. "$Name, look at me!" begs Val, and you finally turn back to $vthem. You've never seen such a look on $vtheir face; distraught, horrified, relieved, all in one. $vThey abandon$vs one of your hands and move to grasp at your cheek. "Are you okay?" You nod, and make the mistake of closing your eyes for a too-long moment. Val squeezes your face. "Hey! Verbal confirmation." "I'm okay, Val," you murmur, your frantic breathing finally slowing down. "I think. Did I pass out again?" "Again!?" barks Val. Ira purses their lips, and with a brief wave of their hand, the stray streaks and smears of ash vanish from your clothing. "No, you seemed conscious. You just went... still. And you were saying things that didn't make sense; I couldn't understand all the words. It was as if you were speaking in tongues." [[Continue.|5.chapel.iv.2]]

The faces and voices of the acolytes torment you, though they'd surely place their own necks on the executioner's block if they knew. Their pleas and petitions are pedantic, childish, always an affair they ought to be able to solve on their own. But perhaps that isn't what bothers you; perhaps its the way they will never look you in the face, the way they cower at your voice. They probably consider this deference, but you know it for what it is- disgust. The dogs do not help; they are a manifestation of the bruise that you are upon the world, except that their forms are not cloaked as you are. At least you can rely on them to frighten off the most foolish of your acolytes. You regard your rosary. It was a fine thing once, made of lapis lazuli and polished bone, a medallion in the shape of a radiant star. You've grafted onto it a second medallion, a wooden crescent moon whose points are worn down with years of fervent handling. The rest is now charred, stained like jet, the bone burnt beyond recognition and the stones cracked. By some small miracle, it has stayed in one piece- a testament to the handiwork of its maker, perhaps. But it will never again be beautiful. You roll it through your fingers, one worthless bead at a time, reciting the corresponding prayers that you know by heart. Better than by heart. By blood, by bone. The hounds perk up at this, their drifting minds snapping to attention. The words focus you, but they do not soothe; there are few things that can, these days, but you prefer it that way. Anything that can dampen the sacred fire within you ought to be regarded as a weapon, as an enemy. All you can afford to love is that which you already resent. [[No less than you deserve, really.|5.chapel.hum.3]]

Something lies broken at your feet. Whether it was ever whole to begin with is not your concern. You were trusted with it, you were meant to keep it safe, a lamb amongst wolves. It wasn't a hard task, all you had to do was not look away. But you did. You don't know how your focus was pulled, but sometime in the night, clever minds slipped through your defenses, stole away your treasures, and destroyed that which they could not abscond with. You have hours, minutes, maybe, to fix it before it comes undeniable fact. Does it hate you? Did it spend its last few minutes gasping and begging and wondering when you would appear, when you would bite off the hands of its killers and bring it home safe? Panic seizes you, that you should be more worried about the feelings of the dead than your own pending punishment. You do not mind, you think. Whatever consequences you face, no matter how severe, they will not be permanent. You are not the one that lies shattered, destroyed beyond repair. But.... maybe neither of you need to be. [[No one needs to be.|5.hall.tec.3]]

You don't know why your mind goes to that first. It must be the thing in your teeth, driving you mad. But... you are vast, you are nothing //but// empty space; you have room for a story or two in your gut. There cannot be a crime if nothing was broken. You insert it beneath your skin with the practiced ease of a drug addict, and feel life stir within you almost immediately. It itches, another mind settling in alongside yours, but not for long. After a few moments, it subsides, falling into place alongside all the others. Oh no. //Oh no.// That can't be right. This can't feel //familiar//; it should feel as foreign and strange in your thoughts as a fish thrown into a desert, but very little has changed. Have you done this before? How many times? Must you turn around and find that your desert has become an ocean? Something slithers in your throat. You open your mouth to scream, to howl. It comes out broken, grieving, and stuttered. //"I. O. Io. IO. IO. IO. IO IO IO IO IO IOIOIOIOIOIOIO IO IO iOIOiOIOIO iO IO IO I O IOIOIo IOio IOIO IO. Io.// <<if $four is "Ira">> <<if $fourtheatre is "Con">>[['"Io!"'|5.hall.3.kc]] <<elseif $fourtheatre is "Kat">>[['"Io!"'|5.hall.3.kk]] <<elseif $fourtheatre is "Val">>[['"Io!"'|5.hall.3.kv]]<</if>> <<else>><<if $fourtheatre is "Con">>[['"Io!"'|5.hall.3.ic]] <<elseif $fourtheatre is "Kat">>[['"Io!"'|5.hall.3.ik]] <<else>>[['"Io!"'|5.hall.3.iv]]<</if>><</if>>

"Fine, then," you say, a newfound boldness boldening your tongue. "I can prove it. Are you busy? I'll buy you a drink." You catch a rare glimpse of hesitation in Constantine before $che shakes $chis head. "You should track down Val, make sure $vtheyre not doing anything //extra// stupid. $vTheyre an impulsive little beast, even if that chaos is in Klaus' name. Tonight's ritual is looking messy enough without $vtheir... input." $cHe wavers a moment, as if $ches going to say more. "Will you at least tell me where $vthey went?" you ask, after the silence stretches on a little too long. "South, I think. Towards the Common District." "Okay. Thanks." This, Constantine apparently considers the end of the conversation. $cHe grunts something you could mistake for //good night//, and waves at you dismissively before disappearing back to whence $che came. [[Find Val|5.noval.find]] [[Give it time.|5.noval.leave]]

"That's a shame," you say, tilting your head ever-so-slightly. It's not your fault Constantine has decided what and who you are with little to back it up. Mostly. "I don't think I should have to prove anything." There's little malice or aggression in your words, but there must have been something sharp, as Constantine pauses for the first time. It's barely a breath of a moment, but you can see $chim hesitate. But then $che shakes his head, though it doesn't seem directed at you. "You should track down Val, make sure $vtheyre not doing anything //extra// stupid," $che states with a dry impassivity. "$vTheyre an impulsive little beast, even if that chaos is in Klaus' name. Tonight's ritual is looking messy enough without $vtheir... input." $cHe wavers a moment, as if $ches going to say more. "Will you at least tell me where $vthey went?" you ask, after the silence stretches on a little too long. "South, I think. Towards the Common District." This, Constantine apparently considers the end of the conversation. $cHe grunts something you could mistake for //good night//, and waves at you dismissively before disappearing back to whence $che came. [[Find Val|5.noval.find]] [[Give it time.|5.noval.leave]]

There's a sluggish numbness in your lower half that deters you from just sitting up, so sparing a glance at the nearby floor to make sure it doesn't hold a cartoonish surprise, you quietly drag your arm to the edge of the sarcophogus. With the leverage you find there, you pull yourself over, and drop over the side into a deft roll. Your fall is silent save for a small puff of dust spiralling into the air, and you dare to breathe a sigh of relief. You don't get the chance to stand before the cold steel of a gauntlet wraps around the scruff of your neck and hauls you back onto the slab like a disobedient cat. Your wrists are clamped down next, bound by a searing hot Magic that feels so much like your own it almost gives you pause. The jolt of it against your broken arm makes you bite back a sob. <<if not hasVisited ("5.guine.v.2")>>//"Be still."// The voice you'd expected had been grating- a ghoulish shriek or sinister hiss. But the sound that came from behind the Saint's veil was soft and startlingly human, if a bit faded. You could even call it drowsy. Half-aware. "I'm not afraid of you," you insist, forcing your own voice to stay even. <<else>>"I'm not afraid of you, you insist, forcing your voice to stay even.<</if>>The Saint towers above, its head nearly brushing against the low ceilings. The thing radiates //silence//, an icy calm that does little to soothe your own nerves. Maybe it's a result of the dim light, but you swear it does not breathe. //"I do not ask you to be."// It leans close, and you take the opportunity without thinking. You pull one knee to your chest and kick upwards with a powerful, desperate blow that makes contact with something solid underneath the Saint's veil. It reels back with a grunt, affording you a few precious seconds to yank your wrists free from the Magical restraints. You only manage one. The Saint recovers quickly, snatching your loose hand and slamming it back onto the stone and rebinding it, stronger than before. At least it wasn't the injured one. //"I do not know if you are subject to mortality,"// murmurs the Saint, applying the same treatment to your errant legs, //"But you are not safe from pain."// You do your best to not flinch at the statement. It sounds less like a threat than a promise, a simple fact. One of the dogs makes a wailing noise in the corner; the Saint pays it no mind. "Where the fuck am I?" you ask finally. Your mouth feels like cotton. The Saint stares at you for a few moments- or in your direction, it's hard to be sure- before gesturing into the dark. //"Listen."// First, all you can hear is the hammering of your heart, loud in your ears like a war drum. Then... the faint whistle of a draft somewhere in the crypt, the dripping of water... and chanting. The distant notes of a hymn seep through the ceiling above like wood rot and algae eating into a foundation. The melody is deep, strong, and lovely, almost enough to make the stone vibrate. Footsteps follow the words, something measured and practiced, and with it, realization. [[You are directly beneath the Divine Theatre's altar.]]

The Saint's already bested you once; you can already feel the stings and soreness in your limbs. You don't know where you are or how close help is... fighting back would probably do you more harm than good. So you hold, still as the ancient bones you imagine lay just a foot under you, wrapped in fine linens and centuries of dust. At least now that the Saint has stepped away, you can breathe, even if shallowly. A minute passes, maybe two. Nothing stirs but the ceaseless pacing of the demonic hounds. They seem impatient. You wonder what they wait for. //"Wake if you must."// Your muscles clench to contain your flinch; something in full armor shouldn't be able to move so silently. The Saint has returned, its suffocating presence once again in view. <<if not hasVisited ("5.guine.v.2")>>But its appearance shocks you less than its words. The voice you'd expected had been grating- a ghoulish shriek or sinister hiss. But the sound that came from behind the Saint's veil was soft and startlingly human, if a bit faded. You could even call it drowsy. Half-aware.<</if>> //"You do not pretend well,"// it adds. It seems less like an insult than an observation. Though you're not sure this thing can experience emotion, much less express it. You know little of the Council of Saints, except that they've more in common with heavenly creatures than people. "Where the hell am I?" you ask finally. Your mouth feels like cotton. The Saint stares at you for a few moments- or in your direction, it's hard to be sure- before gesturing into the dark. //"Listen."// First, all you can hear is the hammering of your heart, loud in your ears like a war drum. Then... the faint whistle of a draft somewhere in the crypt, the dripping of water... and chanting. The distant notes of a hymn seep through the ceiling above like wood rot and algae eating into a foundation; the melody is deep, strong, almost enough to make the stone vibrate. Footsteps follow the words, something measured and practiced, and with it, realization. [[You are directly beneath the Divine Theatre's altar.]]

You turn to the Saint questioningly, trying to hide your alarm, though you doubt it does much good. Every implication here is lost on you, but surely it doesn't bode well. "Why?" is all you manage. //"The ritual cannot be stopped,"// answers the Saint, //"But it can be intercepted. Yve Alavet was an apostate and a heretic, but she was no fool."// Doesn't bode well, at all. //"The High Priest will cast his wards, but they will not reach their target. Today there is a different lamb to the sacrifice, so that divinity may live."// "Divinity? You mean the God Beneath?" you ask, though you know the answer. The Saint inclines its head in the guise of a nod. The hymns above are growing louder, tiny streams of dust falling from the ceiling as the procession above does its sacred work. Build the Magic, recharge the wards, praise what is holy. Ira's words echo in your head. //Worship and sedation are just two different kinds of appeasement.// And you understand. You're been put in the ritual's line of fire, of Magic meant to contain an ancient god. [['"Will it hurt?"'][$Human +=1]] [[Keep silent.][$Human -=1, $Guine +=3]]

"Will it hurt?" you ask, your voice finally failing and slipping into a softer cadence. The Saint's answer is slow in coming. The apologetic note has to be your own imagination. "//I do not know. No more than it has hurt Our Liege Below.//" Comforting or horrifying? You're not sure. The Saint turns away. [[The hymns are bright in your mind.|5.guine.003]]

You'd like to think it's stoicism that keeps you quiet in the face of impending doom, but the reality is closer to abject terror. Any words are dead in your throat, but you keep your furious gaze on the Saint, maintaining the closest thing you can to eye contact. It regards you for a moment, then: //"You are brave, lamb."// You don't dignify it with an answer, and it does not seem to expect one. [[The hymns are bright in your mind.|5.guine.003]]

The words of the chant are lost on you, one writhing, melodic mass, but their meaning is clear. Adoration. Worship. //Love.// Do the priestesses even know what they're saying? Do they know who they pray to? That they pray at all? With a sudden, aching clarity, any doubts you had about the God Beneath vanish into the song like wheat beneath a thresher. You can practically hear its name in the words, its //voice//. Despair, anger, wretchedness, all soothed with carefully crafted poetry and sealed with perfect geometry. The wards being built here have nothing to do with the Holy City, its people, or its river. Not wards at all, but commands. You look upon the Saint one last time, and you know it knows your thoughts. The ritual is coming to a head, the music almost deafening, the energy palpable. The High Priest is drawing his wards, now. You cannot see him or the Magic, of course, but you can feel it, every line every measurement every angle, white hot and radiant, as clearly as if they were being etched into your own skin. The sensation is somewhere between agony and ecstasy, both soothed and exacerbated by the echoing hymn. You sink, certain that the axis of the planet has been tied to your feet, dragging you down and inwards with the crushing weight of gravity. You find yourself scarcely able to believe the stone bench, or even the crust of the earth itself, can hold you up. You are a black hole, a pit of quicksand, and you can no longer be sure of your place in reality, or its existence at all. You imagine a shell around yourself, your body a fortress, while your mind hunches deeper into the dark like a thing curling into a ball in the back of a dark cave. You can retreat from the pain, and perhaps endure it, and you almost do. Something small slips through the cracks. Small, sharp, and bright, just a single syllable of a thing. It's almost beautiful in its simplicity. A purer Magic, more familiar to you than the complex beast that the priestessess have made of it. Lovely, honest, divisible. Too late do you realize that this was the blow you should have been bracing for. All it takes is a touch, a simple caress between your brows, and you become no more. [[The void has become far too familiar.|5.guine.004]]

[[...|5.guine.005]]

[[.........|5.guine.006]]

You don't so much awaken as slowly become aware of your surroundings once more. Things fade in out of order- a distant pillar before a near candelabra, rays of light before the shadows that define them. The Saint and its dogs, last of all. You are still in the crypt atop the tomb of some unknown soul, <<if hasVisited ("Make a break for it.")>>but you find your bindings have been dismissed, and the candles have burned to stubs. <<else>>though the candles have burned to stubs. It's impossible to tell how much time has passed.<</if>> Your every muscle feels like liquid, one giant bruise, as if you'd been beaten half to death with clubs. Your head doesn't fare much better, with a dry, throbbing ache; if the lights were any brighter, you'd be cowering in pain. The Saint watches from a dozen feet away, one hand on the hilt of its sword, though without the tension of someone who intends to draw it. You can barely see the edges of its form in the faint light, nor can you hear the chanting from above any longer. Cautiously, you raise yourself to a sitting position, not taking your eyes off its general direction. //"Wake carefully. You are fragile."// [['"Oh, now you care?"']] [['"What did you do to me?"']]

"I don't want anything from you, //Saint//," you spit- both literally and not. Bloody spittle flecks onto your lower lip. The air in the crypt feels tighter than ever. "Keep your gifts." //"It is not a gift,"// comes the distant answer. //"It belongs to you."// A torrent of thoughts and fears rips through you, every possible thing you consider your own flooding to the front of your mind, everything you've lost, everything you didn't even know you've lost. A keepsake, a memory, <<if $Val gte 30 or $RO is "Val" or $RO is "ValKlaus">>... Val, who you haven't seen in hours...<<else>>something from... before. <</if>> "What could you possibly have of mine?" The Saint's sword glints impossibly radiant and cold in the dim candlelight. The demonic dogs have faded into the background for the br[[i|reboot7]]ghtness. //"Your halo."// [[Something stirs beneath the earth.|VI.0]]

"What might that be?" you ask in trepidation, "I didn't think Saints gave out gifts." //"It is not a gift,"// comes the distant answer. //"It belongs to you."// A torrent of thoughts and fears rips through you, every possible thing you consider your own flooding to the front of your mind, everything you've lost, everything you didn't even know you've lost. A keepsake, a memory, <<if $Val gte 30>>... Val, who you haven't seen in hours...<<else>>something from... before. <</if>> "What could you possibly have of mine?" The Saint's sword glints impossibly radiant and cold in the dim candlelight. The demonic dogs have faded into the background for the br[[i|reboot7]]ghtness. //"Your halo."// [[Something stirs beneath the earth.|VI.0]]

"Oh, now you care about my fragility?" you scoff, though just the act of speaking sends a wave of weariness through you. "Where was that when you broke my arm?" //"You have repaid your sin."// "I never committed any crimes against the Acropolis." That may or may not be true, but you've certainly done nothing to warrant interference from a Saint, or... whatever //this// is. And if you had... wouldn't Klaus have said something? The black forms of the demonic hounds pace forward, their hides not any more defined in the candlelight than out of it. //"The ledgers of the Acropolis are not my concern."// "Then what sin did I commit?" //"You fled from your purpose."// This is too much, too riddled with esoterica and cryptic nonsense. Damn the Religion and damn its Saints. "What are you talking about!?" you snap. "What purpose!?" Both hounds crouch low, wailing, and the Saint retreats a half-step from you, robes rippling like foul silk around its boots as it sways. There's a mournful crack in its voice as it speaks again. //"You've forgotten."// "Forgotten what!?" Your voice has become hoarse, strained. The demons' keening sets something smoldering in your chest; they may not be alive, but they know grief, you are certain. //"What you are owed. What you have lost."// [['"I don't want anything from you."'|5.guine.00.nothing]] [['"What might that be?"'|5.guine.00.what]]

"What did you do to me?" you groan. Just the act of speaking alone is enough to send a wave of weariness through you. You blink your eyes, hard, and grit your teeth. //"You've taken a mighty blow,"// comes the Saint's reply. A deflective one, you note distantly. You clutch a hand at your throat, your stomach, your ribs. There's an iron taste in your mouth, and your arm still sits at a nauseating angle, but everything seems to be otherwise intact. "I'm... alive?" //"You were made for this purpose, were you not?"// You stare at the Saint and its feartureless veil, words pouring from you slowly as you fight the sudden desperation in your blood. "Do you... know what I am?" Both hounds crouch low, wailing, and the Saint retreats a half-step from you, robes rippling like foul silk around its boots as it sways. There's a mournful crack in its voice as it speaks again. //"You've forgotten?"// "Forgotten //what//?" you cry, voice breaking in sudden despair. The demons' keening sets something smoldering in your chest; they may not be alive, but they know grief, you are certain. //"What you are owed. What you have lost."// [['"I don't want anything from you."'|5.guine.00.nothing]] [['"What might that be?"'|5.guine.00.what]]

The ritual is coming to a head, the music almost deafening, the energy palpable. The High Priest is drawing his wards, now. You cannot see him or the Magic, of course, but you can feel it, every line every measurement every angle, white hot and radiant, as clearly as if they were being etched into your own skin. The sensation is somewhere between agony and ecstasy, both soothed and exacerbated by the echoing hymn. You sink, imagining that the axis of the planet has been tied to your feet, dragging you down and inwards with the crushing weight of gravity. You find yourself scarcely able to believe the stone bench, or even the crust of the earth itself, can hold you up. You are a black hole, a pit of quicksand, and you can no longer be sure of your place in reality, or its existence at all. It takes everything in you to pull back against the pressure, especially when the hymn in your ears is a cacophonous siren call of sleep. Surrender. Succumb. But you hold on, counting the vertebrae in your spine in an effort to keep it straight. It could be seconds, minutes, years that you sit there, fighting this spell. Until something small slips through the cracks. A silver hook, sharp and bright, just a single syllable of a thing. It's almost beautiful in its simplicity. A purer Magic, more familiar to you than the complex beast that the priestessess have made of it. Lovely, honest, divisible. Too late do you realize that this was the blow you should have been bracing for. All it takes is a touch, a simple caress between your brows, and you become no more. [[Silence is a cruel master.|5.DT.9outside]]

Turning away from the flagstones, you scan the area for something else to occupy your attention. Your options are sparse, and grimly it occurs to you that your little courtyard may have been built for something as dreary as meditation. That sounds like something the Religious would do, the spoilsports. Don't they know introspection is bad for you? In fact, you feel some coming on right now. Meditation was not for you. You never could decide if there was any merit to it at all. On the one hand, you could get lost in an endless spiral of buts and ifs and whens, and there would always be something that would change the answer. On the other hand, things are or they aren't, and what the hell was thinking about it going to do? Waste time, mostly. The answer was probably somewhere in between, but that would imply that the first is correct, and one being correct would mean the other is not, which in fact, is the second theory. What a fucking headache. At least paradox is a fun word. //Par-a-dox. Pair ah docs//. Dilemma, enigma. Catch-22. You scrunch your nose, chin in hands. What the hell does that mean? Catch twenty-two what? You asked Val once and $vthey looked at you like you'd grown a second head. Frowning, you tilt your ear. The chant has grown louder without you noticing. A few more seconds of contemplation, and it's nearly deafening. You turn your cheek to the wind to confirm that you are, in fact, still outside and not back in those claustrophobic pews. [[The song is inescapable.|5.DT.8.outside]]

You awaken to an unearthly silence, and an untenable chill. Gone is the pleasantly brisk winter of the Acropolis gardens that had been so welcoming before. What little breath you can force through your cracked lips fogs the frigid air. Your teeth chatter; you need to get inside before you freeze to death. Summoning the willpower to make your muscles move takes some doing, but slowly you clamber to your feet, bones aching and joints popping. Passing out on the frozen ground did you no favors. You groan, stretching your legs experimentally. The action is only marginally more bearable than tilting your head, which causes a vicious pain to bloom across your temples. Mercifully, it quickly fades to a dull but persistent throb. Along with the once-relaxing atmosphere, the sun has also vacated the gardens. It's well past nightfall, though the stars above haven't quite revealed themselves yet. Fortunately, the moon is full and blinding, bathing your path in blue and silver. You keep your pace quick, or as quick as you can manage, knowing that lingering in the Acropolis after a ritual is as about a bad idea as they come. Energy cannot be destroyed, but a lot of it has just been spent; what remains in that void is best left a mystery. [[Continue.|5.DT.11]]

"We can talk about it later, Val," you reply. "I'm just glad you're alright. I wasn't sure what happened, if something was wrong or if you were coming back." $vThey nod again, inhaling. "Sorry," $vthey repeat$vs. "Really, really. Really sorry." "Val..." "Right, um. I'll stop now." [['"It is what it is."'|5.val.3]]

"No, you idiot," you say with as much vehemance as you can muster, which isn't very much at all. "I was worried. You ran off and disappeared without saying why. Not exactly reassuring behavior." "Oh," $vthey say$vs simply, a hint of red coloring $vtheir cheeks. "Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you. Didn't mean to do much, really, but here we are." [['"It is what it is."'|5.val.3]]

And you do, spurred on by a kind of fear you've never known, wild and ferocious, that makes your feet swift and blood thin. Steel slides against leather, heavy footsteps behind you. You'd pray and you'd scream, but what god could save you now that a Saint has caught your scent? A shape darts into place beside you, snarling and howling. The black hound snaps at your legs, its razored teeth narrowly missing the exposed skin just above your boots. You bite back your own shriek and veer away from the demon only to be forced back into a straight line by a second beast, this one with a bay that echoes so sharply off the stone that your spine rattles in answer. You tighten your lungs and will yourself to go faster. A passing, useless thought slides across you as you once again marvel at the emptiness of the Holy City's streets. On a Holy Day like this, there should be crowds thick enough to drown in. But there is no one to help, no one to even witness your flight, as if the Saint's presence has driven you into a dark, empty mirror of the city you've come to know. Perhaps the Divine Theatre has simply swallowed them whole. One of the dogs gnashes its teeth and pounces into your path, forcing you into taking a hard turn; you skid, and nearly fall at the sudden change in direction. Your heart leaps into your throat when you see another steep staircase ahead of you, knowing you have no time to catch yourself before the first step. The first impact hits hard, the edge of a stair against your jaw, but the second is far worse after you unthinkingly throw up an arm to break the fall. The brittle snap is drowned out by your own scream, but the mangled white protruding from your already injured arm is unmistakeable. Pain clamps down on you like a bear trap, a searing, deafening roar that has you spitting blood onto the steps. A demon-hound descends the staircase in two leaps, driving you to your feet and blindly onwards. The second isn't far behind. You spare a glance at your pursuer, silhouetted now by the swiftly setting sun- the Saint still approaches, at that swift but unhurried pace, the confidence somehow more frightening than the countenance. It hasn't even raised its weapon. If getting to your feet felt monumental, taking the next few steps is near impossible. Your shaking muscles protest, and every footfall reignites the white-hot pain of your broken arm, but necessity fuels you. Losing momentum could prove fatal. [[The pain blurs, but you're on your feet.|5.guine.00.r.1]] [[Turn and fight.|5.guine.00.f.2]]

"What... what did I say?" you ask hesitantly. <<if hasVisited ("4.k.mirror")>>Blacking out and sleeptalking twice in one day must be some kind of record you aren't interested in beating.<</if>> "I only caught some bits about animals, dogs or wolves, maybe. Well, that and your name. You were repeating it over and over again. Your last name, I mean. Io." "You say that so casually, like $they didn't just have a seizure," interjects Val. $vTheir voice is playful, but there's little strength to it. $vThey haven't taken $vtheir unfocused eyes off you. Ira just shrugs. "The dangers of poking around abandoned theatres are many. I'd say this went about as well as could be expected. My best guess is that you latched on to some sort of memory, of whatever was bound here. The Magic here seems particularly volatile." Val nudges your arm with one hand. "$Name, please tell me you've seen everything you want to see here. I'd love to get the fuck out of here, but I'm not leaving without you." You look to Ira first, and they give you a somber nod. "The flux in Magic will probably attract the attention of the Blessed Guard. I wouldn't recommend getting arrested. "Okay," you say, briefly wondering how much experience Ira has with the subject. "Let's get out of here." [[Continue.|5.chapel.iv]]

"What... what did I say?" you ask hesitantly. <<if hasVisited ("4.k.mirror")>>Blacking out and sleeptalking twice in one day must be some kind of record you aren't interested in beating.<</if>> Klaus just shakes his head. "You talked about dogs, mostly. It went off the rails when you started repeating your own name." You stare at him a moment longer, studying his expression. There's something else he's not telling you, but your head is far too swimmy to piece it together. "You say that like this was ever //on// the rails," interjects Val. $vTheir voice is playful, but there's little strength to it. $vThey haven't taken $vtheir unfocused eyes off you. "Isn't that where you operate best?" Klaus returns, and Val shrugs in vague agreement. Klaus turns back to you. "You probably tapped into a trace of whatever was bound here. If the ritual went poorly, as it clearly did, the Magical fallout would be severe, and you seem to be //very// sensitive to such things." You're almost certain that was an insult. Val nudges your arm with one hand. "$Name, please tell me you've seen everything you want to see here. I'd love to get the fuck out of here, but I'm not leaving without you." Klaus answers for you, before you can get a word in. "You //are// done here, whether you like it or not. I need to get a Blessed Guard patrol through here to cleanse the place, it's a safety hazard //and// a bad look. They'll assess if the theatre's worth saving afterwards. If they find anything interesting, I'll let you know." You have a feeling there's a narrow distinction between //interesting enough to share// and //too interesting to share//, but protesting that will probably only move the line out of your favor. "Okay," you say finally. "Let's get out of here." [[Continue.|5.chapel.kv]]

"What... what did I say?" you ask hesitantly. <<if hasVisited ("4.k.mirror")>>Blacking out and sleeptalking twice in one day must be some kind of record you aren't interested in beating.<</if>> "I only caught some bits about animals, dogs or wolves, maybe. Well, that and your name. You were repeating it over and over again. Your last name, I mean. Io," replies Ira; their thoughts seem scattered. "My best guess is that you latched on to some sort of memory, of whatever was bound in the circle. The Magic here seems particularly volatile." "I don't think we need to spend any more time here," Constantine says. "It's a death trap of various proportions and our luck's been stretched about as far as it'll go in one day." "I agree," says Ira with a nod. "Perhaps tomorrow the Blessed Guard should come through here, once the Magic has settled. It could use a good cleansing, maybe even a re-sanctification if possible." Constantine hums in accord. "Aye. We'll have it sealed, otherwise. No reason to have this menace of a building so accessible." Ira then fixes their eyes on you. "I'm taking $Name home. You need time to rest and recover. I don't know exactly what will help, but... it's a start." "Take $them to Val," Constantine interjects, catching you by suprise. "Maybe $vtheir gift for persistant //bothering// people can be useful for once." You suppress a groan. Val's going to put you on house arrest. [[Continue.|5.chapel.i]]

"What... what did I say?" you ask hesitantly. <<if hasVisited ("4.k.mirror")>>Blacking out and sleeptalking twice in one day must be some kind of record you aren't interested in beating.<</if>> "I only caught some bits about animals, dogs or wolves, maybe. Well, that and your name. You were repeating it over and over again. Your last name, I mean. Io." "You are //such// a fascinating little magnet, $Name," chirps Kat, looking entirely unphased by the whole to-do. "Have you been to a doctor lately? Had them check your head? Genuine question." "I don't think this is a medical issue," Ira replies gently, almost chastising. You don't dignify Kat with an answer. "My best guess is that you latched on to some sort of memory, of whatever was bound here. The Magic here seems particularly volatile." "Well, I've about had my fill of dusty old sacred death traps," she says, stretching. "I'd like to give this binding circle a good study, but I doubt the Faithful will have left us many other goodies." "If that's what you want to do," says Ira with a tired nod, and then fixes their eyes on you. "I'm taking $Name home. You need time to rest and recover. I don't know exactly what will help, but... it's a start." "Ira, sweetheart, you are far too trusting of people's dedication to their own well-being," Kat interjects. "This calls for an extremely biased third party. $Name, where does that friend of yours live?" You suppress a groan. Val's going to put you on house arrest. [[Continue.|5.chapel.i]]

"What... what did I say?" you ask hesitantly. <<if hasVisited ("4.k.mirror")>>Blacking out and sleeptalking twice in one day must be some kind of record you aren't interested in beating.<</if>> Klaus just shakes his head. "You talked about dogs, mostly. It went off the rails when you started repeating your own name." You stare at him a moment longer, studying his expression. There's something else he's not telling you, but your head is far too swimmy to piece it together. "I think it went off the rails far earlier than that," adds Constantine flatly. Klaus looks up at $chim. "Your tolerance level for the strange and occult leaves much to be desired," he says. Constantine only shrugs, and Klaus turns back to you. "You probably tapped into a trace of whatever was bound here. If the ritual went poorly, as it clearly did, the Magical fallout would be severe, and you seem to be //very// sensitive to such things." You're almost certain that was an insult. "I don't think we need to spend any more time here," Constantine says. "It's a death trap of various proportions and our luck's been stretched about as far as it'll go in one day." Klaus nods. "Maybe so. Get a Blessed Guard patrol through here; it needs to be cleansed. We can assess if the theatre's worth saving afterwards. And //you//-" he fixes those steely gray eyes on you. Relentless. "-are going home. Actually, you're going to Val. You look like shit." You suppress a groan. Val's going to put you on house arrest. [[Continue.|5.chapel.k]]

"What... what did I say?" you ask hesitantly. <<if hasVisited ("4.k.mirror")>>Blacking out and sleeptalking twice in one day must be some kind of record you aren't interested in beating.<</if>> Klaus just shakes his head. "You talked about dogs, mostly. It went off the rails when you started repeating your own name." You stare at him a moment longer, studying his expression. There's something else he's not telling you, but your head is far too swimmy to piece it together. "If you think that's off the rails, you're in the wrong business, little priest," Kat interjects. "Nobody //asked// you," he snaps. Kat only smiles, and rolling his eyes, Klaus turns back to you. "You probably tapped into a trace of whatever was bound here. If the ritual went poorly, as it clearly did, the Magical fallout would be severe, and you seem to be //very// sensitive to such things." You're almost certain that was an insult. "Well, I've about had my fill of dusty old sacred death traps," says Kat, stretching. "I'd like to give this binding circle a good study, but I doubt the Faithful will have left us many other goodies." Klaus nods reluctantly. "Maybe so. I'll get a Blessed Guard patrol through here; it needs to be cleansed. They'll assess if the theatre's worth saving afterwards. And //you//-" he fixes those steely gray eyes on you. Relentless. "-are going home. Actually, you're going to Val. You look like shit." You suppress a groan. Val's going to put you on house arrest. [[Continue.|5.chapel.k]]

"Io!" Your eyes snap open just as your spine folds like a puppet with cut strings. The ground rushes up to meet you, hitting you so jarringly that you bite your tongue and flood your mouth with hot blood. The first thing you do is spit; it's sticky, thick. You're an inch deep in icy rainwater. No longer inside the theatre, but some dingy, damp alleyway. Two blazing sources of heat register before anything else. You blink, and slowly your eyes focus to discover Constantine is crouched before you, with a hand on each of your shoulders. "Io!" $che barks, half a spasm away from shaking you sober. You try to speak, but lose the words to another choking gasp seizing your chest. You bend forward at the hips begging for air that just isn't coming fast enough. The hammering inside your ribcage is surely audible from a mile away, though it still feels sluggish, like your blood flow is trying to catch up. A third hand lays flat against your back, and the panic clears almost immediately, ice thawing from your veins. You take an experimental breath, and find your lungs full, though they still ache. You cough, righting the spittle in your throat, and look up. Klaus is behind you, two fingers on the middle of your back, his other hand glimmering with Magic. A frown is creased between his brows, one more of confusion than real concern. Still, you nod your thanks at him. Thank the Saints for priests and their first aid training. "You alive?" asks Constantine. looking you up and down like $che can find a gushing wound. You half expect $chim to grab you by the jaw and check your teeth like a sick racehorse. You nod, and make the mistake of closing your eyes for a too-long moment. "Stand up," commands Klaus from behind you. "You need to get dry." With a yank from Constantine, and guidance from Klaus, you manage to clamber to your feet. "Did I pass out again?" you murmur. Klaus frowns at you, then waves a hand. Your sodden clothes dry instantly, a warm puff of air coating your skin. "No, you seemed conscious. You took off like you had somewhere to be, and led us out here. It almost looked like a kind of sleepwalking, except you were speaking in tongues. I only caught some of it." [[Continue.|5.hall.kc.2]]

"$Name Io!" Your eyes snap open just as your spine folds like a puppet with cut strings. The ground rushes up to meet you, hitting you so jarringly that you bite your tongue and flood your mouth with hot blood. The first thing you do is spit; it's sticky, thick. You're an inch deep in icy rainwater. No longer inside the theatre, but some dingy, damp alleyway. Kat's shoes register in your brain before the rest of her- black, neat, and tightly laced. She's leaning over you, peering down like you're some sort of scientific specimen with each of your clammy hands in her own. "Oh, $Name," she clucks, "Haven't you heard you shouldn't play in dirty water?" You try to speak, but lose the words to another choking gasp seizing your chest. You bend forward at the hips begging for air that just isn't coming fast enough. The hammering inside your ribcage is surely audible from a mile away, though it still feels sluggish, like your blood flow is trying to catch up. A third hand lays flat against your back, and the panic clears almost immediately, ice thawing from your veins. You take an experimental breath, and find your lungs full, though they still ache. You cough, righting the spittle in your throat, and look up. Klaus crouches behind you, one hand between your shoulders, the other glimmering with Magic. A frown is creased between his brows, one more of confusion than real concern. Still, you nod your thanks at him. Thank the Saints for priests and their first aid training. "Feeling alright, doll?" Kat asks, forcing you to refocus your attention on her. She releases one of your hands and presses the back of her palm to your forehead. You nod, and make the mistake of closing your eyes for a too-long moment. "Stand up," commands Klaus from behind you. "You need to get dry." With borrowed strength from Kat, and guidance from Klaus, you manage to clamber to your feet. "Did I pass out again?" you murmur. Klaus frowns at you, then waves a hand. Your sodden clothes dry instantly, a warm puff of air coating your skin. "No, you seemed conscious. You took off like you had somewhere to be, and led us out here. It almost looked like a kind of sleepwalking, except you were speaking in tongues. I only caught some of it." [[Continue.|5.hall.kk.2]]

"$Name Io!" Your eyes snap open just as your spine folds like a puppet with cut strings. The ground rushes up to meet you, hitting you so jarringly that you bite your tongue and flood your mouth with hot blood. The first thing you do is spit; it's sticky, thick. You're an inch deep in icy rainwater. No longer inside the theatre, but some dingy, damp alleyway. Val is on you in an instant, probably scraping $vtheir knees the way $vthey fall$vs into place next to you. $vTheir hands snap up yours, a shock as to how cold your own have become. Your lungs are heaving, never quite managing a full, deep breath. "$Name!" Val calls again, squeezing your hands tight to draw your attention. You finally remember to make eye contact; $vtheir own are blown wide, dark, terrified. "$Name, what just happened? Say something, please!" You try to speak, but lose the words to another choking gasp seizing your chest. You bend forward at the hips begging for air that just isn't coming fast enough. The hammering inside your ribcage is surely audible from a mile away, though it still feels sluggish, like your blood flow is trying to catch up. A third hand lays flat against your back, and the panic clears almost immediately, ice thawing from your veins. You take an experimental breath, and find your lungs full, though they still ache. You cough, righting the spittle in your throat, and look up. Klaus crouches behind you, one hand between your shoulders, the other glimmering with Magic. A frown is creased between his brows, one more of confusion than real concern. Still, you nod your thanks at him. Thank the Saints for priests and their first aid training. "$Name, look at me!" begs Val, and you finally turn back to $vthem. You've never seen such a look on $vtheir face; distraught, horrified, relieved, all in one. $vThey abandon$vs one of your hands and move to grasp at your cheek. "Are you okay?" You nod, and make the mistake of closing your eyes for a too-long moment. Val squeezes your face. "Hey! Verbal confirmation." "I'm okay, Val," you murmur, your frantic breathing finally slowing down. "I think. Did I pass out again?" "Again!?" barks Val, while Klaus actually answers. "No, you seemed conscious. You took off like you had somewhere to be, and led us out here. It almost looked like a kind of sleepwalking, except you were speaking in tongues. I only caught some of it." [[Continue.|5.hall.kv.2]]

"$Name Io!" Your eyes snap open just as your spine folds like a puppet with cut strings. The ground rushes up to meet you, hitting you so jarringly that you bite your tongue and flood your mouth with hot blood. The first thing you do is spit; it's sticky, thick. You're an inch deep in icy rainwater. No longer inside the theatre, but some dingy, damp alleyway. Two blazing sources of heat register before anything else. You blink, and slowly your eyes focus to discover Constantine is crouched before you, with a hand on each of your shoulders. "Io!" $che barks, half a spasm away from shaking you sober. You try to speak, but lose the words to another choking gasp seizing your chest. You bend forward at the hips begging for air that just isn't coming fast enough. The hammering inside your ribcage is surely audible from a mile away, though it still feels sluggish, like your blood flow is trying to catch up. A third hand lays flat against your back, and the panic clears almost immediately, ice thawing from your veins. You take an experimental breath, and find your lungs full, though they still ache. You cough, righting the spittle in your throat, and look up. Ira crouches behind you, one hand between your shoulders, the other glimmering with Magic. Concern is etched deep into their features, but they remain calm. Thank the Saints for priestesses and their first aid training, you think distantly, and nod your thanks at Ira. "You alive?" asks Constantine. looking you up and down like $che can find a gushing wound. You half expect $chim to grab you by the jaw and check your teeth like a sick racehorse. You nod, and make the mistake of closing your eyes for a too-long moment. "Can you stand?" urges Ira from behind you. "We need to get you dry before you get any colder." With a yank from Constantine, and guidance from Ira, you manage to clamber to your feet. "Did I pass out again?" you murmur. Ira purses their lips, then waves a hand. Your sodden clothes dry instantly, a warm puff of air coating your skin. "No, you seemed conscious. You starting walking, and we followed you out here. And you were saying things that didn't make sense; I couldn't understand all the words. It was as if you were speaking in tongues." [[Continue.|5.hall.ic.2]]

"$Name Io!" Your eyes snap open just as your spine folds like a puppet with cut strings. The ground rushes up to meet you, hitting you so jarringly that you bite your tongue and flood your mouth with hot blood. The first thing you do is spit; it's sticky, thick. You're an inch deep in icy rainwater. No longer inside the theatre, but some dingy, damp alleyway. Kat's shoes register in your brain before the rest of her- black, neat, and tightly laced. She's leaning over you, peering down like you're some sort of scientific specimen with each of your clammy hands in her own. "Oh, $Name," she clucks, "Haven't you heard you shouldn't play in dirty water?" You try to speak, but lose the words to another choking gasp seizing your chest. You bend forward at the hips begging for air that just isn't coming fast enough. The hammering inside your ribcage is surely audible from a mile away, though it still feels sluggish, like your blood flow is trying to catch up. A third hand lays flat against your back, and the panic clears almost immediately, ice thawing from your veins. You take an experimental breath, and find your lungs full, though they still ache. You cough, righting the spittle in your throat, and look up. Ira crouches behind you, one hand between your shoulders, the other glimmering with Magic. Concern is etched deep into their features, but they remain calm. Thank the Saints for priestesses and their first aid training, you think distantly, and nod your thanks at Ira. "Feeling alright, doll?" Kat asks, forcing you to refocus your attention on her. She releases one of your hands and presses the back of her palm to your forehead. You nod, and make the mistake of closing your eyes for a too-long moment. "Can you stand?" urges Ira from behind you. "We need to get you dry before you get any colder." With borrowed strength from Kat, and guidance from Ira, you manage to clamber to your feet. "Did I pass out again?" you murmur. Ira purses their lips, then waves a hand. Your sodden clothes dry instantly, a warm puff of air coating your skin. "No, you seemed conscious. You starting walking, and we followed you out here. And you were saying things that didn't make sense; I couldn't understand all the words. It was as if you were speaking in tongues." [[Continue.|5.hall.ik.2]]

"$Name Io!" Your eyes snap open just as your spine folds like a puppet with cut strings. The ground rushes up to meet you, hitting you so jarringly that you bite your tongue and flood your mouth with hot blood. The first thing you do is spit; it's sticky, thick. You're an inch deep in icy rainwater. No longer inside the theatre, but some dingy, damp alleyway. Val is on you in an instant, probably scraping $vtheir knees the way $vthey fall$vs into place next to you. $vTheir hands snap up yours, a shock as to how cold your own have become. Your lungs are heaving, never quite managing a full, deep breath. "$Name!" Val calls again, squeezing your hands tight to draw your attention. You finally remember to make eye contact; $vtheir own are blown wide, dark, terrified. "$Name, what just happened? Say something, please!" You try to speak, but lose the words to another choking gasp seizing your chest. You bend forward at the hips begging for air that just isn't coming fast enough. The hammering inside your ribcage is surely audible from a mile away, though it still feels sluggish, like your blood flow is trying to catch up. A third hand lays flat against your back, and the panic clears almost immediately, ice thawing from your veins. You take an experimental breath, and find your lungs full, though they still ache. You cough, righting the spittle in your throat, and look up. Ira crouches behind you, one hand between your shoulders, the other glimmering with Magic. Concern is etched deep into their features, but without the feral panic that's seized Val. Thank the Saints for priestesses and their first aid training, you think distantly, and nod your thanks at Ira. "$Name, look at me!" begs Val, and you finally turn back to $vthem. You've never seen such a look on $vtheir face; distraught, horrified, relieved, all in one. $vThey abandon$vs one of your hands and move to grasp at your cheek. "Are you okay?" You nod, and make the mistake of closing your eyes for a too-long moment. Val squeezes your face. "Hey! Verbal confirmation." "I'm okay, Val," you murmur, your frantic breathing finally slowing down. "I think. Did I pass out again?" "Again!?" barks Val, while Ira purses their lips, then waves a hand. Your sodden clothes dry instantly, a warm puff of air coating your skin. "No, you seemed conscious. You starting walking, and we followed you out here. And you were saying things that didn't make sense; I couldn't understand all the words. It was as if you were speaking in tongues." [[Continue.|5.hall.iv.2]]

"What... what did I say?" you ask hesitantly. <<if hasVisited ("4.k.mirror")>>Blacking out and sleeptalking twice in one day must be some kind of record you aren't interested in beating.<</if>> "I only caught some bits about hunger, starvation, maybe. Well, that and your name. You were repeating it over and over again. Your last name, I mean. Io." "You say that so casually, like $they didn't just have a seizure," interjects Val. $vTheir voice is playful, but there's little strength to it. $vThey haven't taken $vtheir unfocused eyes off you. Ira just shrugs. "The dangers of poking around abandoned theatres are many. I'd say this went about as well as could be expected. My best guess is that you latched on to some sort of memory, of whatever was bound here. The Magic here seems particularly volatile." Val nudges your arm with one hand. "$Name, please tell me you've seen everything you want to see here. I'd love to get the fuck out of here, but I'm not leaving without you." You look to Ira first, and they give you a somber nod. "The flux in Magic will probably attract the attention of the Blessed Guard. I wouldn't recommend getting arrested. "Okay," you say, briefly wondering how much experience Ira has with the subject. "Let's get out of here." [[Continue.|5.hall.iv]]

"What... what did I say?" you ask hesitantly. <<if hasVisited ("4.k.mirror")>>Blacking out and sleeptalking twice in one day must be some kind of record you aren't interested in beating.<</if>> "I only caught some bits about hunger, starvation, maybe. Well, that and your name. You were repeating it over and over again. Your last name, I mean. Io," replies Ira; their thoughts seem scattered. "My best guess is that you latched on to some sort of memory, of whatever was bound in the circle. The Magic here seems particularly volatile." "I don't think we need to spend any more time here," Constantine says. "It's a death trap of various proportions and our luck's been stretched about as far as it'll go in one day." "I agree," says Ira with a nod. "Perhaps tomorrow the Blessed Guard should come through here, once the Magic has settled. It could use a good cleansing, maybe even a re-sanctification if possible." Constantine hums in accord. "Aye. We'll have it sealed, otherwise. No reason to have this menace of a building so accessible." Ira then fixes their eyes on you. "I'm taking $Name home. You need time to rest and recover. I don't know exactly what will help, but... it's a start." "Take $them to Val," Constantine interjects, catching you by suprise. "Maybe $vtheir gift for persistant //bothering// people can be useful for once." You suppress a groan. Val's going to put you on house arrest. [[Continue.|5.hall.i]]

"What... what did I say?" you ask hesitantly. <<if hasVisited ("4.k.mirror")>>Blacking out and sleeptalking twice in one day must be some kind of record you aren't interested in beating.<</if>> "I only caught some bits about animals, dogs or wolves, maybe. Well, that and your name. You were repeating it over and over again. Your last name, I mean. Io." "You are //such// a fascinating little magnet, $Name," chirps Kat, looking entirely unphased by the whole to-do. "Have you been to a doctor lately? Had them check your head? Genuine question." "I don't think this is a medical issue," Ira replies gently, almost chastising. You don't dignify Kat with an answer. "My best guess is that you latched on to some sort of memory, of whatever was bound in the chapel. The Magic around here seems particularly volatile." "Well, I've about had my fill of dusty old sacred death traps," she says, stretching. "I'd like to give that binding circle back in the chapel a good study, but I doubt the Faithful will have left us many other goodies." "If that's what you want to do," says Ira with a tired nod, and then fixes their eyes on you. "I'm taking $Name home. You need time to rest and recover. I don't know exactly what will help, but... it's a start." "Ira, sweetheart, you are far too trusting of people's dedication to their own well-being," Kat interjects. "This calls for an extremely biased third party. $Name, where does that friend of yours live?" You suppress a groan. Val's going to put you on house arrest. [[Continue.|5.hall.i]]

"What... what did I say?" you ask hesitantly. <<if hasVisited ("4.k.mirror")>>Blacking out and sleeptalking twice in one day must be some kind of record you aren't interested in beating.<</if>> Klaus just shakes his head. "You talked about hunger, mostly. It went off the rails when you started repeating your own name." "I think it went off the rails far earlier than that," adds Constantine flatly. Klaus looks up at $chim. "Your tolerance level for the strange and occult leaves much to be desired," he says. Constantine only shrugs, and Klaus turns back to you. "You probably tapped into a trace of whatever was bound here. If the ritual went poorly, as it clearly did, the Magical fallout would be severe, and you seem to be //very// sensitive to such things." You're almost certain that was an insult. "I don't think we need to spend any more time here," Constantine says. "It's a death trap of various proportions and our luck's been stretched about as far as it'll go in one day." Klaus nods. "Maybe so. Get a Blessed Guard patrol through here; it needs to be cleansed. We can assess if the theatre's worth saving afterwards. And //you//-" he fixes those steely gray eyes on you. Relentless. "-are going home. Actually, you're going to Val. You look like shit." You suppress a groan. Val's going to put you on house arrest. [[Continue.|5.hall.k]]

"What... what did I say?" you ask hesitantly. <<if hasVisited ("4.k.mirror")>>Blacking out and sleeptalking twice in one day must be some kind of record you aren't interested in beating.<</if>> Klaus just shakes his head. "You talked about hunger, mostly. It went off the rails when you started repeating your own name." "You say that like this was ever //on// the rails," interjects Val. $vTheir voice is playful, but there's little strength to it. $vThey haven't taken $vtheir unfocused eyes off you. "Isn't that where you operate best?" Klaus returns, and Val shrugs in vague agreement. Klaus turns back to you. "You probably tapped into a trace of whatever was bound here. If the ritual went poorly, as it clearly did, the Magical fallout would be severe, and you seem to be //very// sensitive to such things." You're almost certain that was an insult. Val nudges your arm with one hand. "$Name, please tell me you've seen everything you want to see here. I'd love to get the fuck out of here, but I'm not leaving without you." Klaus answers for you, before you can get a word in. "You //are// done here, whether you like it or not. I need to get a Blessed Guard patrol through here to cleanse the place, it's a safety hazard //and// a bad look. They'll assess if the theatre's worth saving afterwards. If they find anything interesting, I'll let you know." You have a feeling there's a narrow distinction between //interesting enough to share// and //too interesting to share//, but protesting that will probably only move the line out of your favor. "Okay," you say finally. "Let's get out of here." [[Continue.|5.hall.kv]]

"What... what did I say?" you ask hesitantly. <<if hasVisited ("4.k.mirror")>>Blacking out and sleeptalking twice in one day must be some kind of record you aren't interested in beating.<</if>> Klaus just shakes his head. "You talked about hunger, mostly. It went off the rails when you started repeating your own name." "If you think that's off the rails, you're in the wrong business, little priest," Kat interjects. "Nobody //asked// you," he snaps. Kat only smiles, and rolling his eyes, Klaus turns back to you. "You probably tapped into a trace of whatever was bound here. If the ritual went poorly, as it clearly did, the Magical fallout would be severe, and you seem to be //very// sensitive to such things." You're almost certain that was an insult. "Well, I've about had my fill of dusty old sacred death traps," says Kat, stretching. "I'd like to give that binding circle back in the chapel a good study, but doubt the Faithful will have left us many other goodies." Klaus nods reluctantly. "Maybe so. I'll get a Blessed Guard patrol through here; it needs to be cleansed. They'll assess if the theatre's worth saving afterwards. And //you//-" he fixes those steely gray eyes on you. Relentless. "-are going home. Actually, you're going to Val. You look like shit." You suppress a groan. Val's going to put you on house arrest. [[Continue.|5.hall.k]]

Within an hour, you're deposited into Val's care. You tried to play it cool, leaning against their doorframe casually, but $vthey see$vs through your white-knuckled grip on the post immediately. The fact that you nearly fall over when the door swings open probably didn't help, either. It takes you nearly ten minutes to get up the stairs. Every time you look up you're three steps lower than you'd thought. Klaus follows you up, a dark look on his face. You've been sat on the couch, scrubbed clean of charcoal and ash. Much to your dismay, Val pulls Klaus into the kitchen, where $vthey can watch you, but their voices are far too distant for you to hear. After a while - forever or a second, it's hard to tell; you may have drifted off - Klaus approaches you again, speaks a handful of words that ring in your mind but do not register, and exits. <<if hasVisited ("4.k.mirror")>>Val spends a few mintues wordlessly applying antiseptic and a bandage to the cut on your forehead, though you can tell $vtheyre bursting with questions, lectures, and Saints know what else. Maybe you'll get lucky and pass out before you can be interrogated. No good. <</if>>Val's clearly itching to grab you by the shoulders and shake some sense in and answers out of you, but is apparently too anxious about your fragile state to take action. Instead, $vthey shove$vs $vtheir face into a throw pillow for a good thirty seconds, fists clenched and every muscle tensed. "This is a new level of weird," $vthey say$vs eventually, resting $vtheir cheek against the pillow that now lies in $vtheir lap. "Even for you." You respond with a rude gesture that probably has too many fingers, but by Val's hesitant smile, you know the message got across. [[You don't keep down dinner.|5.1]]

Within an hour, you're deposited into Val's care. You tried to play it cool, leaning against their doorframe casually, but $vthey see$vs through your white-knuckled grip on the post immediately. The fact that you nearly fall over when the door swings open probably didn't help, either. It takes you nearly ten minutes to get up the stairs. Every time you look up you're three steps lower than you'd thought. Ira follows you up, and after politely complimenting the decor (Val's thanks hasty and dissmissive), they relay the situation. You've been sat on the couch, scrubbed clean of charcoal and ash. Much to your dismay, Val pulls Ira into the kitchen, where $vthey can watch you, but their voices are far too distant for you to hear. After a while - forever or a second, it's hard to tell; you may have drifted off - Ira approaches you again, speaks some soft words that ring in your mind but do not register, and exits. <<if hasVisited ("4.i.mirror")>>Val spends a few mintues wordlessly applying antiseptic and a bandage to the cut on your forehead, though you can tell $vtheyre bursting with questions, lectures, and Saints know what else. Maybe you'll get lucky and pass out before you can be interrogated. No good. <</if>>Val's clearly itching to grab you by the shoulders and shake some sense in and answers out of you, but is apparently too anxious about your fragile state to take action. Instead, $vthey shove$vs $vtheir face into a throw pillow for a good thirty seconds, fists clenched and every muscle tensed. "This is a new level of weird," $vthey say$vs eventually, resting $vtheir cheek against the pillow that now lies in $vtheir lap. "Even for you." You respond with a rude gesture that probably has too many fingers, but by Val's hesitant smile, you know the message got across. [[You don't keep down dinner.|5.1]]

Within an hour, you're deposited into Val's care. You tried to play it cool, leaning against their doorframe casually, but $vthey see$vs through your white-knuckled grip on the post immediately. The fact that you nearly fall over when the door swings open probably didn't help, either. It takes you nearly ten minutes to get up the stairs. Every time you look up you're three steps lower than you'd thought. Klaus follows you up, a dark look on his face. You've been sat on the couch, utterly suffocated in towels and blankets, yet somehow still shivering. Much to your dismay, Val pulls Klaus into the kitchen, where $vthey can watch you, but their voices are far too distant for you to hear. After a while - forever or a second, it's hard to tell; you may have drifted off - Klaus approaches you again, speaks a handful of words that ring in your mind but do not register, and exits. <<if hasVisited ("4.k.mirror")>>Val spends a few mintues wordlessly applying antiseptic and a bandage to the cut on your forehead, though you can tell $vtheyre bursting with questions, lectures, and Saints know what else. Maybe you'll get lucky and pass out before you can be interrogated. No good. <</if>>Val's clearly itching to grab you by the shoulders and shake some sense in and answers out of you, but is apparently too anxious about your fragile state to take action. Instead, $vthey shove$vs $vtheir face into a throw pillow for a good thirty seconds, fists clenched and every muscle tensed. "This is a new level of weird," $vthey say$vs eventually, resting $vtheir cheek against the pillow that now lies in $vtheir lap. "Even for you." You respond with a rude gesture that probably has too many fingers, but by Val's hesitant smile, you know the message got across. [[You don't keep down dinner.|5.1]]

Within an hour, you're deposited into Val's care. You tried to play it cool, leaning against their doorframe casually, but $vthey see$vs through your white-knuckled grip on the post immediately. The fact that you nearly fall over when the door swings open probably didn't help, either. It takes you nearly ten minutes to get up the stairs. Every time you look up you're three steps lower than you'd thought. Ira follows you up, and after politely complimenting the decor (Val's thanks hasty and dismissive), they relay the situation. You've been sat on the couch, utterly suffocated in towels and blankets, yet somehow still shivering. Much to your dismay, Val pulls Ira into the kitchen, where $vthey can watch you, but their voices are far too distant for you to hear. After a while - forever or a second, it's hard to tell; you may have drifted off - Ira approaches you again, speaks some soft words that ring in your mind but do not register, and exits. <<if hasVisited ("4.i.mirror")>>Val spends a few mintues wordlessly applying antiseptic and a bandage to the cut on your forehead, though you can tell $vtheyre bursting with questions, lectures, and Saints know what else. Maybe you'll get lucky and pass out before you can be interrogated. No good. <</if>>Val's clearly itching to grab you by the shoulders and shake some sense in and answers out of you, but is apparently too anxious about your fragile state to take action. Instead, $vthey shove$vs $vtheir face into a throw pillow for a good thirty seconds, fists clenched and every muscle tensed. "This is a new level of weird," $vthey say$vs eventually, resting $vtheir cheek against the pillow that now lies in $vtheir lap. "Even for you." You respond with a rude gesture that probably has too many fingers, but by Val's hesitant smile, you know the message got across. [[You don't keep down dinner.|5.1]]

You meet Ira again at the bottom of the staircase; the haze makes them look more like a mannequin than a person. "Can't we just go around?" you ask. "There's other ways-" "I don't think this is natural," they interrupt, pushing past you and deeper into the fog. "Doesn't it feel like Magic to you?" It doesn't, which is concerning. Magic may be ignoring you, but you should still be able to feel it. You trot after them, wondering how the hell you're meant to navigate this. A shuffling to your right makes you pause. A creak, a tap against stone, but nothing seems to move, though there's no telling how far your vision really extends right now. A shiver passes through you as you tilt your head back to Ira. "We should g-" The priestess is gone. It's just you and the gloom, pressing in tight and heavy like sand in your throat and ice in your eyes. [[Forward or back, you can't be sure of the difference.|5.guine.0]]

Somewhere behind you, you hear Klaus snort derisively, but you don't hear him leave. You don't turn back. The quickest path home is straight through the Common District, and luckily the buildings on this side of town are tall and close, blocking most of the warmth-eating wind. The covered walkways and narrow alleys would be even more accomodating, but caution wards you away. The less caged you are, the better. Thankfully, the sky has stayed clear, and the moon full. At least in the Commons, you can reasonably expect to find other people, a crowd to disappear into, a reminder that you are not the last living thing on earth. A strange sensation prickles across your neck; that chilling certainty that you weren't alone has evolved. You are being watched, and the gaze isn't friendly. It wouldn't be so unsettling if you //weren't// alone, if the city was as alive as it ought to be. The word you're looking for is somewhere between //tomb// and //trap//. [[Continue.|5.k.leave.2]]

The Common District is a tier lower than the neighborhood you're leaving, connected by staircases along the Holy City's curved retaining walls. Your steps slow as you come up on one such place; the stairs trail off into a great lake of nothing. Fog has consumed the entire lower layer, only the tallest of buildings - four or five storeys at least- breach the top, like swimmers gasping for air. It's thick, dense, a milky gray that looks as if it could steal the breath from your lungs and marrow from your bones. You've never seen weather like this in the Holy City. It's as if you're peering down into a cloud. And worst of all, it's utterly silent. The Common District has not provided you the liveliness you'd hoped for. You take a few experimental steps forward, downward. The difference is stark and almost immediate; fog swirls about your boots gracefully, and within seconds your legs are completely obscured. It'd almost be beautiful if it wasn't so damn ominous. Sense urges you to turn back, to find a path around- they exist, you know they do, but... instinct also pushes you forward. This fog isn't natural, you're sure of it. But it's the fastest way home, and your heart is starting to feel like a ticking clock. The staircase isn't too much trouble to navigate; there's only one way forward, after all. You cling to the wall as you descend, cursing this stupid city for its lack of handrails. The bottom arrives far too quickly for your liking, and you find the situation is even more dire than you'd feared- you can't even see the buildings on the other side of the street. The moon is still bright, but the way it reflects off the fogs has turned it into a blinding smear in the sky. You take a few steps forward, and when nothing jumps out to eat you, a few more. Soon, it's just you and the fog, a sea of dingy gray. A shuffling to your right makes you pause. A creak, a tap against stone, but nothing seems to move, though there's no telling how far your vision really extends right now. [[Forward or back, you can't be sure of the difference.|5.guine.0]]

A demon stands at the end of the street, watching you. Tall and nauseatingly thin, with a dark veil that obscures its face and cascades over its armor like a tainted waterfall. This is the thing that's been stalking you, you're absolutely certain. You stare back at it defiantly, refusing the fear that wants to build in your limbs. As long as you don't look at its bright, wickedly sharp sword, you can win this staring contest. //Its sword? Demons don't carry weapons.// And they don't wear armor, now that you're thinking about it. It takes a step toward you. Solid. Real. All the Magic in the air bends toward it like a black hole, and your vision tunnels. //Run.// Your heart is in your ears. //You have to run.// [[Fight.|5.guine.00.fight]] [[Flight.|5.guine.00.run]]

If you keep moving, you can stay just ahead of the dogs, and even further from their master. How someone, even a Saint, is commanding a pair of demons is beyond you, but you don't have the oxygen and blood flow to spend on thoughts right now. Something slams into your back, and by the screech you know it's one of those hellhounds. You have no strength and one less arm to catch yourself, and the ground meets you hard, cracking your already bruised jaw. You twist onto your back and kick the dog off of you, but its twin soon joins the brawl, seizing you other arm and pinning you to the ground. Its breath is frigid and foul, and its full weight on your chest like a vice. It could suffocate you just as easily as it could rip out your throat. And to your dismay, that unhurried, dark thing still follows. The sword is more visible than the Saint itself, gleaming and bloodthirsty. You can feel its radiant holiness from here. [[You cannot hide.|5.guine.002]] [[You cannot fight.|5.guine.002]]

Blindness takes you before the Saint can, though by the hot surge of Magic in the air, these may be one and the same. Your eyes aren't closed, but your vision fails you anyway, with an inky black nothing that coats your retinas. At least, to your immediate relief, the hound on your chest is called off; air rushes back into your lungs almost more painfully as it left. You attempt to call out<<if hasVisited ("5.val.3")>> to Val,<<else>> to anyone who will listen,<</if>> but your tongue is leaden, and you nearly swallow it trying to speak. Your hands seem to have a mind of their own, reaching up to your face to claw at the tender skin there, as if you could rip your sight back open. Blood wells underneath your fingernails. Footsteps halt a few feet from your head. The pacing of four-legged beasts endures, circling endlessly around your prone form. "//Below,//" says the Saint, voice like the holy ghost that possesses a congregation. You cannot explain it, but the earth starts to shift beneath you as a yawning mouth desperate to swallow you whole. You've fallen from great heights in many a dream, and you always wondered how your body knew what it felt like. How can you know the vertigo? The wind? How can you recognize the sensation consuming you now? [[Your consciousness is a slurry of mud and ice.|5.guine.crypt]]

The fastest way home is through the Common District- a lively, crowded place most days, though it should be a little more hospitable today. Most people will still be at a theatre, or at home waiting for the whole thing to blow over. But either way, maybe a little bit of merriment will do you good, even if you're only passing through. Nothing like the muffled sounds of a drinking song or the mouthwatering scent of good food to make you feel a little more alive. Val remains quiet along the way<<if hasVisited ("5.val.4a")>>, just thankful to be included, you think.<<else>>, as promised, though you can almost feel $vthem fighting the urge to speak.<</if>> The Commons are a tier lower than the neighborhood you're leaving, connected by staircases along the Holy City's curved retaining walls. One of these is just ahead, and you can see the cheerful smoke curling up from dozens of chimneys. Maybe you can be persuaded to stop for a bite- you can always send in Val for takeaway if you're not up to human interaction. These thoughts revive you, putting a measure of pep in your otherwise dragging steps. Until you nearly collide with Val's back as $vthey stop$vs dead in $vtheir tracks. "//Oof//," you say gracefully. "Watch where you're going; you can't just stop in front-" Oh. [[Your protests die in your throat.|5.guine.v.1]]

Within an hour, you're shepherded back to Val's apartment, <<if $RO is "Val">>one arm slung over $vtheir shoulders for support, though all you want is to curl into $vtheir arms entirely. Maybe right now you could even pass it off a something casual. Either way, you're too delirious to savor it.<<elseif $RO is "Klaus">>one arm slung over $vtheir shoulders for support, though what little attention you can muster is more focused on your other elbow, where Klaus has placed a guiding hand.<<elseif $RO is "ValKlaus">>one arm slung over $vtheir shoulders for support, and Klaus' hand on your elbow to guide you. Everything is a warm cocoon that you're far too delirious to unravel.<<else>>one arm slung over $vtheir shoulders for support. Never have you been so grateful to lean on Val. Literally.<</if>> By the time you reach the door, you're half-asleep again. It takes you nearly ten minutes to get up the stairs. Every time you look up you're three steps lower than you'd thought. Klaus follows you up, a dark look on his face. You've been sat on the couch, scrubbed clean of charcoal and ash. Much to your dismay, Val pulls Klaus into the kitchen, where $vthey can watch you, but their voices are far too distant for you to hear. After a while - forever or a second, it's hard to tell; you may have drifted off - Klaus approaches you again, speaks a handful of words that ring in your mind but do not register, and exits. <<if hasVisited ("4.k.mirror")>>Val spends a few mintues wordlessly applying antiseptic and a bandage to the cut on your forehead, then <<else>>Val<</if>> sinks into the armchair opposite you, clutching a throw pillow so tightly it threatens to tear. You say nothing; a shower of feathers might just be hilarious enough to fix this horrible atmosphere. "This is a new level of weird," $vthey say$vs eventually, resting $vtheir cheek against the pillow that now lies in $vtheir lap. "Even for you." You respond with a rude gesture that probably has too many fingers, but by Val's hesitant smile, you know the message got across. [[You don't keep down dinner.|5.1]]

Within an hour, you're shepherded back to Val's apartment, <<if $RO is "Val" or $RO is "ValKlaus">>one arm slung over $vtheir shoulders for support, though all you want is to curl into $vtheir arms entirely. Maybe right now you could even pass it off a something casual. Either way, you're too delirious to savor it.<<elseif $RO is "Ira" or $RO is "IraCon">>one arm slung over Ira's shoulders for support, their own curled around your waist. You're almost certain it adds to your delirium, but you don't have the heart or the self-control to pull away.<<else>> one arm slung over $vtheir shoulders for support. Never have you been so grateful to lean on Val. Literally.<</if>> By the time you reach the door, you're half-asleep again. It takes you nearly ten minutes to get up the stairs. Every time you look up you're three steps lower than you'd thought. Ira follows you up, and after politely complimenting the decor (Val's thanks hasty and dissmissive), they relay the situation. You've been sat on the couch, scrubbled clean of charcoal and ash. Much to your dismay, Val pulls Ira into the kitchen, where $vthey can watch you, but their voices are far too distant for you to hear. After a while - forever or a second, it's hard to tell; you may have drifted off - Ira approaches you again, speaks some soft words that ring in your mind but do not register, and exits. <<if hasVisited ("4.i.mirror")>>Val spends a few mintues wordlessly applying antiseptic and a bandage to the cut on your forehead, then <<else>>Val<</if>> sinks into the armchair opposite you, clutching a throw pillow so tightly it threatens to tear. You say nothing; a shower of feathers might just be hilarious enough to fix this horrible atmosphere. "This is a new level of weird," $vthey say$vs eventually, resting $vtheir cheek against the pillow that now lies in $vtheir lap. "Even for you." You respond with a rude gesture that probably has too many fingers, but by Val's hesitant smile, you know the message got across. [[You don't keep down dinner.|5.1]]

Within an hour, you're shepherded back to Val's apartment, <<if $RO is "Val">>one arm slung over $vtheir shoulders for support, though all you want is to curl into $vtheir arms entirely. Maybe right now you could even pass it off a something casual. Either way, you're too delirious to savor it.<<elseif $RO is "Klaus">>one arm slung over $vtheir shoulders for support, though what little attention you can muster is more focused on your other elbow, where Klaus has placed a guiding hand.<<elseif $RO is "ValKlaus">>one arm slung over $vtheir shoulders for support, and Klaus' hand on your elbow to guide you. Everything is a warm cocoon that you're far too delirious to unravel.<<else>>one arm slung over $vtheir shoulders for support. Never have you been so grateful to lean on Val. Literally.<</if>> By the time you reach the door, you're half-asleep again. It takes you nearly ten minutes to get up the stairs. Every time you look up you're three steps lower than you'd thought. Klaus follows you up, a dark look on his face. You've been sat on the couch, utterly suffocated in towels and blankets, yet somehow still shivering. Much to your dismay, Val pulls Klaus into the kitchen, where $vthey can watch you, but their voices are far too distant for you to hear. After a while - forever or a second, it's hard to tell; you may have drifted off - Ira approaches you again, speaks some soft words that ring in your mind but do not register, and exits. <<if hasVisited ("4.k.mirror")>>Val spends a few mintues wordlessly applying antiseptic and a bandage to the cut on your forehead, then <<else>>Val<</if>> sinks into the armchair opposite you, clutching a throw pillow so tightly it threatens to tear. You say nothing; a shower of feathers might just be hilarious enough to fix this horrible atmosphere. "This is a new level of weird," $vthey say$vs eventually, resting $vtheir cheek against the pillow that now lies in $vtheir lap. "Even for you." You respond with a rude gesture that probably has too many fingers, but by Val's hesitant smile, you know the message got across. [[You don't keep down dinner.|5.1]]

Within an hour, you're shepherded back to Val's apartment, <<if $RO is "Val" or $RO is "ValKlaus">>one arm slung over $vtheir shoulders for support, though all you want is to curl into $vtheir arms entirely. Maybe right now you could even pass it off a something casual. Either way, you're too delirious to savor it.<<elseif $RO is "Ira" or $RO is "IraCon">>one arm slung over Ira's shoulders for support, their own curled around your waist. You're almost certain it adds to your delirium, but you don't have the heart or the self-control to pull away.<<else>> one arm slung over $vtheir shoulders for support. Never have you been so grateful to lean on Val. Literally.<</if>> By the time you reach the door, you're half-asleep again. It takes you nearly ten minutes to get up the stairs. Every time you look up you're three steps lower than you'd thought. Ira follows you up, and after politely complimenting the decor (Val's thanks hasty and dissmissive), they relay the situation. You've been sat on the couch, utterly suffocated in towels and blankets, yet somehow still shivering. Much to your dismay, Val pulls Ira into the kitchen, where $vthey can watch you, but their voices are far too distant for you to hear. After a while - forever or a second, it's hard to tell; you may have drifted off - Ira approaches you again, speaks some soft words that ring in your mind but do not register, and exits. <<if hasVisited ("4.i.mirror")>>Val spends a few mintues wordlessly applying antiseptic and a bandage to the cut on your forehead, then <<else>>Val<</if>> sinks into the armchair opposite you, clutching a throw pillow so tightly it threatens to tear. You say nothing; a shower of feathers might just be hilarious enough to fix this horrible atmosphere. "This is a new level of weird," $vthey say$vs eventually, resting $vtheir cheek against the pillow that now lies in $vtheir lap. "Even for you." You respond with a rude gesture that probably has too many fingers, but by Val's hesitant smile, you know the message got across. [[You don't keep down dinner.|5.1]]

The Library of Babel could not begin to fill your brain. It is not enough, it is never enough; something is missing, an aching absence you feel like an old war wound. An endless spiral forms your gullet, tormented by a hunger you're sure could be sated if you only knew what to feed it. The entirety of the universe is at your beck and call, and yet this small thing eludes you. //You are perfect, you lack for nothing,// you are told, but the words ring false. If that were true, you would not want. //You waste yourself on this quest, there are other things to be solved.// You dream of the taste, even though you don’t know its shape. Is it sweet? Bitter? Bloody? Must you hunt it down and clamp your jaws about its throat, or will it lie down at your feet, a willing lamb to your slaughter? What you are certain of, however, is that no one will offer it up to you; there will be no silver platter. They try to keep you busy, to put more and more in front of you in the hope that you will be distracted from the empty spots. But they do not conceive of how far your plate spans, of how uneven their distribution is, of how easily you can push the scraps aside. The tasks do not occupy, they only strain. The craving dizzies you, maddens you, and you keep looking up to find untold time has passed while you've salivated over nothing. [[And yet no closer is your quarry.|5.hall.hum.2]]

Something lies dead at your feet. Whether it was ever alive to begin with is not your concern. You were trusted with it, you were meant to keep it safe, your lamb amongst wolves. It wasn't a hard task, all you had to do was not look away. But you must've. You don't remember your focus being pulled, but sometime in the night, rogues slipped through your defenses, stole away your treasures, and laid low that which they could not abscond with. You have hours, minutes, maybe, before your failures are discovered. Will they be angry? Frightened? Will //$they//? Will you have lost any trust you have gained, any goodwill you have garnered? Guilt racks you, that you should be more worried about yourself than grieved over what was lost, but you cannot help it. The dead will not mind, you think; the dead are not the ones who have to endure, who have to fear the consequences. But... if you eat the evidence, it cannot hurt you. [[It cannot hurt you.|5.hall.hum.3]]

You don't know why your mind goes to that first. It must be the hunger, driving you mad. But... it is an easy solution. A neat one. They cannot find a crime if there is no crime to be found. It's devoured in two bites, two snaps of your jaw, and your tongue cleans up the mess from your lips. Your thirst slakes, your hunger dulls... you've never tasted anything like it before. In fact, you're suddenly not certain you've truly tasted //anything// before. Oh no. //Oh no.// This can't be right. This can't be //it.// This? This is the missing piece you've been searching for? Something you cannot have? Satiation has never felt so vile. You try to vomit, you try to empty your throat and stomach and undo everything you've ever done. //You'll be good//, you promise to some unknown god, //you'll be good and you'll ignore the craving, you'll never want for anything again.// But it sticks. You want more. You will never be forgiven for this. You open your mouth to scream, to howl. It comes out broken, grieving, and stuttered. //"I. O. Io. IO. IO. IO. IO IO IO IO IO IOIOIOIOIOIOIO IO IO iOIOiOIOIO iO IO IO I O IOIOIo IOio IOIO IO. Io.// <<if $four is "Ira">> <<if $fourtheatre is "Con">>[['"Io!"'|5.hall.3.kc]] <<elseif $fourtheatre is "Kat">>[['"Io!"'|5.hall.3.kk]] <<elseif $fourtheatre is "Val">>[['"Io!"'|5.hall.3.kv]]<</if>> <<else>><<if $fourtheatre is "Con">>[['"Io!"'|5.hall.3.ic]] <<elseif $fourtheatre is "Kat">>[['"Io!"'|5.hall.3.ik]] <<else>>[['"Io!"'|5.hall.3.iv]]<</if>><</if>>

You occupy a small space, cramped. It may be dark, you cannot tell. You aren't much for telling dark from light, these days. Your vision never wavers, either way. The beast you call master crouches just ahead, watching something in its odd little fire. You've never been able to see what it sees in its collection of candles and bright-burning flame, but then, you aren't sure you care. It isn't looking. You slink backwards a step, two, three, and when you think it is paying the least attention, you try to wrench free of the beast's grasp. But it bites down, teeth deep within your neck, and drags you back under control. You will not escape it today. A whimper escapes you - a sickly, broken sound - but it ignores your cries. Just as well- it was a song of frustration, not pain, and you had little hope it would fall for something as simple as pity. This was an experiment of curiosity, a mean little reminder that you are not a guarantee. Anyone's guess as to whether or not the message was received. It's been a millennia since you were leashed to the beast's side, your structure laced with its blood and your name written into its palms. Yet it seems as frustrated as you, no closer to whatever ill-intentioned goal it envisions. You can give power, but it does not wish to use it. You can give knowledge, but it does not listen. And you can give pure, vibrant divinity, but even that is not enough for it to deem itself worthy. Worthy of //what//, you don't know. It isn't for you to know. Knowledge is not for you to gain. There's something instinctual in your tissues that hints of more. You //were// more, once. You could adapt, inform, control. Now you cannot listen, you only speak. Deaf to divinity. [[Heaven has slipped from your grasp and you will not find it again.|5.chapel.tec.2]]

The beast pulls a chain from its pocket. It obsesses over this chain, this collar, though you cannot see why. It's made of bone, but bone so dead that you can no longer smell its blood or marrow. Useless except to pick your teeth with, but its only sharp points are worn away by time. Old things, the beast loves old things. Only some days does that include you. Perhaps you are biased; you don't like looking at the chain or its beads. Your diagnosis of its death is a sensation as well as it is literal. It is still, far too still, never swaying in the breeze or buzzing with the air. It is like a noose clipped around your neck, a muzzle around your snout; your heart hammers every time the beast rolls a bead through its fingers and recites some arcane words. Like most things, their meaning is lost on you, but you know the way they make you ache. The prayers draw on you as much as they paralyze you. Your vision tunnels with every verse until all you are is a bolt to be aimed. At least then you are given a purpose and you are once again part of a whole. You bite down on whatever the beast asks; your will is its will, your hunger is its own. This is the power the beast demands, though you still cannot grasp what it wants it for. You frighten its sheep, though it exudes plenty of terror on its own. The folk will not look it in its face, will not speak more than three words to it that are not foolish, pathetic pleas for wisdom. Though they like you even less; you rather think the beast finds relief when you slink by its side and chase away the petitioners. [[It deserves better, really.|5.chapel.tec.3]]

You watch the beast closely, watching it pace the walls and scratch at its skin. It begs for a sign, anything, no matter how small. You cannot understand who it pleads with, except that you had once been attuned to answer. The beast prays until its throat bleeds, willing to tear down a hundred cities and end a thousand lives for just one drop of devotion from its deity. You wish you could grant it what it asks for. Fortunately, that burden does not fall to you. Instead, a long lost sheep returns to the beast's fold-willingly, to your surprise. The scent of its blood tastes familiar, though you do not remember its face. //"I've seen it,"// the little lamb cries. It is afraid. //"Miracles and impossible things. It calls itself-"// You strain for the word, the edge of recognition burning inside, but the beast hushes the lamb before it can finish. Your heart cracks in twain, such hope dashed against the walls of these dark caves. You snap your teeth, tasting the air, desperate for the information you've been denied. The beast turns to you, leaning forward so as to insure you are listening. You didn't know how to listen, until now. //"Aye,"// it says, and your nerves alight. Almost, almost. //"Oh."// You know this language. //"Aye!"// continues the beast, its voice rising above its customary whisper, reverberating with trepidation and pent-up grief. A wailing rises from somewhere you cannot see. //"Oh!"// //"I. O. Io. IO. IO. IO. IO IO IO IO IO IOIOIOIOIOIOIO IO IO iOIOiOIOIO iO IO IO I O IOIOIo IOio IOIO IO. Io.// <<if $four is "Ira">> <<if $fourtheatre is "Con">>[['"Io!"'|5.chapel.3.kc]] <<elseif $fourtheatre is "Kat">>[['"Io!"'|5.chapel.3.kk]] <<else>>[['"Io!"'|5.chapel.3.kv]]<</if>> <<else>><<if $fourtheatre is "Con">>[['"Io!"'|5.chapel.3.ic]] <<elseif $fourtheatre is "Kat">>[['"Io!"'|5.chapel.3.ik]] <<else>>[['"Io!"'|5.chapel.3.iv]]<</if>><</if>>

There's a single heartbeat of silence, a mighty crescendo to mark the end of the song, and then movement spirals across the stage. Another hymn rises from the choir, from the chapels, from the congretation, echoing about you endlessly. You don't know the words. You don't know the words! Or, perhaps you do, but it makes you sick to say them, your voice souring them into any other song, into anything that means nothing. Any second now, someone will find you out and grab you by the scruff and haul you from the Theatre pews, throw you into the streets to drown in your own failures. They'll know that you questioned, you who never truly believed, not like the others, not like the ones who are Beloved. The chanting worms its way under your skin, saturating you with an oppression that chills your blood and tightens your lungs. Keeping your eyes open is becoming harder and harder with every line of hymn, and the Magic in the atmosphere is thick enough to choke on. If you could breathe, it'd fog the air. Something in the eaves asks a question and when you answer, the sound of your own name sits about your shoulders with the lushness of a freshly skinned pelt. //Liar.// You don't realize you've stumbled until Val's hands are on your arms, keeping you upright. Something is very, very wrong. You try to find Klaus again on the stage but between the flickering candles and the haze of incense, all you can see is a dark smudge, made impossibly far away by a sickly vertigo that reduces you to the size of an ant in a giant's castle. The pillars and vaults of the Divine Theatre loom above, the statues of Saints seeming like gargoyles sitting in sinister judgement. "Val," you mumble, not certain you've even spoken at all. Fortunately, $vthey seem$vs to understand, and suddenly you're moving, guided only by Val's hand in your own. You could be floating, or drowning, for all you know, as you walk, carried along by a drowsy river. [[You shiver under your own skin.]]

There's a single heartbeat of silence, a mighty crescendo to mark the end of the song, and then movement spirals across the stage. Another hymn rises from the choir, from the chapels, from the congretation, echoing about you endlessly. The fear you've held all your life melts away; you could not begin to describe or explain the ritual, but you know it's //right//. It's divine. The lights, the cacophany, the overwhelming //everything// wraps around you tenderly, a warm blanket in the midst of winter. Peace fills you, and your only regret is that you've never given yourself the chance to experience this before. If this is what makes the priestesses so devout, you cannot blame them. In this moment, you'd do anything, make any sacrifice, if only it secures you this tranquility. It aches, it itches. The chanting worms its way under your skin, saturating you with an oppression that chills your blood and tightens your lungs. You're forgetting to breathe. Keeping your eyes open is becoming harder and harder with every line of hymn, and the Magic in the atmosphere is thick enough to choke on. The air is like a lullaby. Something in the eaves asks a question and when you answer, the sound of your own name sits about your shoulders with the lushness of a freshly skinned pelt. //Liar.// You don't realize you've stumbled until Val's hands are on your arms, keeping you upright. Something is very, very wrong. You try to find Klaus again on the stage but between the flickering candles and the haze of incense, all you can see is a dark smudge, made impossibly far away by a sickly vertigo that reduces you to the size of an ant in a giant's castle. The pillars and vaults of the Divine Theatre loom above, the statues of Saints seeming like gargoyles sitting in sinister judgement. "Val," you mumble, not certain you've even spoken at all. Fortunately, $vthey seem$vs to understand, and suddenly you're moving, guided only by Val's hand in your own. You could be floating, or drowning, for all you know, as you walk, carried along by a drowsy river. [[You shiver under your own skin.]]

You blink hard, once, twice, your eyes suddenly feeling hot and dry from the relentless winter breeze. Your brain is starting to feel foggy, a little slow. Kat watches you shake yourself awake with owlish interest. "You know, $Name, I meant to ask, but you surprised me out of it with your multilingual talents- are you out here all alone? Truly no offense, doll, but you don't look so peachy. <<if $fourtheatre is "Kat">>Worse than when we last met, if it can be believed.<<else>>Just about primed to keel over, I'd say.<</if>>" You shrug, and nod, a bit sheepish suddenly. She hums discontendedly. "Where is your friend? That darling little mercenary<<if $RO isnot "Val" and $RO isnot "Klaus">> that Klaus is so enamored with<</if>>? $vThey seem$vs like a bit of a hoverer, and besides, I'd love to compare notes on everyone's favorite cult." "Val? I don't know," you admit, <<if $fourtheatre isnot "Kat">>not daring to ask how Kat came to the conclusion that Val would know anything.<</if>> "$vTheyve up and vanished on me, too." "My my, you //are// losing folk left and right. Ought to start tying yourself to people with string so they quit wandering off. You try to laugh, but it comes out more like an exasperated groan. "Maybe I should." [['"Speaking of, I should get going."'|5.kat.3]]

"Haven't heard that one, I'm afraid," you cough. It seems a neutral enough answer. She looks at you askance, and for one perilous moment you fear you've made a social blunder. Then she smiles; a real smile, not the shark-toothed grin you've been introduced to already. "What?" you ask, suspicious. "Do you know how rare it is to hear my own language in this City? In this //Empire//? I don't think I can remember the last time I was so lucky." "What?" you repeat. It takes your brain a minute to catch up- Kat's words were strange, accented, and hadn't even registered as foreign. This wouldn't be the first time you've bent to the language of your conversation partner without realizing, though it has been a while. The last time, the grizzled old fruit vendor thought you were mocking him and threw a rotting apple at your head. "Are you so beautifully fluent that you don't know when you've switched tongues?" asks Kat with a laugh. "I was talking to myself, $Name, about the idleness. Where did you learn? Your tone is excellent, if maybe a bit formal." It's a little clumsier now that you've been made aware of it, but you continue in the foreign language. You don't even know what it's called, though admitting that to Kat would raise a few too many questions. "I don't know, I'm just good with languages. Always have been. Just picked things up here and there, I suppose." Kat raises an eyebrow, though you get the sense she's trying very hard to tease out information rather than interrogate. "There's no one around here to pick it up from, doll. Except Ira perhaps, but they haven't managed to nail down much more than 'hello', 'goodbye', and 'where is the library?'. Love the little thing to death, but they //cannot// roll an R to save their life." [['"So you're a foreigner, then?"']] [['"It's a pretty language."' ♡][$KatFlirt +=1]]

"So you're a foreigner, then?" you ask, sensing a route for conversation. A rare opportunity to learn more about Kat, depending on how willing she is to share. "Where are you from?" She responds with a short laugh. "I appreciate the compliment towards my skill at blending in, but I thought that was obvious. You don't know the place, I assure you. It's far away, across vast land and sea, outside the reach of the Empire." You know little of geography, but you know enough to realize she isn't exaggerating the distance if her home is truly outside the Holy Empire. [['"Then why are you here?"']] [['"Do you have family there?"']]

"Do you have family out there?" Something about Kat makes it difficult to imagine her as having ever been a child, rather than just emerging from the woodwork one day, ready to terrorize whoever she deems fit. But, you suppose, she must have come from somewhere. Even //you// had to have come from somewhere. "Not back home, but I've a brother," she hums, "We're twins, actually." "What's his name?" "Lawrence, last I heard. But it's been a few years, I'm sure he's left that one long behind. Oh, don't make such a face," she chastises with a little laugh. "We change identities often in this business; it helps to get rid of your first entirely." You hide your frown; you have no (known) siblings to speak of, but you're farily certain this is still an odd situation for Kat and her brother to find themselves in. "So he's in the same... business as you?" There's a sparkle in her eye when she answers. "Indeed. And he's quite good at it- I'm better, of course, but he's no blemish to the reputation. His interests are far more secular than mine. I believe he's out east somewhere, worming his way into the minds of grand merchants and warring princes; not nearly as interesting as a doomsday cult, I think." [['"Are you ever going to tell me what exactly you are?"'|5.kat.2]]

"Then what are you doing here?" you ask. The Holy City is a hub of trade and travel from all parts of the Empire, and is frequently stocked with foreigners of all kinds, but mostly ones from inside the Empire's holdings itself. "I go where I'm told," she replies, and when your skepticism becomes plain on your face, she laughs again. "It's where the action is, of course. What's messier than a bunch of inebriated scholars who think they're better than god? "I didn't think you believed in a higher power. Doesn't seem like your style." "It isn't. But I'm not convinced the Religious are so atheistic, either, no matter what they say. And that's where the fun comes in. I do love when they lie; they're all so good at it." [['"Does that include Ira?"']] [['"Are you ever going to tell me what exactly you are?"'|5.kat.2]]

"It's a pretty language," you say, your mouth once again getting ahead of your brain. "It suits you." You couldn't possibly pin down what Kat does that pulls her smile into a smirk, but you think it might have something to do with the way her lips part, or her head tilts, making the dark lines around her eyes even sharper. "You think so, $Name?" she coos. "It sounds even lovelier coming from your lips. There's so many things I'd just love to hear you say." You don't know what the hell to do with that statement, so you look at the ground to try and hide your blossoming smile. [['"So you're a foreigner, then?"']]

You give Kat a quick up-and-down scrutiny; she notices the glance and cocks her head in teasing curiousity. "Sizing me up, darling?<<if hasVisited ("Uh oh. Soup for brains. ♡")>> You know I meant it when I offered to play dress-up." She winks. <<else>> We're not quite the same size, but you're always welcome to come over and play dress-up."<</if>> "Actually," you counter, <<if $RO is "Kat">> stamping your blush into the ground before she can catch it,<</if>> "I was just wondering if you were ever going to tell me what your deal is. If you'd admit that you're some kind of spy." Kat gives you that easy grin. "It's a rather romantic concept, isn't it? Courageous, mysterious, swashbuckling... willing to do whatever it takes for king and country, and by the Saints might it be //anything//." She pauses, fixes her dark eyes on you. "Would you //like// me to be a spy, $Name?" "You're avoiding the question." "So I am." "That only convinces me even more," you reply. A sudden eerie realization creeps over your shoulders that you don't know the rules of this game. Or the win condition. At least Kat seems to be enjoying it. "Good!" She gestures, tapping one nail against her cheek. "Be sure of your hypotheses, don't let me sway you! I would be //intensely// curious to hear your suspicions and theories of me, if you'd ever like to share." "Why?" you ask, a wry smile creeping onto your tired face. "So you can know all your weak spots?" She laughs. "Because I like hearing about and talking about myself, doll. But sure, I'm happy to know what you consider my weak spots." You could not begin to guess if that was an innuendo. [[The exhaustion is getting to you again.|5.kat.val]]

"Does that include Ira?" you ask, wondering how she'll slither out of the contradiction. "You seem like good friends." Kat regards you for one moment longer than you're comfortable with, gaze cool and discerning. "Ira's a darling, and I'll not hear a word against them. But I always mean what I say, $Name." "So they are a liar too, then?" you push. "Not a word, I said," she repeats. It's a warning, but you can't sense any real seriousness in her expression or voice. "Have they given you a reason to be distrusted?" You think on it a moment, then slowly shake your head. Even if they had, it's probably not wise to admit this to Kat. There's an edge of protectiveness when she speaks of the priestess. Kat looks satisfied with your decision. "Then don't invent one. Believe me, seeing shadows around every corner isn't going to get you as far as you might think. Just makes you scared." [['"Are you ever going to tell me what exactly you are?"'|5.kat.2]]

> > > > ><div style="text-align: center;">[[Five years ago...|VI.1]]</div> <<silently>><<if $vperson is "man">> <<set $vtheyd to "he'd">> <<set $vTheyd to "He'd">> <<set $vwerent to "wasn't">> <<set $vWerent to "Wasn't">> <<elseif $vperson is "woman">> <<set $vtheyd to "she'd">> <<set $vTheyd to "She'd">> <<set $vwerent to "wasn't">> <<set $vWerent to "Wasn't">> <<else>> <<set $vtheyd to "they'd">> <<set $vTheyd to "They'd">> <<set $vwerent to "weren't">> <<set $vWerent to "Weren't">> <</if>><</silently>>

Val was having, if $vthey $vwere being honest, a shit kind of day. The Religious had been on edge for weeks, the Blessed Guard swarming every street corner and all too happy to prove a point. Fair enough, Val supposed; they did just get their shit rocked by a traitorous High Priestess who left quite a bit of rubble in her wake. On the bright side, no one had asked Val to set foot in a theatre since that day. No telling how long that would last. It was a miracle the Acropolis hadn't declared martial law or even a curfew, really. Probably trying to save face and suppress any panic, if the rumors were true, though Val figured it had more to do with being in a state of complete shock and simply not giving a damn what the hell happened to the denizens of the Holy City in the meantime. Can't expect the priestesses to care about looting when they've just discovered they are not invulnerable. The streets varied wildly in population those first few weeks, especially after dark- some packed and churning with mobs drunk on adrenaline, others entirely deserted, their occupants not daring to set foot outside. Couldn't blame them, either- just a few minutes of breathing in the ashy air was enough to make Val's lungs stutter. It probably didn't help that $vtheyd been punched in the chest not half an hour earlier; if the Blessed Guard didn't get you, a mugger trying to take advantage of the chaos might. The unfortunate brigand had picked a bad target; Val planned to pout for days over the bloodstains on $vtheir favorite shoes. $vThey would need another contract soon in order to replace them, and times like these tended to have... unpredictable effects on the job market. [[Ah, well. Life of a no-good mercenary.|VI.2]]

$vThey turned onto a new street- a ruined one, but one that had been ruined for a good long time rather than being a victim to the Religious' recent redecorating. Most of the ruins Val never minded; they were interesting, and far from dead despite their appearance. And when the old buildings became inhabited again, patched in places and bent into a new shape to fit the new tenants, Val felt a strange sense of delight and comfort that $vthey could never explain. Something about the refusal to die. Except for the theatres. Never the theatres. If the other ancient buildings cultivated new life like a seed, the holy places clung to it like a riptide. Val knew $vtheir aversion to the Religious bordered on irrational at times, but no one could question the wisdom of avoiding abandoned theatres. Threat of trespassing charges aside, Val was simply not interested in finding out the consequences of leaving such places unsanctified. Fuck the theocracy, but at least those damn priestesses kept the moldier side of Magic in check. That all said, curiosity was an even stronger flaw of Val's, and potentially a more fatal one. So when a commotion arose in a crumbling, half-sunken theatre as Val shuddered past, $vthey could not resist the urge to look. Strange lights flashed across the nearby walls, casting ghoulish shapes on the marble and stone. There was a soft //thump//, then a weak cry of pain, or fear, or both, and a faint sobbing. Val crept to the edge of the path overlooking the ruined theatre, once magnificent and now nothing more than a few slabs of weathered stone and what maybe resembled a staircase if you squinted. $vThey found a good vantage point in a worn-down balcony, peering through the stunted marble of a balustrade. Below stood two hazy figures. [[One dark and one light.|VI.3]]

The first, some kind of angel, Val thought. The searing brightness crowning the angel's brow forced Val to shrink back and shield $vtheir eyes, leaving stars dancing across the backs of $vtheir eyelids. $vTheyd seen angels before, too many to be comfortable with, but never had the halos been this radiant; most were no stronger than a lamp, or the full moon for the particularly fierce. This was the entire goddamn sun in six or seven pinpricks of light. Mercifully, the other figure stepped between Val and the angel, cutting off the light and giving Val a chance to blink $vtheir vision back into focus. It took Val a moment to identify the second figure, ragged and filthy as it was. $vTheyd never seen a Saint like this, looking more relic than warrior; but that cold, featureless mask was unmistakable. Its cloak was heavy with soot and dried blood. Injured, then, probably in the recent explosion. And if it bleeds... Val leaned forward, squinting for a closer look. Of course $vthey knew Saints could be hurt, could even die, but it had never really felt plausible. Seeing it confirmed opened up a whole new realm of possibilities for Val's little nightmare fantasies. Not thinking about Saints at all would be preferred, but at least now $vthey could imagine some kind of vengeance. The blood was difficult to see on the Saint's dark cloak, especially in this low light. But looking at it healed something petty and wounded inside Val, and so $vthey peered closer, and closer, until- [[Until the ancient balustrade gave way.|VI.4]]

In retrospect, Val probably should have heard the groaning as the stone shifted and pieces crumbled away. But also in retrospect, Val shouldn't have been there at all. It was a short fall, at least. Val tumbled over the side of the ruined balcony and into the room below, accompanied by a chalky cloud of dust and more than one cry of pain. $vThey rolled to a stop, moaning and hacking and distantly trying to decide if it would be worse to land at the feet of the angel or the Saint. The first thing Val saw was black gauze that smelled of smoke. Ah, the Saint, then. Somehow the absurdity of it all managed to keep Val's heart from seizing with terror. $vThey scrambled to $vtheir feet, irrationally putting the angel at $vtheir back- it was definitely still a threat, but less dire-looking than the other. Muscle memory had one of Val's slender knives in $vtheir hands quicker than a blink, held sharply in the space between $vthemself and the Saint, glittering madly. "Get out of here," Val said, every muscle in $vtheir body contracting to keep the tremble from $vtheir words. "The streets aren't for Saints. Go back to your damn Acropolis." //"Don't be a fool."// The Saint's voice wasn't much more than a guttural growl, but it was enough to send adrenaline spiking through Val's veins. The spark went straight to $vtheir fingers, where $vthey adjusted $vtheir grip on the knife, ready to swing. And $vthey felt foolish the moment $vtheir foe reached back for its own weapon, less a threat than a punctuation to its words. The sword was almost as tall as Val $vthemself, and despite the Saint's own tattered appearance, $vthey did not for a second doubt its sharpness. Still apparently thinking with the stupid side of $vtheir brain, Val held $vtheir ground. But the Saint took a step, closing in, raising its sword- A mighty flash of light cut through the air, and for a moment Val thought $vtheyd been struck down, $vtheir cringing away from the brightness just a way to cope with the fact that $vthey were certainly dead or dying. At least it hadn't hurt. The //sound// was odd, though. A clicking, a whistle, a cry of pain and a thud that was not Val's own. Val felt at $vtheir organs, eyes still clamped shut. $vThey $vwerent dead. They $vwerent even bleeding. Bewildered, $vthey cautiously opened one eye, then another. [[It took thirteen seconds to come to terms with the sight.|VI.4.5]]

Something blinding lay on the ground just outside of Val's vision, but $vthey couldn't bring $vthemself to turn. Instead $vthey cautiously stepped toward the once-angel and were met with glittering $Eye_color eyes that latched onto Val's outstretched hand. It no longer shone so brightly; its halo was gone. And an angel without its halo was.... not what Val had expected. It almost looked human. It mumbled something in a language Val couldn't identify, tripping over the words like it was trying to figure out the machinations of its own mouth. It frowned, shook its head, and spoke again in a pattern so vastly unlike the first that Val had to assume it was a different language. Then, almost without hesitation, it took $vtheir hand in a gentle grip, lacing fingers together as if it was a familiar gesture. "Hello," Val said, voice timid. "My name's Val. What's yours?" The angel paused again, brows coming together and eyes scanning the horizon, searching for a thought. Then, finally, a relieved smile: "$Name." <<if $Name is "Val">>"No, that's //my// name," the mercenary replied, but the angel just frowned and pointed at itself insistently. Val sighed. This was going to be complicated.<<elseif $Name is "Mal">>$vThey bit back a laugh. Of course. <</if>>[["Nice to meet you," breathed Val.|VI.6]]

A gravelly moan escaped the Saint, and Val's blood turned to ice. $vThey stood between that thing and its weapon, but there was no doubt who would be the faster once it woke. //Scraps for vultures,// $vthey reminded $vthemself, the well-worn mantra like iron in $vtheir bones, //and nothing for Saints.// "Listen, $Name," $vthey whispered, folding $vtheir fingers down to fully take the angel's hand, "We have to go. Right now. Somewhere safe." It nodded with a naïve trust that made Val's heart ache, but there was no time to ponder ethics nor consequences- $vthey needed to put as much distance between them and the Saint as fast as possible. Quickly, Val led the angel from the ruin, clambering over the crumbled rock- thankfully the staircase was in better shape than the balcony- and out into the cramped pathways of the Theatre District. It was nimble, though easily distracted. More than once Val had to tighten $vtheir grip and reign the angel in before it could veer down some dark alley or another. But it didn't complain, returning to Val with a swing of its arm and an amused expression that was hard to define. //Whatever you want,// that smile seemed to say, //You're in charge.// Though Val had a growing idea that that was far from true. Instinct pushed Val to obscure their trail, looping around buildings and taking nonsensical turns in case the Saint followed, but a desire for speed won out, and they arrived at Val's little red door in less than twenty minutes. It was both a relief and a terror to arrive so quickly. The angel eyed the steep staircase with suspicion, but then shook off whatever thought halted its steps and climbed. [[Val only fumbled the keys once.|VI.7]]

Val locked the door behind $vthem with every bolt and chain at $vtheir disposal, and a chair under the knob for good measure. The old door probably wouldn't stop the Blessed Guard, much less a Saint, but still, it made $vthem feel that much safer. $vThey rushed to brighten the room, and in the soft lamplight, $vthey got their first real look at the angel-not-angel $vthey had welcomed into $vtheir home. It struck Val how human it looked, from its $skin_color cheeks in desperate need of some sun to the $hair_color <<if $hair_type is "coily">>coils of its hair frazzled in a way that made Val wince; that was going to take some work. At least $vthey already had the supplies lying around.<<elseif $hair_type is "curly">>curls of its hair all flattened and tangled in a way that was going to take some work to salvage.<<elseif $hair_type is "wavy">>waves of its hair all knotted and flat, but nothing a good comb couldn't solve.<<else>>locks of its hair all greasy and tangled; not Val's area of expertise, but surely nothing a good wash couldn't solve.<</if>> Its clothes were strange and moth-eaten, and the shoes it had politely left at the door were splashed with grayish mud. And its socks were wet. "Here," Val said, turning towards $vtheir dresser. "Let's get you some dry clothes. <<if $height is "short">>Might be a little big, but...<<elseif $height is "tall">>I've got some oversized stuff that might fit.<<else>>My stuff should fit you just fine.<</if>>" $vThey dug a shapeless sweater and soft pants from the back of the drawers, along with a pair of knitted socks. Clashing colors, but they would do; Val could only hope the angel didn't need new underwear. $vThey presented this small stack to the angel, who took it with a curious smile. It set the clothes down and begun stripping off its own immediately, leaving Val to hurriedly turn away. Shame, apprently, was not in its vocabulary. Not that Val was a prude by any stretch of the imagination, but it had caught $vthem off guard. At least the angel itself seemed clean; Val wasn't sure $vthey could handle the logistics of a bath just yet. [[It was going to be a long night.|VI.8]]

The thought had already occurred, but now it hit Val in full force: this creature wasn't an //it//, and certainly was no angel. This was a person. Someone with a halo and divinity wedged halfway down their throat, but a person all the same. A $priestess, maybe- Val could live with that. The stranger wouldn't be the first failed Religious initiate that turned up delirious, and $they certainly wouldn't be the last. //Could a $priestess //be// an angel?// $vthey wondered. "$Name," Val called, almost before realizing the name was out of $vtheir mouth. $Name looked up immediately, still cradling the figurine in $their hands and the faint smile lighting $their $Eye_color eyes. //"What are you?"// was what Val meant to ask, but something else came out. "Are you hungry?" $vthey blurted, surprising even $vthemself. $Name paused, searching for an answer, then touched $their fingers to $their lips and replied with something Val still could not decipher. The gesture, though, $vthey understood. Ten minutes later, Val handed $vtheir guest a plate of buttered toast and sliced fruit. $Name had been particularly interested in the toasting process and just about set $their own sleeves on fire trying to investigate while Val's back was turned. Luckily, nothing more than a dish towel and $Name's welcome in the kitchen were sacrificed to the flame. <<if $hungry is true>>The food was wolfed down almost faster than Val could make $vthemself a plate. Val would have expected this - possible starvation wasn't that surprising - if it weren't for the way $Name ate. It wasn't desperate or even relieved; it was the breathless inhale of someone who had never been so delighted in their life and didn't care to take a moment to breathe. For the first time that night, Val felt a real smile creep over $vtheir face. "Toast hardly counts, but I'm glad //someone// finally appreciates my cooking," $vthey said, flourishing a butter knife. $Name looked up at Val and returned the smile, sucking fruit juice from the tips of $their fingers. <<else>>Nearly an hour later, half the food still remained on the plate. None of it seemed to particularly repulse $Name, nor did it fascinate $them. Instead, $they retained an aloof curiosity with each new flavor, eating as if $they knew $they //had// to, but didn't enjoy nor hate the ride. To $their credit, $Name tried at least two of everything, and picked at the plate for the rest of the night. "Don't worry," said Val, snatching a piece of mango from the plate and popping it into $vtheir mouth, "We'll find something you like. I love an excuse to experiment." <</if>>Eventually, $Name settled back into the couch and drifted off, apparently exhausted by everything $theyd undergone. Seemed fair, Val figured, and draped $vtheir softest blanket over the sleeping form. Taking advantage of the quiet, Val slipped back into the kitchen to take care of the dishes; somehow, $vthey had a feeling there wouldn't be much time for chores in the coming days if $vthey were going to find this stranger a home. $vThey $vwere halfway through drying a knife when quiet footsteps padded up behind $vthem. [['"Val."'|VI.10]]

"Val." $vTheir skin grew cold for a moment at the sound of $vtheir own name, but $vthey forced $vthemself to set the knife back on the counter and turn without flinching. $Name was much closer than expected. <<if $RO is "Val" or $RO is "ValKlaus">>And it made $vtheir heart beat faster than it should. The stranger was beautiful, Val noted reluctantly, and not in a way that felt safe. <</if>> "I'm afraid," $they whispered, finally in words Val recognizes. //Oh. Oh no.// Val felt $vthemself growing protective already, wanting to soothe the fears and calm the panic. $vThey willed $vthemself to stay strong, impassive, this wasn't $vtheir problem- "Of what?" Val asks. //Shit.// "Devastation. I think I have a soul, now." "Of course you have a soul. You're a person… aren't you?" The answer opened a pit at Val's feet. "Not yet." [[Chapter Six.|6.1]]

"Who are you?" you asked, though you knew half the answer already. It wouldn't have been much of a boon to know a Saint's name, but any scrap of knowledge could evolve into an advantageous feast. The figure didn't answer right away, and instead turned their obscured face toward the floor. //"I was Guinefort,"// they said finally. //"I am the thirty-first Saint."// "Was?" //"Not every thing should have a name."// The space between //every// and //thing// was just a breath, but it could have been a mile long. [['"I don't like having a name, either."'][$Human -=1]] [['"My name is-"'][$Human +=1]]

"I never liked having a name, either," you admitted. "Never felt right, like a word could never be big enough." And some days, like you hadn't earned any sound at all. //"Your name is holy,"// Guinefort replied, a tension in their rasp, //"Do not speak ill of it."// "What? //$Name?// It's just a name. I don't even know where I got it from." //"Io. Aye Oh. It is the word of God. Not even your transgressions can sully it."// You almost laughed. Why the hell would it be that? But was there nervousness to the question? Were you leaning forward ever so slightly, with baited breath? Something was aligning in your mind and pulling you forward with the thinnest of threads. You hung on the coming answer. Guinefort's response was a soft hiss, but a surprised one, maybe even pitying. They straightened and grasped at something in the dark fruitlessly, as if desperate for guidance from some unknown entity. Their god, perhaps. //"You don't know what you are, do you?"// Did you? [["What I am? I'm just... a person."][$Human +=1]] <<if $person is "man">>[['"Was I a priest?"'|6.g.priestess]]<<else>>[['"Was I a priestess?"'|6.g.priestess]]<</if>> [['"Am I an angel?"'|6.g.angel][$Sanity -=1]] [['"It's none of your damn business what I am."']]

"My name is-" //"Io,//" interrupted Guinefort. //"You are the Io."// "//The// Io?" Your brows shot upwards; this Saint really was insane. Either that, or the archaic speech and nature of the job had gotten to them. Or maybe it was the cultism. //"There are none like you. I was tasked with finding the Io.//" You almost laughed. "Tasked by who? The Acropolis? I've already been, a few times now." Guinefort's response was a soft hiss, but a surprised one, maybe even pitying. They straightened and grasped at something in the dark fruitlessly, as if desperate for guidance from some unknown entity. Their god, perhaps. //"You don't know what you are, do you?"// Did you? [["What I am? I'm just... a person."][$Human +=1, $Guine -=1]] <<if $person is "man">>[['"Was I a priest?"'|6.g.priestess][$Guine +=1]]<<else>>[['"Was I a priestess?"'|6.g.priestess][$Guine +=1]]<</if>> [['"Am I an angel?"'|6.g.angel][$Sanity -=1]] [['"It's none of your damn business what I am."']]

"Was I a $priestess?" you asked, with no lack of trepidation. It was the only thing that made sense, the only option with precedence. You relied on it to be true, as anything beyond was far too much to grapple with. //"Some part of you, perhaps,"// began Guinefort. You resisted the urge to breathe a sigh of relief. "//But it would be a shameful approximation. It is not enough."// "What, like a Saint, then?" you frowned. It wasn't impossible, you supposed, and could explain a few things. Guinefort paused, and shook their head just once. //"You would know. You would know that and little else."// You bit back a huff, not enjoying this guessing game. Guinefort clearly knew the answer and was holding it out of your reach. A test? Satisfaction at seeing you flail? "You said something about a halo. //My// halo. What did that mean?" The Saint held their quiet for a moment, then- //"Would you like to see it?"// [[Yes.|6.g.halo.yes][$Guine +=1]] [[No.|6.g.halo.no][$Guine -=1]]

"Am I an angel?" you asked, half fearing the answer. The //how// you couldn't fathom, but lately it seemed like you had more in common with the things than anything else. The fact that you understood their nonsensical language, if nothing else. But Guinefort just tilted their head, a note of derision in their droning voice. //"An angel? You are an angel like a human is an atom. Don't you know they are mindless?"// You had to suppress the urge to froan in frustration. Really, what did you expect from a creature so cryptic even in appearance? Getting an answer was like pulling teeth. "But you mentioned a halo. //My// halo. What the hell else has one of those?" The Saint was quiet for a moment, then- //"Would you like to see it?"// [[Yes.|6.g.halo.yes][$Guine +=1]] [[No.|6.g.halo.no][$Guine -=1]]

The Saint came to you, which was a mild surprise. You half expected to be dragged from your cell and thrown at its feet while it clasped its hands behind its back and mused about something cartoonishly evil. Instead, it entered quietly after a brief knock, carrying a flickering lantern that it set on the floor before stepping back and placing itself against the back of the closed door. The hound-things were nowhere to be seen, nor was its sword, though its armor still glinted dully in the lantern light. It watched you in silence, or at least you assumed it did, as its expression was unreadable beneath its dark veil. You leveled a glare at the figure in return, hoping the fear in your heart remained in the corner you'd shoved it in. "//Are you recovered?//" A further scowl covered up your surprise at the question and its oddly genuine tone, tempered by an unnerving audacity. "Recovered from being thrown into a mausoleum and fed to a Religious ritual like some kind of human sacrifice? No, not really," you spat. The ire was more than you could contain, overwriting any smarter thoughts of self-preservation. "//You took a mighty blow,//" the Saint agreed. You wondered what it would take to get more than a dozen words at a time from it. [['"Says the one who inflicted it!"'|6.g.crypt.2]]

"Says the one who inflicted it!" you cried, filled with a sudden indignant rage at your captor's hollow sympathies. Whatever the hell had happened to you, it was almost certainly devised by the Saint. It drew back as much as it could in its already reclusive position. "//Me? It is the priestesses who are your enemy. Their every hymn is made to hurt you.//" "What the hell are you talking about!?" The refusal to take responsibility was baffling. Was it a misdirect, or genuine? //"The ritual of the Divine Theatre."// "Has been around way longer than I have," you bit back. "It's not //meant// for anything but renewing city wards." A beat of tension passed from the Saint. There was a severity to its words when it spoke again, like an aloof teacher scolding an ignorant child. //"You will not be blamed for believing that, as I did once, too."// "So what should I believe?" you demanded, "What's the conspiracy? That the rituals are evil? That they've been doing them for a thousand years just waiting to give me a migraine?" //"Sedation. But finally, the High Priest's prayers burdened a different ear. And so divinity was spared."// "Divinity..." you murmured, drawing out the word. "You mean the God Beneath?" //"Your sacrifice was great,"// the faceless Saint remarked in lieu of a reply, //"But it need not be permanent."// [[Silence fell as no immediate elaboration was offered.|6.g.2]]

<<set $brokenarm to true, $halo to false>>The first day you spent in darkness, sluggish and disoriented. The taste of Magic was like thick rubber in your jaw, though when you tried to reach for it just at the edge of your consciousness, it pulled back, shying away as if it had other matters to attend to. The second day was much the same, except for the addition of meals slid under your door to measure the time. You were even given a narrow candle and a nearly-empty box of matches to eat by. There was no table in your little cell, so you balanced the pewter dish across your lap and stuck the candle to the post of your cot; if the wax dripped onto your woolen blanket, so be it. Eating with one hand was awkward and slow. The food was tolerable, if bland; the bread was even fresh, still warm and soft from the oven. But the water tasted like metal. On the third day, the quakes began. Your feverish, dreamless sleep was cut short by the first of these quakes, a dull vibration that grew into a mighty convulsion within seconds, nearly enough to throw you from your cot. The Holy City was no stranger to the churning of the earth below- that's what half the Religious' wards were made to combat, after all. But this felt different. Perhaps because you were closer - as you were certainly underground - but any chance at introspection was drowned by the pain that the violent heaving caused your still-broken arm. Your cries apparently reminded your hosts of your injury, as a man arrived at your cell not long after the shakes subsided to set the bone. His was the first face you'd seen in days, and it was stern. The mug of bitter wine he gave you was not enough to dull the pain, and the way you recoiled from every brush against your burn, now furiously inflamed, certainly didn't help. In the end, it took three more acolytes and a scrap of leather between your teeth to contain your thrashing long enough for a splint to be bound to your arm. At least one was kind enough to lend you a handkerchief to wipe away the sweat and tears stinging your eyes. None of them spoke a word. [[Maybe you were grateful for that.|6.2]]

Your first chance to speak came on the fifth day, when the stern-faced man returned to your cell to inspect your arm, carrying a small black case with him. The swelling had gone down considerably, though your skin was mottled with nasty bruises and still very tender. He tutted, and drew a vial from his case, filled with what looked to be dried seed pods. He shook out two into your other hand. "Chew, don't swallow," he said brusquely, though you couldn't sense any particular animosity in his voice. Maybe he just had terrible bedside manner; he returned your hesitant expression with a critical one. "For your pain. I would not poison you, Your Holiness." That gave you further pause. "Holiness?" Your voice felt raw and alien. "Why would you call me that?" The man finally looked directly at you, though your cell was still too dark to make out the color of his eyes or the details of his face. "Because I have Faith," came the simple reply. Then he snapped his case shut and exited the room, leaving you alone once again. Not an unexpected revelation, but one that still made your mouth go dry. That Saint had evidently brought you to the Faithful, the implications of which made your brain hurt. It was almost enough to distract you from the honorific and //its// implications. In the end, you put the seed pods between your teeth. They were tasteless, and after a few minutes numbness spread throughout your body. It wasn't a pleasant sensation, almost like that of a limb falling asleep, but it did quiet the pain long enough for you to fall into another restless slumber. <<if hasVisited ("5.guine.crypt")>>[[And on the seventh day, you faced the Saint itself.|6.guine.crypt.1]]<<else>>[[And on the seventh day, you faced the Saint itself.|6.guine.1]]<</if>>

This Saint, this //thing//- stalked you, assaulted you, and now held you hostage. What other sentiment could you have than hate? You leveled a glare at the figure, hoping the fear in your heart remained in the corner you'd shoved it in. "//Are you recovered?//" A further scowl covered up your surprise at the question and its oddly genuine tone, tempered by an unnerving audacity. "What the hell did you do to me!?" you blurted. "//I have not done anything to you.//" You stared back in disbelief, barely needing to gesture to your splinted arm. "Your fucking dogs-" "//Are of their own nature. I did not make them violent.//" One or two of those words were emphasized, but the Saint's voice was so strained that you struggled to tell which. "And my Magic?" you demanded. "Don't try to tell me it's a concidence it was taken from me a few hours before you showed up." "//You took a mighty blow,//" the Saint said, finally in agreement. You wondered what it would take to get more than a dozen words at a time from it. [['"Says the one who inflicted it!"']] [['"What do you mean?"']]

This Saint, this //thing//- stalked you, assaulted you, and now held you hostage. What other sentiment could you have than fear? You curled your hands into your lap, clutching them tight to contain the tremble. //"Are you recovered?"// The sound of the Saint's voice brought a chill to your skin, a crawling feeling that inched up your spine. There was no threat in it, maybe even genuine concern, but that only frightened you more. "What did you do to me?" you asked, barely more than a harsh whisper. "//I have not done anything to you.//" This gave you pause, even as your mind raced to comprehend the statement. Was this the same Saint? Was it in denial? Had you imagined the whole thing? It asked if you recovered, so what happened- You clenched a fist too tightly, sending a jagged shock of pain through your still mending arm. You managed to keep your cry in your throat, but you couldn't hide the wince. The Saint regarded you coolly, or as much as it could for having no face. //"The dogs...."// It trailed off for a moment. //'Are of their own nature. Their violence is not my doing."// Oddly, it struck you as an apology, or an attempt at one. "And my Magic? You had something to do with that, didn't you?" you pressed, trying to rub soothing circles into your wrist. "//You took a mighty blow,//" the Saint replied, finally in agreement. [['"Says the one who inflicted it!"']] [['"What do you mean?"']]

You stood on incredibly uncertain footing at that moment, despite the fact that it all skewed so negative. You were stalked, attacked, kidnapped- but not hurt, since. Tended to, even. And while the Saint that stood before you then was still formidible, still difficult to look at, it seemed to carry little malice. So you waited, not willing to take the first move. Finally, your host spoke. //"Are you recovered?"// "What did you do to me?" you countered, trying to parse the Saint's tone. Impassive? Concerned? Mocking? It was impossible to tell. "//I have not done anything to you.//" You frowned at that, your broken arm aching as if in protest. "I saw you call off those dogs. You could have done that before they attacked me-" "//They are of their own nature. I did not make them violent.//" One or two of those words were emphasized, but the Saint's voice was so strained that you struggled to tell which. "And my Magic?" you demanded. "Don't try to tell me it's a concidence it was taken from me a few hours before you showed up." "//You took a mighty blow,//" the Saint said, finally in agreement. You wondered what it would take to get more than a dozen words at a time from it. [['"Says the one who inflicted it!"']] [['"What do you mean?"']]

"It's none of your damn business //what I am//." You were in pain and in certain danger; existentialism aside, you simply weren't in the mood for sharing. "I'm not joining your cult, no matter how much you spout nonsense about halos and holiness." //"The halo is the only sense there is."// You scoffed. "Again! You can't just keep saying that like it //means// something. What is it? Is it an object? A metaphor? A shiny hat!?" The Saint was quiet for a moment, then- //"Would you like to see it?"// [[Yes.|6.g.halo.yes][$Guine +=1]] [[No.|6.g.halo.no][$Guine -=1]]

"Yes," you replied, trying to temper the sudden eagerness in your chest. "Yes I would." Guinefort's gauntleted hand found the doorknob as they wordlessly gestured for you to collect the lantern from the floor. Fortunately, it wasn't nearly as heavy as it looked. The hall was better lit than your cell, but the real difference was in the air- still stale, but at least there was //more// of it. You breathed deep once, then twice. There was a damp, salty taste on your tongue. Guinefort did not allow you to savor your moment of freedom; their stride was long and steady, and you had to scurry to catch up as they led you deeper into whatever winding complex you found yourself in. Stone, rock, more stone. Built, not carved, though the right angles and precise masonry were dulled by time. The hallway was narrow, barely enough room for two to walk side by side, but tall enough for even the Saint's towering height. An occasional window broke up the monotony of stone, but each was black and opaque, most were cracked, and none offered any light. A weight suffocated the ceiling and walls, giving the impression that you could walk for miles in any direction and never find the end. It had the ancient air of a theatre, but with none of the signs of dramatic architecture or Religious granduer. "Are we underground?" you asked. Guinefort tilted their head, but didn't slow their pace. "Something buried by the Collapse?" //"Many things were lost. Some have been found."// You fell silent, contemplating. You must have heard dozens if not hundreds of rumors that tried to explain what lay under the Holy City, but most seemed pretty sure it was nothing but rubble and soil, a civilization entirely flattened. Only the more fanciful stories grasped at what you knew- that it was traversible, with hollow places and connected routes. Did the Faithful's sanctuary cross the tunnels you'd claimed as your own? You could only wonder at what aeons of memory and lost knowledge wait for those who are willing to dig deep enough. Eventually, the maze came to an end at a heavy metal-banded door, seemingly without lock or knob. You raised your lantern a little higher, illuminating the narrow lines of ward and rune carved directly into the wood. Imprecisions betrayed a shaky hand and poor tools, but there was enough conviction pressed into every knifestroke to make up for the craftmanship a thousand times over. Rarely do you see Magic so sure of itself, so desperately airtight that it would take even //you// several days to unravel its code. [[Magic built this door, and with Guinefort's raised hand, Magic made it fall away.|6.halo.0]]

"No, I wouldn't," you snapped. "I'm not interested in whatever the hell it is you're trying to sell me. Your pitch could use some work, by the way." Guinefort regarded you with as little expression as ever. Damn that veil. You were already bad enough at reading people and their emotions, even when you //could// see their faces. You tried to keep your own expression neutral, but you doubted it'd make much of a difference. //"It is neither trap nor trick,"// they insisted, but you shook your head vehemently. [['"I'm not going anywhere with you."']] [['"I'm not what you think I am."']]

<<if $YG is false>>"Don't call me that," you respond, startled once again by the honorific. What has Guinefort been telling them? "My name is $Name." They blink, and glance up at you for the briefest of moments before correcting their mistake and looking away once again. "As you say." <</if>>You fall into place three, four steps behind the acolyte as they lead you through the sanctuary complex. Doorways and tunnels branch off into unknown depths, some accessible, others nothing more than a collapsed pile of rubble. A few bear the signs of recent excavation; you can only wonder how far the Faithful have dug, and what mummified secrets they've found. The halls are about as clean as buried ruins have any right to be, swept and bare, though there are some patches where the cultists have clearly given up on beating back the damp, and vibrant moss and algae cling to the walls. There, the air loses its stuffiness and for a brief moment, never more than a gasp or two as you walk, you can breathe again. It's a longer walk than you expected, or maybe the sanctuary is just much bigger than you can imagine. But after a few minutes, the acolyte brings their steady pace to a halt near a heavy wooden door that looks newer than the others you've passed. It's been cut into an odd shape to bend to the aged doorframe's warping, and creaks when opened. Within, a rectangular vestibule opens up into what seems to be a natural cavern small enough to fit inside your apartment, though it tapers off into a deep darkness. Past a short series of hand-carved steps, the floor sharply gives way to a pool of water, still as a mirror. You can't see its source, but it smells fresh. "There are towels in that cabinet there," says the acolyte, pointing to a heavy-looking thing at the entrance of the room. "And soap and sponges in the buckets by the water's edge." They pause, lips twisting as they debate with themself, then continue meekly, "The soap can be quite harsh,<<if $YG is true>> Your Holiness<<else>> Your Hol- uh, $Name<</if>>. I would recommend caution with your... your markings." [['"Noted, thanks."'|6.A1.BATH]] [[Just nod.|6.A1.BATH]]

<<if $YG is false>>"Don't call me that," you responded, startled once again by the honorific. What had Guinefort been telling them? "My name is $Name." They blinked, and glanced up at you for the briefest of moments before they corrected their mistake and looked away once again. "As you say." <</if>>You fell into place three, four steps behind the acolyte as they led you through the sanctuary complex. Doorways and tunnels branched off into unknown depths, some accessible, others nothing more than a collapsed pile of rubble. A few bore the signs of recent excavation; you could only wonder how far the Faithful had dug, and what mummified secrets they'd found. The halls were about as clean as buried ruins had any right to be, swept and bare, though there were some patches where the cultists had clearly given up on beating back the damp, and vibrant moss and algae clung to the walls. There, the air lost its stuffiness and for a brief moment, never more than a gasp or two as you walked, you could breathe again. It was a longer walk than you expected, or maybe the sanctuary was just much bigger than you could imagine. But after a few minutes, the acolyte brought their steady pace to a halt near a heavy wooden door that looked newer than the others you'd passed. It'd been cut into an odd shape to bend to the aged doorframe's warping, and creaked when opened. Within, a rectangular vestibule opened up into what seemed to be a natural cavern small enough to fit inside your apartment, though it tapered off into a deep darkness. Past a short series of hand-carved steps, the floor sharply gave way to a pool of water, still as a mirror. You couldn't see its source, but it smelled fresh. "There are towels in that cabinet there," said the acolyte, pointing to a heavy-looking thing at the entrance of the room. "And soap and sponges in the buckets by the water's edge." They paused, lips twisting as they debated with themself, then continued meekly, "The soap can be quite harsh,<<if $YG is true>> Your Holiness<<else>> Your Hol- uh, $Name<</if>>. I would recommend caution with your... your markings." [['"Noted, thanks."'|6.B1.BATH]] [[You just nodded.|6.B1.BATH]]

"I don't see the point," you retort, shaking your head. "I know what a prison is, no matter how many walls it has. I'd rather the cell, unless you're going to let me go entirely." You expect increduality in Guinefort's reply, but they only nod knowingly. //"If that is your wish."// Not wasting another moment, they pivot and exit the vault. Almost in a haze, you snatch the lantern from the floor and follow the Saint, unwilling or unable to track the turns and directions. The vault door does not reform behind you. Eventually you arrive back in front of your cell; you can only recognize the door from all its bretheren because you've spent so many hours staring at its every whorl. Before turning the latch, Guinefort extends a hand expectantly toward your own, the one still carrying the lantern. You grip it a little tighter. "I'd rather keep it. Those candles are shit." //"Unneeded light ought to be extinquished."// You blink at the Saint in reponse, not entirely sure of their meaning. The words are sinister enough, but they were spoken with pure practicality. Seeing your hestitation, Guinefort hooks their gauntlet through the handle and takes it from you gently. Your hand drops away without resistance. //"It will serve better elsewhere."// They twist the knob, cutting the flow of gas and plunging you both into darkness. But even in the pitch-black they find the door latch easily, and open it with a soft creak. It's only the slightest shift in the shadows that allows you to see Guinefort gesturing into the cell, as if ushering you in politely. A bit at a loss for what else to do, you put a hand out and feel around for the wall, then the door frame, and ease yourself back into your little cloister. A few awkward shuffles later, your shin collides with the edge of the cot, and you lower yourself onto the rigid mattress. Another metallic groan, and the door closes firmly behind you. You hold your breath, but you hear no click of a padlock, only Guinefort's fading footfalls. It seems you've been afforded some semblance of the freedom you rejected. [[You don't trust it.|6.A2.1]] [[Huh. Well.|6.A2.1a]]

"Fine," you say with a measure of defeat. "I won't try and run away." Whether or not Guinefort believes you is impossible to ascertain from their heartbeat of a stare before they pivot and exit the vault. Almost in a haze, you follow the Saint, unwilling or unable to track the turns and directions. The vault door does not reform behind you. Eventually you arrive back in front of your cell; you can only recognize the door from all its bretheren because you've spent so many hours staring at its every whorl. //"Wait,"// orders Guinefort, before striding down the hallway and out of sight. You listen until their heavy footsteps fade, and while you lean against the cool walls, your eyes flutter closed. You're alive with energy and exhausted all at once; as if every lightning strike through your veins consumes masses of your energy. Perhaps it does. Whatever you are, there's no guarantee you were made for this. "Your Holiness?" A light cough jolts you out of your daze. You shudder awake, blinking away adrenaline to see that a new figure stands before you, carrying a small pile of fabric. You do not recognize this one, but you don't need many context clues to know they are one of the Faithful. They seem young, though lines crease their face; you can't imagine the life of a cultist is particularly stress-free. They keep their head bowed and eyes fixed on the floor, though whether it's out of respect or fear you cannot tell. They extend their bundle toward you, which you now see is a set of neatly folded clothes. "Fresh garments; I pray they are to size. The Saint has instructed me to guide you to the baths so that you can rest." You take the clothes gingerly and hold them close to your chest; the fabric is soft and smells faintly of soap. "There are baths down here?" you ask, somewhat dully. The functionality of a buried ruin is beyond you, though it's been at least a week since you last washed, so maybe you're better off not questioning it. "This way, Your Holiness," says the acolyte, with a polite guesture down the dim hall. [['"Please don't call me that."'|6.A1.FREE.HALO][$YG to false]] [[You don't correct them on the title.|6.A1.FREE.HALO][$YG to true]]

"Everyone is at duty at this hour, you won't be disturbed," the acolyte adds, which you can admit is no small relief. "I, uhm, will you need assistance finding your way back? It's two rights and a left. Though, of course, Their Grace said you are free to wander." You inform the acolyte you'll be just fine; you've always been good with directions, after all, and they nod sharply. Are you making them nervous? You suppose you might be, too, if you were in their shoes. "I'll take my leave, then," they say. "Good night." They incline their head awkwardly, as if not sure how much deference is due, and quickly exit, the wooden door clicking closed behind them. You wait until you can no longer hear their retreating footsteps before gingerly stripping off your clothes, suddenly hyperaware of their stale odor and the way they cling to you. Your breath hitches when fabric slides over the still-tender blackened skin, but thankfully the pain isn't too great. You've had worse sunburns. The water is warm, you find, sinking one foot onto the staircase leading into the bath. Not quite hot enough to be soothing, but it manages //tenable// just fine. If you squint, you can see wards painted onto the stone tiles below to heat the water, though you can't quite feel them. That distant, mosquito buzz of a sound, perhaps? They're either very old, or remarkably stable. As the ripples clear, a second thing comes into focus, one that takes you a moment to recognize. Ragged $hair_color hair, desperately in need of a wash and a trim, sunken $skin_color skin, and blazing $Eye_color eyes filled with an unearthly light and the violent terror of a wounded animal. That, you could almost excuse, if it weren't for the dark, grasping welts across your skin. Lines and lines and lines and circles and dots like a river basin mapped out by a madman across your frame. What had once gone no higher than your elbow now creeps across your torso, carving out meaningless paths on your collarbones and throat. The entire upper half of your body has fallen prey to the markings, and the sickly discoloration along with it. The lowest of the lines reaches your opposite hip, the highest nearing your ear lobe. There is no more hiding it. [[It is, strictly speaking, cool as hell.|6.A1.BATH.POS]] [[You're numb. How the hell are you supposed to feel?|6.A1.BATH.NEU]] [[Feeling sick, you tear your eyes away.|6.A1.BATH.NEG]]

<<set $appearance to "pos">>Aesthetic sensibilities aside, the strange markings lend you an aura of power that's been out of your reach until now. Like an old battle scar, the black designs advertise your strength, your resiliance, and perhaps your willingness to do something unadivsable. You stare at your reflection, pleased, almost smug. You still don't know what you're looking at, or how quickly it's going to kill you, but at least change is occuring. The stagnant bog of your heart has stirred. You sink into the bath, a trio of steps leading down into the water; there's a ledge hugging the sides of the bath where you sit and let the water seep up to your collarbones, leaving only your splint-bound arm dry. The sponges are natural, and the soap a creamy yellow. Luckily, even in your delirious haze, you remember the acolyte's words, and keep your motions gentle. You appreciate the advice almost immediately, when a careless fingernail scratches against one of the darker markings and you have to seize every muscle in your body to keep from screaming. Your jaw aches by the time it subsides. If you stretch out one foot, you can lay it across the edge of one of the heating wards. It hums in a way that threatens to put you right to sleep, but the extra warmth is too good to pull away. If only the water had a little more heat- oh, right. It's easier than ever to call upon your Magic, so much so that it startles you for a moment and you nearly stumble. Your mind is alight with shapes and threads and numbers, as if you've been submerged in a pool of runes. Even easier, to wrap your thoughts around one such string and //tug//. Seconds later, the water about you begins to warm; you nearly over-correct and for a moment the temperature nears scalding, but you pull it back just in time to leave you in a pleasant, biting heat. [[But you can't let yourself relax.|6.A1.LEAVE]] [[What's the rush? You can linger.|6.A1.LINGER]]

<<set $appearance to "neu">>Whether it's torpor or true apathy, you aren't sure, and you don't have the strength to ponder the matter. Either way, dwelling on it certainly won't help; it's not like a solution will appear out of thin air if you spend enough time thinking about it. You sink into the bath instead, a trio of steps leading down into the water; there's a ledge hugging the sides of the bath where you sit and let the water seep up to your collarbones, leaving only your splint-bound arm dry. The sponges are natural, and the soap a creamy yellow. Luckily, even in your numb haze, you remember the acolyte's words, and keep your motions gentle. You appreciate the advice almost immediately, when a careless fingernail scratches against one of the darker markings and you have to seize every muscle in your body to keep from screaming. Your jaw aches by the time it subsides. If you stretch out one foot, you can lay it across the edge of one of the heating wards. It hums in a way that threatens to put you right to sleep, but the extra warmth is too good to pull away. If only the water had a little more heat- oh, right. It's easier than ever to call upon your Magic, so much so that it startles you for a moment and you nearly stumble. Your mind is alight with shapes and threads and numbers, as if you've been submerged in a pool of runes. Even easier, to wrap your thoughts around one such string and //tug//. Seconds later, the water about you begins to warm; you nearly over-correct and for a moment the temperature nears scalding, but you pull it back just in time to leave you in a pleasant, biting heat. [[But you can't let yourself relax.|6.A1.LEAVE]] [[What's the rush? You can linger.|6.A1.LINGER]]

<<set $appearance to "neg">>You don't want to look at that. You don't want to look at yourself, much less process what's become of you. With a flick of your ankle, the image fractures, and you sink your body into the bath before you can take a second glance, leaving only your splint-bound arm dry. If you stick to the corners of the bath with the least light, you can ignore your appearance. Less light means less warmth, apparently, but the transition from tepid to cool to cold is worth it, you think, if it means you can escape confronting yourself. At least you can busy yourself with getting clean. The sponges are natural, and the soap a creamy yellow. Luckily, even in your cowering haze, you remember the acolyte's words, and keep your motions gentle. You appreciate the advice almost immediately, when a careless fingernail scratches against one of the darker markings and you have to seize every muscle in your body to keep from screaming. Your jaw aches by the time it subsides. You aren't going to cry. You //aren't//. The rest of your bath proceeds without incident, though you're starting to shiver by the time you rinse the soap from your skin. If only the wards were- oh right. It's easier than ever to call upon your Magic, so much so that it startles you for a moment and you nearly stumble. Your mind is alight with shapes and threads and numbers, as if you've been submerged in a pool of runes. Even easier, to wrap your thoughts around one such string and //tug//. Seconds later, the water about you begins to warm; you nearly over-correct and for a moment the temperature nears scalding, but you pull it back just in time to leave you in a pleasant, biting heat. [[But you can't let yourself relax.|6.A1.LEAVE]] [[What's the rush? You can linger.|6.A1.LINGER]]

"Everyone is at duty at this hour, you won't be disturbed," the acolyte added, which you could admit was no small relief. "I, uhm, will you need assistance finding your way back? It's two rights and a left. Though, of course, Their Grace said you are free to wander." You informed the acolyte you'll be just fine; you'd always been good with directions, after all, and they nodded sharply. Were you making them nervous? You supposed you might be, too, if you were in their shoes. "I'll take my leave, then," they said. "Good night." They inclined their head awkwardly, as if not sure how much deference was due, and quickly exited, the wooden door clicking closed behind them. You waited until you can no longer hear their retreating footsteps before you gingerly stripped off your clothes, suddenly hyperaware of their stale odor and the way they clung to you. Your breath hitched when fabric slid over the still-tender blackened skin, but thankfully the pain wasn't too great. You'd had worse sunburns. The water was warm, you found, sinking one foot onto the staircase leading into the bath. Not quite hot enough to be soothing, but it managed //tenable// just fine. If you squinted, you could see wards painted onto the stone tiles below to heat the water, though you couldn't quite feel them. That distant, mosquito buzz of a sound, perhaps? They were either very old, or remarkably stable. As the ripples cleared, a second thing came into focus, one that took you a moment to recognize. Ragged $hair_color hair, desperately in need of a wash and a trim, sunken $skin_color skin, and blazing $Eye_color eyes filled with an unearthly light and the violent terror of a wounded animal. That, you could have almost excused, if it weren't for the dark, grasping welts across your skin. Lines and lines and lines and circles and dots like a river basin mapped out by a madman across your frame. What had once gone no higher than your elbow now crept over your shoulder, carving out meaningless paths on your collarbones and throat. The entire right half of your chest had fallen prey to the markings, and the sickly discoloration along with it. The lowest of the lines reached your ribs, the highest neared your jugluar. You wouldn't be able to hide it much longer. [[It was, strictly speaking, cool as hell.|6.B1.BATH.POS]] [[You were numb. How the hell were you supposed to feel?|6.B1.BATH.NEU]] [[Feeling sick, you tore your eyes away.|6.B1.BATH.NEG]]

<<set $appearance to "pos">>Aesthetic sensibilities aside, the strange markings lent you an aura of power that had previously been out of your reach. Like an old battle scar, the black designs advertised your strength, your resiliance, and perhaps your willingness to do something unadivsable. You stared at your reflection, pleased, almost smug. You still didn't know what you're looking at, or how quickly it was going to kill you, but at least change was occuring. The stagnant bog of your heart had stirred. You sank into the bath, a trio of steps leading down into the water; there was a ledge hugging the sides of the bath where you sat and let the water seep up to your collarbones, leaving only your splint-bound arm dry. The sponges were natural, and the soap a creamy yellow. Luckily, even in your cowering haze, you remembered the acolyte's words and kept your motions gentle. You appreciated the advice almost immediately, when a careless fingernail scratched against one of the darker markings and you had to seize every muscle in your body to keep from screaming. Your jaw ached by the time it subsided. If you stretched out one foot, you could lay it across the edge of one of the heating wards. It hummed in a way that threatened to put you right to sleep, but the extra warmth was too good to pull away. If only the water had a little more heat to it, if the wards were a little stronger, or if your Magic wasn't still shying away like a traumatized animal. So there you lay. [[But you couldn't let yourself relax.|6.B1.LEAVE]] [[There was no rush. You could linger.|6.B1.LINGER]]

<<set $appearance to "neu">>Whether it was torpor or true apathy, you weren't sure, and you didn't have the strength to ponder the matter. Either way, dwelling on it certainly wouldn't help; it wasn't like a solution would appear out of thin air if you spent enough time thinking about it. You sank into the bath instead, a trio of steps leading down into the water; there was a ledge hugging the sides of the bath where you sat and let the water seep up to your collarbones, leaving only your splint-bound arm dry. The sponges were natural, and the soap a creamy yellow. Luckily, even in your cowering haze, you remembered the acolyte's words and kept your motions gentle. You appreciated the advice almost immediately, when a careless fingernail scratched against one of the darker markings and you had to seize every muscle in your body to keep from screaming. Your jaw ached by the time it subsided. If you stretched out one foot, you could lay it across the edge of one of the heating wards. It hummed in a way that threatened to put you right to sleep, but the extra warmth was too good to pull away. If only the water had a little more heat to it, if the wards were a little stronger, or if your Magic wasn't still shying away like a traumatized animal. So there you lay. [[But you couldn't let yourself relax.|6.B1.LEAVE]] [[There was no rush. You could linger.|6.B1.LINGER]]

<<set $appearance to "neg">>You didn't want to look at that. You didn't want to look at yourself, much less process what's become of you. With a flick of your ankle, the image fractured, and you sunk your body into the bath before you could take a second glance, leaving only your splint-bound arm dry. If you stuck to the corners of the bath with the least light, you could ignore your apperance. Less light apparently meant less warmth, but the transition from tepid to cool to cold was worth it, you thought, if it meant you could escape confronting yourself. At least you could busy yourself with getting clean. The sponges were natural, and the soap a creamy yellow. Luckily, even in your cowering haze, you remembered the acolyte's words and kept your motions gentle. You appreciated the advice almost immediately, when a careless fingernail scratched against one of the darker markings and you had to seize every muscle in your body to keep from screaming. Your jaw ached by the time it subsided. You weren't going to cry. You //weren't//. The rest of your bath proceeded without incident, though you were starting to shiver by the time you rinsed the soap from your skin. If only the wards had been stronger, or if your Magic wasn't still shying away like a traumatized animal. So keeping your eyes to the dark, you inched your way back into the more tolerable warm water. [[But you couldn't let yourself relax.|6.B1.LEAVE]] [[There was no rush. You could linger.|6.B1.LINGER]]

You can't bring yourself to move. It doesn't say much about your current condition that you feel relatively safe here of all places, but for the moment this feels about as good as it's going to get. It's a //physical// improvement, at the very least; the water laps at your sore muscles and irritated skin like a lullaby. With a deep exhale, you lean against the edge of the bath and nestle your head gently against your broken arm where it rests on the ledge. Eyes closed, you can almost imagine you are anywhere else, <<if not hasVisited ("6.A.BATH.NEG")>>//anyone// else,<</if>> and not in danger of dissolving into your own fears. <<if $RO is "Val">>You wish Val were here. What would $vthey think of your... tattoos? $vThey seemed unsure, before, but now that it's spread... You push the doubts away. Regardless of their realism, that's not what you need right now. You just want to hear Val tell you everything will be alright, like <<if $vgender is "none">>they always do.<<else>>$vthey always does.<</if>> You're warmer than you should be, but still you shiver. \<<elseif $RO is "Klaus">>You wish you could talk to Klaus. Klaus would know what to do. He'd be fascinated by your... tattoos, you know with certainty, studying them, tracing them. If he didn't dissect you like a frog, first. Should you be afraid of him? Maybe of the fact that he's on your mind at all. You're warmer than you should be, but still you shiver. \<<elseif $RO is "ValKlaus">>You wish Val were here. Or Klaus, or both. You aren't sure where the second thought comes from, but you're too tired to chase it away. What would Val think of your... tattoos? $vThey seemed unsure, before, but now that it's spread... Klaus would be fascinated, you know with certainty, studying them, tracing them.... if he doesn't dissect you like a frog, first. Should you be afraid of him? Val could stay his knife. You're warmer than you should be, but still you shiver. \<<elseif $RO is "Ira">>You wish you could talk to Ira. Their gentle presence would be a boon, but even more, you had a feeling that they would understand. All this talk of dead gods and divine missions wouldn't frighten or overwhelm //them//, or keep them from offering you the perfect remedy. Just a cup of tea, or the opportunity to relax while they ramble could soothe you. You're warmer than you should be, but still you shiver. \<<elseif $RO is "Con">>You wish $Constantine was here, of all people. You frown at the thought, but are unwilling to chase it away or examine its origins. $cHe may be a divisive presence, but a solid one, always sure of $chimself and what will happen next. Maybe that's the kind of perspective you need amongst all this talk of dead gods and divine missions. Maybe something else entirely. You're warmer than you should be, but still you shiver. \<<elseif $RO is "IraCon">>You wish you could talk to Ira. Or $Constantine, of all people. Or both. You frown at the second thought, but are unwilling to chase it away. Constantine may be a divisive presence, but a solid one, and Ira's gentle but rambling ways seemed like the perfect foil. That could save you, you think, having your fears soothed by Ira while Constantine keeps watch. Maybe a ridiculous fantasy, but a comforting one. You're warmer than you should be, but still you shiver. \<<elseif $RO is "Kat">>You wish you could call out to Kat. She'd hear you, you think with certainty, even through a mile of solid rock and rubble, and come to your aid. What would she think of your... tattoos? A teasing comment about wanting to match, a predator's fascination as she tracked the lines embedded into your skin, all the while spouting cheeky nonsense about saving you from a dastardly cult. Maybe a ridiculous fantasy, but a comforting one. You're warmer than you should be, but still you shiver. \<<elseif ndef $RO and $Val gte 20>>You wish Val were here. Just a word of $vtheir comfort would do you a world of good, maybe even a hug if you were feeling greedy. You could forget, for just a few moments, the events of the last few weeks, and just feel safe, and warm, and loved. It was the one thing you never thought you could doubt. <<if $Val6 is "grateful">>And you never will.<<else>>You can only hope to repair it.<</if>> \<<else>>It's hard to say if your solitude is a boon or an ache, or if it could be soothed at all. The quiet is welcome, though it unsettles you how used to it you've grown. Val used to tell you $vthey could never sleep outside the Holy City; the lack of noise was too thick and oppressive. You can't be that far underground, but for the first time you understand Val's complaint. The silence is tangible, and you are afraid to let it break. <</if>>Under the water, your hand rests upon your thigh. Hand, twenty-seven bones; thigh, just one. You flex those twenty-seven, the muscles, the ligaments, the narrow veins and sensitive nerves. Every inch comes alive and makes itself aware. You've lost weight, you think, though you doubt any of it was healthy. You've slid; the waters lap at your jaw and ears, curving just over your bottom lip. The sides of the bath aren't smooth, but if you scraped your side by sinking in, you hadn't noticed. Two fingers clamp around either side of your kneecap, mapping the strangeness there- hard and sharp, then soft and malleable as you leave bone and reach muscle and fat. Your fingertips ghost over your own skin, while something in the back of your foggy mind recites unwieldy words. //Vastus, femoris, sartorius.// Veins threading in and out and around. Full of blood, undeniably alive. The beat of your heart and rattle of your teeth finds home in your fingertips, shaking and unsure of their purpose; you could squeeze your hands together until something cracks. It shouldn't be comfortable, much less comforting, but your eyelids are growing heavy, soothed by the gentle warmth of the water and the silence of the bath. [[It would be lovely to sleep.|6.A1.LINGER.2]]

You make an attempt to relax your muscles, to find some semblance of calm for even a moment, but you find your body remains tense. You can't rest, even though the events of the day have exhausted you. Is it even daytime? Your internal clock still feels tuned in, but you have no way to know for sure. Really your only reliable measurement of passing time was the meals you'd been served; it could have been a matter of days, like you assumed, or just hours. Or maybe, you think with some disquiet, much, much longer. Your hand finds your throat, where the halo burned on its way down. The pain is long gone, but the discomfort remains, a lump in your throat as if you were on the verge of tears, though instinctually you know nothing is there. The sensation is just an echo. You turn your probing inward, to that nothing-space where your halo now resides. As you focus, it burns brighter within you, a constellation of miniature suns strung throughout your nervous system that come alight with each delicate press of your mind. If Magic was a hum before, now it sings. What do you even do with this? Join the Religious? Level a mountain? Make toast? You stare at your fingers, and contemplate the decision to take the halo. [[It felt right. It belongs to you.|6.A1.MINE]] [[You'd rather it was in your hands than the Faithful's.|6.A1.BETTER]] [[The Saint frightens you, and you'll take any weapon you can get.|6.A1.FEAR]] [[You'll need power if you're going to get out of here.|6.A1.ESCAPE]]

You made an attempt to relax your muscles, to find some semblance of calm for even a moment, but you find your body remains tense. You couldn't rest, even though the events of the day had exhausted you. Was it even daytime? Your internal clock still felt tuned in, but you had no way to know for sure. Really your only reliable measurement of passing time was the meals you'd been served; it could have been a matter of days, like you had assumed, or just hours. Or maybe, you thought with some disquiet, much, much longer. Getting a chance to bathe didn't change much; you were still a prisoner, even if Guinefort and their acolytes wouldn't admit it. It seemed clear that you were not free to leave unless you did as you were bid. You stared at your fingers, and contemplated the decision to leave the halo behind. [[You simply didn't trust Guinefort.|6.B1.L.TRUST]] [[Something like that came with consequences.|6.B1.L.FEAR]] [[Escape was far more important.|6.B1.L.ESCAPE]] [[You just wanted to wait and see how it played out.|6.B1.L.WAIT]]

You could't bring yourself to move. It didn't say much about your current condition that you felt relatively safe there of all places, but for the moment it felt about as good as it was going to get. It was a //physical// improvement, at the very least; the water lapped at your sore muscles and irritated skin like a lullaby. With a deep exhale, you leaned against the edge of the bath and nestled your head gently against your broken arm where it rested on the ledge. Eyes closed, you could almost imagine you were anywhere else, <<if not hasVisited ("6.A.BATH.NEG")>>//anyone// else,<</if>> and not in danger of dissolving into your own fears. <<if $RO is "Val">>You wished Val was there. What would $vthey have thought of your... tattoos? $vThey seemed unsure, before, but now that it had spread... You pushed the doubts away. Regardless of their realism, it wasn't what you needed in that moment. You just wanted to hear Val tell you everything would be alright, like $vthey always did. You were warmer than you should have been, but still you shivered. \<<elseif $RO is "Klaus">>You wished you could talk to Klaus. Klaus would know what to do. Klaus would know what to do. He'd be fascinated by your... tattoos, you knew with certainty, studying them, tracing them. If he didn't dissect you like a frog, first. Should you have been afraid of him? Maybe of the fact that he was on your mind at all. You were warmer than you should have been, but still you shivered. \<<elseif $RO is "ValKlaus">>You wished Val was there. Or Klaus, or both. You weren't sure where the second thought came from, but you were too tired to chase it away. Klaus would know what to do. He'd be fascinated by your... tattoos, you knew with certainty, studying them, tracing them... if he didn't dissect you like a frog, first. Should you have been afraid of him? Val could stay his knife. You were warmer than you should have been, but still you shivered. \<<elseif $RO is "Ira">>You wished you could talk to Ira. Their gentle presence would have been a boon, but even more than that, you had a feeling that they would understand. All the talk of dead gods and divine missions wouldn't frighten or overwhelm //them//, or keep them from offering you the perfect remedy. Just a cup of tea, or the opportunity to relax while they rambled could soothe you. You were warmer than you should have been, but still you shivered. \<<elseif $RO is "Con">>You wished $Constantine was here, of all people. You frowned at the thought, but were unwilling to chase it away or examine its origins. $cHe may have been a divisive presence, but a solid one, always sure of $chimself and what would happen next. Maybe that was the kind of perspective you needed amongst all this talk of dead gods and divine missions. Maybe something else entirely. You were warmer than you should have been, but still you shivered. \<<elseif $RO is "IraCon">>You wished you could talk to Ira. Or $Constantine, of all people. Or both. You frowned at the second thought, but were unwilling to chase it away. Constantine may have been a divisive presence, but a solid one, and Ira's gentle but rambling ways were like the perfect foil. That could save you, you thought, having your fears soothed by Ira while Constantine keeps watch. Maybe a ridiculous fantasy, but a comforting one. You were warmer than you should have been, but still you shivered. \<<elseif $RO is "Kat">>You wished you could call out to Kat. She'd hear you, you thought with certainty, even through a mile of solid rock and rubble, and come to your aid. What would she have thought of your... tattoos? A teasing comment about wanting to match, a predator's fascination as she tracked the lines embedded into your skin, all the while spouting cheeky nonsense about saving you from a dastardly cult. Maybe a ridiculous fantasy, but a comforting one. You were warmer than you should have been, but still you shivered. \<<elseif ndef $RO and $Val gte 20>>You wished Val was there. Just a word of $vtheir comfort would have done you a world of good, maybe even a hug if you were feeling greedy. You could forget, for just a few moments, the events of the past few weeks, and just feel safe, and warm, and loved. It was the one thing you never thought you could doubt. <<if $Val6 is "grateful">>And you never would.<<else>>You could only hope to repair it.<</if>> \<<else>>It was hard to say if your solitude was a boon or an ache, or if it could be soothed at all. The quiet was welcome, though it unsettled you how used to it you'd grown. Val used to tell you $vthey could never sleep outside the Holy City; the lack of noise was too thick and oppressive. You couldn't be that far underground, but for the first time you understood Val's complaint. The silence was tangible, and you were afraid to let it break. <</if>>Under the water, your hand rested upon your thigh. Hand, twenty-seven bones; thigh, just one. You flexed those twenty-seven, the muscles, the ligaments, the narrow veins and sensitive nerves. Every inch came alive and made itself aware. You'd lost weight, you think, though you doubted any of it was healthy. You'd slid; the waters lapped at your jaw and ears, curving just over your bottom lip. The sides of the bath weren't smooth, but if you had scraped your side by sinking in, you hadn't noticed. Two fingers clamped around either side of your kneecap, mapping the strangeness there- hard and sharp, then soft and malleable as you leave bone and reach muscle and fat. Your fingertips ghosted over your own skin, while something in the back of your foggy mind recited unwieldy words. //Vastus, femoris, sartorius.// Veins threading in and out and around. Full of blood, undeniably alive. The beat of your heart and rattle of your teeth found home in your fingertips, shaking and unsure of their purpose; you could have squeezed your hands together until something cracked. It shouldn't have been comfortable, much less comforting, but your eyelids were growing heavy, soothed by the gentle warmth of the water and the silence of the bath. [[It would be lovely to sleep.|6.B1.LINGER.2]]

Everything is warm, everything is... weightless? You shoot upright, pulling yourself out of the water and clinging to the ledge with a gasp, coughing and snorting water from your nose. Your throat burns; you must have drifted off sometime in your reverie. You clasp a shuddering hand against your cheeks, feeling the cold, goosebumped skin there and trying to orient yourself back in your own body. At least the part of you that's underwater has remained warm. It could only have been a few seconds- your fingertips aren't even wrinkled- but you feel like you've aged a year since you first sat in the pool. Thinking on the possible reality in which you drowned doesn't help. //See also: supervenience.// You groan, and smack your hand against the water in annoyance before clambering out of the bath entirely. The chill hits you immediately, and you shiver all the way to the cabinet that the acolyte had pointed out. It takes you two embarrassing tries to unlatch the doors, but inside you find the promised linens- mismatched but neatly folded, and smelling of soap. You pull a towel and close the cabinet once more. You remind yourself to be gentle with your skin as you unfold your towel and press it against your face with one hand. It takes all your strength to not remain there for several minutes, head buried in the warm, marginally gentle dark. Eventually, you summon the courage to dry off the rest of your body. With a curse, you realize the depth of your earlier mistake: your broken arm went under the water, leaving your bandages and sling entirely soaked. You certainly won't be able to fix the wrappings yourself this time, and facing that stern-faced physician again isn't high on your wishlist. It dawns on you that you can do something about this; you might not be a doctor, or really have any idea what your bones are supposed to look like, but Magic has always been reliable enough to fill in the gaps. Your complacency almost irritates you. You never particularly considered yourself //helpless// before, but this growing notion of power is apparently going to take some getting used to. You regard your broken arm. It looks a mess, and as a bonus you can already feel the bitter medication you were given start to wear off. No pain yet, just a pervasive dullness. [[Fix it.|6.A1.ARM.linger]] [[Let it heal on its own.|6.A1.NoArm.linger]] [[You can at least dry the bandages.]]

The Saint was perplexing in a way that set you on edge. They worshipped the God Beneath with a fervency you'd never seen, yet they'd shown little hesitation in hurting you, an apparent incarnation of said god. To kidnap you, hold you hostage, then offer you an artifact of great power and ask nothing in return... it simply didn't add up. The most obvious answer was that Guinefort knew something about the halo that you did not. That it would hurt you, would bend you to their puppetry, would turn you into something you're not. Had they tried to take it themself, and failed? You were sure that if you were to ask, you'd get some kind of non-answer in reply, if one at all. Talkative, the Saint was not. And this was all assuming they're telling the truth in the first place. Guinefort's word versus Val's. You sighed, and sank deeper into the water, letting it lap at your jaw for a few quiet moments longer before summoning the courage to extract yourself from the bath. The chill hit you immediately, and you shivered all the way to the cabinet that the acolyte had pointed out. It took you two embarrassing tries to unlatch the doors, but inside you found the promised linens- mismatched but neatly folded, and smelling of soap. You pulled a towel and the softest set of clothes you could find, and closed the cabinet once more. You reminded yourself to be gentle with your skin as you unfolded your towel and pressed it against your face with one hand. It took all your strength to not remain there for several minutes, head buried in the warm, marginally gentle dark. Eventually, you forced yourself to dry the rest of your body. The clothing the acolyte provided was ill-fitting and hung awkwardly over your frame; you seemed to have lost some weight, but by the jaggedness of your joints, none of it was healthy. You then gathered up your dirty clothes, grimacing a little at their staleness. Maybe you should have taken some time to wash them, but just cleaning yourself had sapped all your energy. [[The walk back to your cell was simple and uneventful.|6.B1.ROOM]] <<set $f_clothing to true>>

The image of the Saint's dark form, bearing down upon you from the thick fog, and the snapping jaws of those hounds.... it still hadn't left your mind. They may not have been carrying their sword last you saw, but you still felt its glint. Guinefort was not afraid to hurt you, that much was clear, and yet they called you //a thing of god//. What kind of person didn't fear the thing it worshipped? Someone that frightened you, in turn. No amount of reassurance of your divine right was going to convince you they were anything but a ghoul with your best interests far from their own intentions. You shuddered, and sank deeper into the water, letting it lap at your jaw for a few quiet moments longer before summoning the courage to extract yourself from the bath. The chill hit you immediately, and you shivered all the way to the cabinet that the acolyte had pointed out. It took you two embarrassing tries to unlatch the doors, but inside you found the promised linens- mismatched but neatly folded, and smelling of soap. Below, a collection of dully dyed clothing. You pulled a towel and the softest set of clothes you could find, and closed the cabinet once more. You reminded yourself to be gentle with your skin as you unfolded your towel and pressed it against your face with one hand. It took all your strength to not remain there for several minutes, head buried in the warm, marginally gentle dark. Eventually, you forced yourself to dry the rest of your body. The clothing the acolyte provided was ill-fitting and hung awkwardly over your frame; you seemed to have lost some weight, but by the jaggedness of your joints, none of it was healthy. You then gathered up your dirty clothes, grimacing a little at their staleness. Maybe you should have taken some time to wash them, but just cleaning yourself had sapped all your energy. [[The walk back to your cell was simple and uneventful.|6.B1.ROOM]] <<set $f_clothing to true>>

The cultists could call it a sanctuary all they wanted, you had no delusions of safety or belonging; escaping the cavern was your top priority. Everything else could be dealt with once you'd reached the surface. As unclear as Guinefort's motives may have been, you didn't doubt that offering you the halo was a calculated move, a gamble at the Saint could control you or turn your potential actions to their benefit. And while the halo was a siren call to your Magic-starved brain, you weren't stupid enough to fall for it. Guinefort themself even admitted they didn't know what it was capable of. It didn't seem like the halo was going anywhere, either. You could always find your way back to the vault when you were no longer alone and vulnerable, and claim it for your own. You'll just have to know who to trust, something that was quickly becoming more and more complicated. You sighed, and sank deeper into the water, letting it lap at your jaw for a few quiet moments longer before summoning the courage to extract yourself from the bath. The chill hit you immediately, and you shivered all the way to the cabinet that the acolyte had pointed out. It took you two embarrassing tries to unlatch the doors, but inside you found the promised linens- mismatched but neatly folded, and smelling of soap. Below, a collection of dully dyed clothing. You pulled a towel and the softest set of clothes you could find, and closed the cabinet once more. You reminded yourself to be gentle with your skin as you unfolded your towel and pressed it against your face with one hand. It took all your strength to not remain there for several minutes, head buried in the warm, marginally gentle dark. Eventually, you forced yourself to dry the rest of your body. The clothing the acolyte provided was ill-fitting and hung awkwardly over your frame; you seemed to have lost some weight, but by the jaggedness of your joints, none of it was healthy. You then gathered up your dirty clothes, grimacing a little at their staleness. Maybe you should have taken some time to wash them, but just cleaning yourself had sapped all your energy. [[The walk back to your cell was simple and uneventful.|6.B1.ROOM]] <<set $f_clothing to true>>

Rushing into things would do you no good, especially when it involved ancient artifacts whose power could potentially wreck havoc with your mind. If Guinefort had been in possession of the halo for years and still hadn't managed to crack its secrets, you likely still had time. They hadn't forced you to take it, which lead you to believe they could not, and that was a distinct advantage. No, you'd bide your time, wait and see what other horrors and miracles the Saint had up their sleeve. There were dozens if not hundreds of questions still to be answered, not the least of which was what Guinefort intended to do with you and your halo once it no longer lay dormant in a stone vault. You sighed, and sank deeper into the water, letting it lap at your jaw for a few quiet moments longer before summoning the courage to extract yourself from the bath. The chill hit you immediately, and you shivered all the way to the cabinet that the acolyte had pointed out. It took you two embarrassing tries to unlatch the doors, but inside you found the promised linens- mismatched but neatly folded, and smelling of soap. Below, a collection of dully dyed clothing. You pulled a towel and the softest set of clothes you could find, and closed the cabinet once more. You reminded yourself to be gentle with your skin as you unfolded your towel and pressed it against your face with one hand. It took all your strength to not remain there for several minutes, head buried in the warm, marginally gentle dark. Eventually, you forced yourself to dry the rest of your body. The clothing the acolyte provided was ill-fitting and hung awkwardly over your frame; you seemed to have lost some weight, but by the jaggedness of your joints, none of it was healthy. You then gathered up your dirty clothes, grimacing a little at their staleness. Maybe you should have taken some time to wash them, but just cleaning yourself had sapped all your energy. [[The walk back to your cell was simple and uneventful.|6.B1.ROOM]] <<set $f_clothing to true>>

Two rights and a left, just as the acolyte had said. A tightness formed in your chest when you saw the entrance to your little cell, a moment of panic that demanded to know what the hell you thought you were doing on this side of the door. The feeling slunk away once you touched the handle and found it open. The outer lock had been removed entirely, and you'd been granted the dignity of a small latch on the inside. You tossed your dirty clothes in the corner unceremoniously. The sudden show of hospitality from the Faithful wasn't about to make you a model prisoner. You collapsed onto your cot with a deep weariness. Your bedding appeared to have been washed, which was a win, though the blanket's quality hadn't improved. It was still the same rough wool that you found warm but irritating against your tender skin. With little else to occupy your mind besides an infinite loop of existential crises, you turned to sleep, and braced yourself for whatever nonsensical puppet show of a dream awaited you on the other side. The sanctuary was quiet, you'd give it that. The kind of quiet that pressed in on your skull, palms clapped against your ears until nothing was audible but your own pulse. If you turned your head just right, you could imagine a tiny army of a thousand soldiers marching in unison with every heartbeat, and before long, it lulled you to sleep. Dreamless, again. You'd have been hardly convinced that you slept at all, if it wasn't for the drop in temperature- the motionless chill of very early morning, exacerbated by your distance underground- and the creeping pain in your broken arm. It throbbed, made worse by your every movement, the previous dullness long gone and replaced by a sharpness that nearly rivaled the hound's teeth. Somewhere in the fog of misery you remembered the acolyte's words- that you were free to roam the halls. Waiting around for the stern-faced physician and his painkillers to make another appearance was absolutely not an option. [[The sanctuary couldn't have been that big. You went in search of the physician.|6.b.phys]] [[You'd had enough. You'd fix your arm yourself.|6.b.arm.1]] [[End of demo.]]

The image of the Saint's dark form, bearing down upon you from the thick fog, and the snapping jaws of those hounds.... it hasn't left your mind. They may not have been carrying their sword last you saw, but you could still feel its glint. Guinefort is not afraid to hurt you, that much is clear, and yet they called you //a thing of god//. What kind of person doesn't fear the thing it worships? Someone that frightens you, in turn. You were too weak to escape Guinefort and their hellhounds before, as starved for Magic as you were. But now? Your skin feels like silk holding back a tidal wave. <<if $appearance is "neg">>Warped and miswoven silk, you think miserably, dragging your eyes to the loathsome black stains across your body. Maybe a bath of mothballs and a cedar coffin would do you some good. //See also: mummy-wasp, natron.//<<silently>>I LOVE YOU.<</silently>> You shudder, and press the heel of your hand against the sudden stabbing ache behind your brow. Are you regretting the halo already? A new voice in your head is the last thing you need next to rotting skin and a fractured arm.<<elseif $appearance is "pos">>Silk, stronger than steel- or so you've heard- and far more valuable than anything you've ever worn. You touched a bolt of satin once, in the marketplace, and spent days afterward turning it over in your mind, entranced by thoughts of spiderwebs and insects. //See also: synpoamorphy, Atypus.// <<silently>>I LOVE YOU.<</silently>> You blink away the invasive voice and turn your focus back to the intricate lines taking over your skin. Wouldn't covering them up be a shame? You have a reminder of strength //literally// at hand; if only your right arm wasn't still mangled and cloaked in bandages.<<else>>Strange, printed silk that may or may not be infected with an angelic virus. There has to be a pattern to it, you reason, staring at the precise but apparently meaningless designs. Is the pattern from within - highlighting invisible tracks in your skin- or without - imposed upon you mercilessly? //See also: Truchet, fairy ring.//<<silently>>I LOVE YOU.<</silently>> The voice is eerie and unwelcome, and a throbbing builds behind your eyes as you shake your head to chase it away. It seems the halo's consequences are already beginning to show; whether or not it was worth it... to be determined. But your problems sure are piling up, between the burn, the shattered arm, the whispers in your mind.<</if>> It dawns on you that you can do something about this; you might not be a doctor, or really have any idea what your bones are supposed to look like, but Magic has always been reliable enough to fill in the gaps. Your complacency almost irritates you. What business do you have trying to outpace a Saint if you can't even remember to use the tools at your disposal? You never particularly considered yourself //helpless// before, but this growing notion of power is apparently going to take some getting used to. You regard your broken arm. It's comfortable for now, snug in its sling and splint, but you can already feel the bitter medication you were given start to wear off. No pain yet, just a pervasive dullness. [[Fix it.|6.A1.ARM.leave]] [[Let it heal on its own.|6.A1.NoArm.leave]]

Doomsday cults and powerful artifacts are never a good combination; taking it away from them was your responsibility, if nothing else. You try not to sour this thought with the inconvenient knowledge that Guinefort clearly wanted you to have the halo. Maybe you can pass it off as their strange devotion to the God Beneath- to //you//, if their words are to be believed. But there's no telling what the Saint's endgame is, nor even if you are safe from their convictions. No, the halo is better off with you, where you can keep an eye on it- whether it really belongs to you or not. Guinefort and their hellhounds easily outpaced you before, as starved for Magic as you were. But now? Your skin feels like silk holding back a tidal wave. <<if $appearance is "neg">>Warped and miswoven silk, you think miserably, dragging your eyes to the loathsome black stains across your body. Maybe a bath of mothballs and a cedar coffin would do you some good. //See also: mummy-wasp, natron.//<<silently>>I LOVE YOU.<</silently>> You shudder, and press the heel of your hand against the sudden stabbing ache behind your brow. Side effects, already? A new voice in your head is the last thing you need next to rotting skin and a fractured arm.<<elseif $appearance is "pos">>Silk, stronger than steel- or so you've heard- and far more valuable than anything you've ever worn. You touched a bolt of satin once, in the marketplace, and spent days afterward turning it over in your mind, entranced by thoughts of spiderwebs and insects. //See also: synpoamorphy, Atypus.// <<silently>>I LOVE YOU.<</silently>> You blink away the invasive voice and turn your focus back to the intricate lines taking over your skin. Wouldn't covering them up be a shame? You have a reminder of power //literally// at hand; if only your right arm wasn't still mangled and cloaked in bandages.<<else>>Strange, printed silk that may or may not be infected with an angelic virus. There has to be a pattern to it, you reason, staring at the precise but apparently meaningless designs. Is the pattern from within - highlighting invisible tracks in your skin- or without - imposed upon you mercilessly? //See also: Truchet, fairy ring.//<<silently>>I LOVE YOU.<</silently>> The voice is eerie and unwelcome, and a throbbing builds behind your eyes as you shake your head to chase it away. It seems the halo's consequences are already beginning to show; whether or not it was worth it... to be determined. But your problems sure are piling up, between the burn, the shattered arm, the whispers in your mind.<</if>> It dawns on you that you can do something about this; you might not be a doctor, or really have any idea what your bones are supposed to look like, but Magic has always been reliable enough to fill in the gaps. Your complacency almost irritates you. What business do you have looking down on a cult if you can't even remember to use the tools at your disposal? You never particularly considered yourself //helpless// before, but this growing notion of power is apparently going to take some getting used to. You regard your broken arm. It's comfortable for now, snug in its sling and splint, but you can already feel the bitter medication you were given start to wear off. No pain yet, just a pervasive dullness. [[Fix it.|6.A1.ARM.leave]] [[Let it heal on its own.|6.A1.NoArm.leave]]

The cultists can call it a sanctuary all they want, you've got no delusions of safety or belonging; escaping this cavern is your top priority. Everything else can be dealt with once you've reached the surface. As unclear as Guinefort's motives may be, you don't doubt that giving you the halo was a calculated move, a gamble that the Saint can control you or turn your actions to their benefit. But that doesn't make it any less powerful in your hands. They already admitted they don't know what it's capable of. You were too weak to escape Guinefort and their hellhounds before, as starved for Magic as you were. But now? Your skin feels like silk holding back a tidal wave. <<if $appearance is "neg">>Warped and miswoven silk, you think miserably, dragging your eyes to the loathsome black stains across your body. Maybe a bath of mothballs and a cedar coffin would do you some good. //See also: mummy-wasp, natron.//<<silently>>I LOVE YOU.<</silently>> You shudder, and press the heel of your hand against the sudden stabbing ache behind your brow. Are you regretting the halo already? A new voice in your head is the last thing you need next to rotting skin and a fractured arm.<<elseif $appearance is "pos">>Silk, stronger than steel- or so you've heard- and far more valuable than anything you've ever worn. You touched a bolt of satin once, in the marketplace, and spent days afterward turning it over in your mind, entranced by thoughts of spiderwebs and insects. //See also: synpoamorphy, Atypus.// <<silently>>I LOVE YOU.<</silently>> You blink away the invasive voice and turn your focus back to the intricate lines taking over your skin. Wouldn't covering them up be a shame? You have a reminder of strength //literally// at hand; if only your right arm wasn't still mangled and cloaked in bandages.<<else>>Strange, printed silk that may or may not be infected with an angelic virus. There has to be a pattern to it, you reason, staring at the precise but apparently meaningless designs. Is the pattern from within - highlighting invisible tracks in your skin- or without - imposed upon you mercilessly? //See also: Truchet, fairy ring.//<<silently>>I LOVE YOU.<</silently>> You shudder. The voice is eerie and unwelcome, and a throbbing builds behind your eyes as you shake your head to chase it away. It seems the halo's consequences are already beginning to show; whether or not it was worth it... to be determined. But your problems sure are piling up, between the burn, the shattered arm, the whispers in your mind.<</if>> It dawns on you that you can do something about one of those things; you might not be a doctor, or really have any idea what your bones are supposed to look like, but Magic has always been reliable enough to fill in the gaps. Your complacency almost irritates you. What business do you have escaping a cult if you can't even remember to use the tools at your disposal? You never particularly considered yourself //helpless// before, but this growing notion of power is apparently going to take some getting used to. You regard your broken arm. It's comfortable for now, snug in its sling and splint, but you can already feel the bitter medication you were given start to wear off. No pain yet, just a pervasive dullness. [[Fix it.|6.A1.ARM.leave]] [[Let it heal on its own.|6.A1.NoArm.leave]]

The Saint said it was yours, didn't they? And it fit into you like a glove, like a mystery solved, a long-lost component finally returned, a balm over your outcast heart that you can finally revel in. Doubt still lurks in your mind as to whether or not Guinefort's story was true, but either way, the halo has clearly had an effect on you. Before, you were an awkward marionette, a misift with an ill-fitting body that was never destined to be //right//. But now? Your skin feels like silk holding back a tidal wave. <<if $appearance is "neg">>Warped and miswoven silk, you think miserably, dragging your eyes to the loathsome black stains across your body. Maybe a bath of mothballs and a cedar coffin would do you some good. //See also: mummy-wasp, natron.//<<silently>>I LOVE YOU.<</silently>> You shudder, and press the heel of your hand against the sudden stabbing ache behind your brow. Side effects, already? A new voice in your head is the last thing you need next to rotting skin and a fractured arm.<<elseif $appearance is "pos">>Silk, stronger than steel- or so you've heard- and far more valuable than anything you've ever worn. You touched a bolt of satin once, in the marketplace, and spent days afterward turning it over in your mind, entranced by thoughts of spiderwebs and insects. //See also: synpoamorphy, Atypus.// <<silently>>I LOVE YOU.<</silently>> You blink away the invasive voice and turn your focus back to the intricate lines taking over your skin. Wouldn't covering them up be a shame? You have a reminder of your legitimacy //literally// at hand; if only your right arm wasn't still mangled and cloaked in bandages.<<else>>Strange, printed silk that may or may not be infected with an angelic virus. There has to be a pattern to it, you reason, staring at the precise but apparently meaningless designs. Is the pattern from within - highlighting invisible tracks in your skin- or without - imposed upon you mercilessly? //See also: Truchet, fairy ring.//<<silently>>I LOVE YOU.<</silently>> You flinch. The voice is eerie and unwelcome, and a throbbing builds behind your eyes as you shake your head to chase it away. It seems the halo's consequences are already beginning to show; whether or not it was worth it... to be determined. But your problems sure are piling up, between the burn, the shattered arm, the whispers in your mind.<</if>> It dawns on you that you can do something about one of those things; you might not be a doctor, or really have any idea what your bones are supposed to look like, but Magic has always been reliable enough to fill in the gaps. Your complacency almost irritates you. What business do you have claiming a raw piece of divinity if you can't even remember to wield it? You never particularly considered yourself //helpless// before, but this growing notion of power is apparently going to take some getting used to. You regard your broken arm. It's comfortable for now, snug in its sling and splint, but you can already feel the bitter medication you were given start to wear off. No pain yet, just a pervasive dullness. [[Fix it.|6.A1.ARM.leave]] [[Let it heal on its own.|6.A1.NoArm.leave]]

Two rights and a left, just as the acolyte had said. A tightness forms in your chest when you see the entrance to your little cell, a moment of panic that demands to know what the hell you think you're doing on this side of the door. The feeling slinks away once you touch the handle and find it open. The outer lock has been removed entirely, and you've been granted the dignity of a small latch on the inside. <<if $f_clothes is true>>You toss your dirty clothes <<if $brokenarm is false>>and arm splint<</if>> in the corner unceremoniously. This sudden show of hospitality from the Faithful isn't about to make you a model prisoner. <</if>>You collapse onto your cot with a deep weariness. Your bedding appears to have been washed, which is a win, though the blanket's quality hasn't improved. Still that same rough wool that's warm but irritating against your tender skin. <<if $brokenarm is false>>At least you can stretch out both your arms, now.<</if>> With little else to occupy your mind besides an infinite loop of existential crises, you turn to sleep, bracing yourself for whatever nonsensical puppet show of a dream awaits you on the other side. The sanctuary is quiet, you'll give it that. The kind of quiet that presses in on your skull, palms clapped against your ears until nothing is audible but your own pulse. If you turn your head just right, you can imagine a tiny army of a thousand soldiers marching in unison with every heartbeat. You lie there for twenty minutes, thirty, an hour. And still sleep does not come. Your brain will not rest, your breathing will not slow. It's as if a light has turned on somewhere inside you that refuses to extinguish or even dim. Annoyance gives way to the creeping suspicion that you know the source of said light, that this is another result of reclaiming your halo. After a few long minutes, you find you don't even have the willpower to keep your eyes closed. With a frustrated huff, you kick off the scratchy blanket and feel around for your shoes. That acolyte said you were free to wander, so wander you will. Maybe you'll even find something interesting in the meantime. [[You could use something to eat.|6.a.food.1]] [[What do the Faithful even do all day?|6.a.scriptorium.1]] [[Is there really nothing stopping you from leaving?|6.a.exit.1]] [[End of demo.]]

It paced the apartment for hours, like it couldn't quite believe it was somewhere at all. All the while, Val watched warily from the couch, a mug of coffee long forgotten on the table and dark circles under $vtheir eyes. Surely this had been a terrible idea, right? Bringing an angel-thing into $vtheir home, especially one as confused as this? $vThey had very nearly decided to undo the night's mistake when $vtheir guest started humming a tune that took Val a moment to identify as an old hymn, broken as it was. The mercenary's gaze shot up, suspicious and tense, ready to throw the thing to the streets when it turned towards $vthem. It looked…content. Happy, almost, as it picked up one of Val's many knickknacks and inspected it with gentle hands. Curious, thoughtful, maybe even a little amused. It replaced the object and selected the next, a horse carved from soapstone, a distracted smile playing at the corners of its mouth. [[Val could only stare.|VI.9]]

This gave you pause; it didn't seem to be referring to your mangled arm- painful, but hardly //mighty.// "What do you mean?" you asked, eyes narrowing slightly. "What did you do?" It didn't bother to repeat its claims of innocence. //"Your reaction to the High Holy Ritual was no accident. It was //written// to hurt you."// "What about it? It's just a fancy way to maintain city wards, it's got nothing to do with me." A beat of tension passed from the Saint. There was a severity to its words when it spoke again, like an aloof teacher scolding an ignorant child. //"You will not be blamed for believing that, as I did once, too."// "Then what is it? That the Religion has been performing these rituals for a millennia just to make me sick?" //"It is sedation. But finally, the High Priest's prayers burdened a different ear. And so divinity was spared."// "Divinity..." you murmured, drawing out the word. "You mean the God Beneath?" //"Your sacrifice was great,"// the faceless Saint remarked in lieu of a reply, //"But it need not be permanent."// [[Silence fell as no immediate elaboration was offered.|6.g.2]]

"Says the one who inflicted it!" you cried, filled with a sudden indignant rage at your captor's hollow sympathies. The Saint drew back as much as it could in its already reclusive position. "//Me? It is the priestesses who are your enemy. Their every hymn is meant to hurt you.//" You snorted, trying to temper the anger growing in your heart; you needed to keep a clear head."Tying me to a sarcophagus is hardly //innocent// behavior." //"You are the one who made it difficult."// Was that irritation in the Saint's own inhuman voice? It almost would have seemed childish if it weren't so weary. //"I will not apologize for what must be done. This is the way of least suffering."// "For who, exactly?" you bit back. //"Your sacrifice was great,"// it finally assented, //"But it need not be permanent."// [[Silence fell as no immediate elaboration was offered.|6.g.2]]

<<set $halo to false>>Your head swayed, and you took two steps back before you spoke. "No," you said resolutely. "No. I'm not touching that thing. I don't want it." //"Want has little to do with anything,"// replied Guinefort, their voice cold as ever. <<if hasVisited ("6.g.halo.no2")>>//"As I said, the only question is how difficult you will make it."//<<else>>//"The only question is how willingly you will take it."//<</if>> The statement should have frightened you, but instead you felt yourself growing bolder. "Threaten me all you want, I'm not playing along." //"Then you will return to your cell,"// they responded flatly. They leveled what you knew had to be a challenging look under their veil, daring you to protest and tempting you to give in. "Fine." You wouldn't flinch. At least there, in your solitude, you could plan your next move. "Whatever makes you feel better." [[Continue.|6.B2.CELL]]

<<set $halo to true>>One summer evening, years ago now, Val took you to a craft market. It was before you'd mastered the art of following $vthem through a crowd, and you quickly lost $vthem the second your attention was pulled elsewhere. Val found you again outside a glassblower's booth, where you'd apparently spent the last hour staring at the white-hot material as it flowed from kiln to workbench, slowly being molded into a small figurine in ways that were simply beyond anyone's comprehension. The fact that no Magic was involved baffled you. More importantly, you later talked yourself hoarse trying to explain to Val your absolute certainty that you knew what hot glass felt like. Soft but stiff, tacky in your grip and glimmeringly hot. To bite down would be a slow sink of your jaw until the top and bottom rows of your teeth met with a snap. It was //not// honey, you insisted. It was taffy. And it would never burn you. And with the halo in your hands now, you knew you'd been right all along. The weight of it as you lifted it from the pedestal surprised you; not heavy, but certainly solid. An undeniable presence. The white-gold sank through the gaps in your fingers just enough to conform to the shape of your cupped hands. Not a drop was spilt; you had the notion that even an atom escaping would be a betrayal, and that it would never sin against you in such a way. You tried to speak, though you didn't know what you could possibly say. You were spared the effort by a new sound emerging from the air- a wordless, noteless song, the same speech you'd heard so many times from the tongues of angels, but far too cacophanous to make out. Alive, but not foreign. The radiance was a mirror and you looked upon yourself, cradled in your own palms. <<if hasVisited ("You placed it on your tongue.")>>Heat blossomed against your skin as you lifted your hands to your lips. This was no flickering campfire warmth, but the relentless pressure of a blast furnace. Distantly, you could feel sweat gather at the back of your neck, as if your body was still something of consequence. To care would be absurd. You were already splitting at the seams, anyway. Its taste was less hypnotic, but by the time it touched your tongue you had no thought or hope of pulling back. Somewhere between industrial slag and fermented fruit, and still heavenly in its presentation. It rolled past your tongue like unset gelatin, narrowly avoiding your gag reflex, though you managed to capture the last of it between your tongue and the roof of your mouth. Just one last moment to savor it, a heartbeat to question it, and a final breath to let go before it slid like a thousand razors into your throat. [[You came apart like well-cooked meat.|6.halo.accept.2]]<<else>>Heat blossomed against your skin as you lifted the halo into your eyeline. This was no flickering campfire warmth, but the relentless pressure of a blast furnace. Distantly, you could feel sweat gather at the back of your neck, as if your body was still something of consequence. To care would be absurd. You were already splitting at the seams, anyway. It glimmered up close, the infintesimal sparkle of a thousand thousand stars coalesced into granite, writhing like the vitreous cobwebs that sometimes haunt your vision. You peered closer, drawing those lifeforms into yourself until nothing remained but the light of the halo. For a moment, reality tried to eat its way back in through the edges, but you would not blink. Your sight no longer mattered; the brightness was on the inside of your vision, now. [[You broke like an antique glass.|6.halo.accept.2]]<</if>>

Your body stretches for what feels like miles, intestines flayed and nerves pinned to paper like dead butterflies. Le-pi-dop-tera. Het-ero-cera. Maggot. Midge. //See also: Lachesis, aposematism.// The scales of your mind crumble with every stroke. //See also: hemorrhage.// A hand reaches out from the void; you cannot feel it, but you know it's there. "You're dreaming again," someone says. A familiar voice, a beloved voice, but... odd, as if coming from the wrong direction. "You must stop this. I cannot protect you much longer," it continues with a tremble. Fear? Or anger? "Are you listening to me? Can't you just lie down and play dead!?" <<if $Human gte 50>>//How could you?// is your reply. //How could you how could you how could you?//<<else>>//You did this,// is your reply. //You did this you did this you did this.//<</if>> //It's unfair, it's so unfair,// you scream, and the world screams with you. A great groaning across every corner of the earth, the sun itself offering scalding tears in sympathy. //See also: eschaton, laschamp, ekpyrosis.// Every evil is at your doorstep and you cannot take the weight. "I know you're in pain," the voice continues, softer now, apologetic for the outburst. "I know the work is taxing." Vi-vi-sec-tion. Not to be confused with dis-sec-tion. //See also: scaphism.// You do not know how a specimen can be chided for its pins. "But this cannot continue." //See also: guilt, earth-shattering guilt.// You freeze, too devastated to respond. From somewhere in the distance, a soft curse and a frantic clacking. You retreat into yourself violently before any wrongs can be made right. [[It will hurt. It has to hurt.|6.halo.accept.3]]

<<silently>>IO.<</silently>>Your lips form the words, but no sound comes forth. //It's going to hurt.// It's a lifetime before your eyes close, the light dims, and your depth perception returns. <<silently>>IO.<</silently>>You blink your eyes several times to banish the bright orbs swimming through your vision, and even then you worry you've suffered something permanent: a strange lack of contrast has fallen over the vault, a dullness, a lack of care attributed to the difference between shadows. Had it always been like this?<<silently>>WHERE DID YOU GO?<</silently>> No, there's one thing you can see clearly now, despite the relative dark - Guinefort. Their silhouette is an ebon stain against the walls of the vault, but you find you no longer fear it as you once did. Whether it's your perception or the Saint themself that has changed, you aren't sure, but there's a new dignity and wisdom to their looming posture. They're nearly... recognizable. //"Wake slowly."// The strange familiarity fades with their words, though it doesn't disappear entirely. //"You are whole, and there is time."// <<silently>>PLEASE RESPOND.<</silently>>Even as Guinefort talks, you can't shake the distinct feeling that another voice haunts the air, one that screams and shakes and pleads. You take advantage of one of the Saint's many silences to strain your hearing, but nothing stirs. Your focus doesn't escape Guinefort's attention, and they tilt their own head at you inquisitively.<<silently>>PLEASE RESPOND.<</silently>> //"Can you hear our God Below? Does it speak?"// [['"There's... something."'|6.A.a][$Guine +=1]] [['"No. Can you?"'|6.A.b]]<<silently>>PLEASE.<</silently>> <<silently>>I LOVE YOU.<</silently>>

You couldn't tear your eyes away from that bright sun, and so could only hope Guinefort could see your frown. In the corner of your vision, they were little more than a silhouette against the doorway. "Where did you get this?" //"You brought it from below.//" The simplicity of the statement was borderline unsettling. "Are you saying you were there when I came to the Holy City?" //"Until the thief convinced you to fear me."// "The... thief?" you asked dumbly, as if you could delay the next few sentences. There was only one person Guinefort could be referring to, of course, but that didn't make it any easier to swallow. It was always a bit of a blur, your first day in the Holy City. In retrospect, you figured you were in a state of shock, or at the mercy of whatever head injury had caused your amnesia. One moment you were wandering the endless maze underground, the next <<if def $ValCrush>>you were holding Val's hand.<<else>>Val was leading you home.<</if>> Bits and pieces after that, a jumble of confusion and stress. You remember your fevers, and Val's anxiety, and you know that you were afraid. "But Val always said I was alone." //"Then you have been lied to."// You tried to swallow, but your mouth was far too dry. "And the halo?" //"Abandoned in the rubble."// The revelation that the Saint had been present at your emergence was one thing... the apparent fact that you'd emerged inhuman and blinding was another thing entirely. Val had known. $vThey had seen your halo, and known of your inhumanity since the very start. [[And yet Val cared for you anyway.]] [[You were too confused to know how to feel.]] [[You hated the reflexive resentment it gave you.]] [[How could Val have lied to you all these years?]]

"You want me to bring it back," you said, barely above your own breath. It wasn't the concept that stunned you, but the dawning realization that you were at the mercy of someone who saw you as only a means to an end. //"I want you to //return// to it. Make it whole again, give back what you have absconded with."// You wrapped your good arm around yourself, suddenly uncomfortably aware of your body. <<if $Human gte 50>>A stolen body, //not// your own. As if you were a parasite that accidentally gained consciousness.<<else>>A rogue disciple, a deserter of your divine mission. Something that had imagined up its consciousness from wholecloth.<</if>> You turned your attention back to the halo, a hope forming that it could act as a proxy, something to be sacrificed instead of your own flesh. Why would a god need a human body, anyway? "If the halo is so crucial, why haven't you used it yourself?" //"It is yours to take."// You just nodded; follow-up questions were almost certainly a waste of breath. "What happens if I do?" //"A resurgance of memories, perhaps. Or an attunement."// Your worries were far more existential, wrapped in thoughts of ego-death, but you supposed you could not expect the Saint to know. They were only offering you martyrdom, nothing more. [[Take it.|6.halo.accept][$Sanity -=3, $Guine +=2]] [[You needed more time.|6.halo.maybe][$Sanity +=1]] [[Nothing could make you touch that.|6.halo.refuse][$sanity +=3, $Guine -=1]]

<<set $halo to false>>"I don't know, I-" you stammered. "Can't I have more time? I need to think." It had only been days since you learned of the halo's existence, and even then you weren't confident it was real. Now that it had been presented to you, the doubt was quickly being usurped by panic. You had no idea what this thing could do or what the potential consequences would be. //"There is little to spare,"// Guinefort rasped. //"Will an hour suffice?"// You gaped at them, brow furrowed. "An hour!? I'm asking for //weeks!//" You couldn't help but think that beneath their veil, Guinefort was looking at you as if //you// were the strange one. But you held your ground. //"Three days,"// they finally replied. You nodded solemnly, knowing it was likely the best offer you were going to get. [['"So now what?"'|6.B]]

Crinkling your brow in suspicion, you push yourself back onto your feet and approach the general direction of the door. It takes some shuffling and tapping around with your good hand, but eventually your skin meets wood, which trails down to cold metal. You press against the door latch, expecting resistance, and having to catch yourself when you find none. It turns easily, and the door creaks open in your hand. With a deep breath, you lean through the doorway, peering out left and right. It's all darkness, various levels of muddy gray and black. Nothing seems to stir. You could just... //go.// [[You need rest, before anything else.|6.A2.1a]] [[Is there really nothing stopping you from leaving?|6.a.exit.1]] [[End of demo.]]

<<if $RO is "Kat">>[[6.k.rescue.1]]<<elseif $RO is "Con" or $RO is "IraCon">>[[6.c.rescue]]<<elseif $Kat gt $Con>>[[6.k.rescue.1]]<<else>>[[6.c.rescue]]<</if>>

[['"How do you know the way?"'|6.k.ira.2]]

And then Ira sighs, their breath catching, and turns on you. "Because I've been here before, $Name. Is that what you wanted to hear? That I've been here enough times to know the path by heart? You know it took me //three days// to realize why I recognize that mark on your arm, and //Saints// did I feel stupid." Anger is a strange look on the priestess, especially in the unsteady lamplight. There's nothing violent in their expression or movements, but just the vehemence of their stance is enough to make you want to take a step back. <<if $five is "Ira">>[['"You're Faithful."'|6.k.ira.3.5i]] \<<elseif $five is "Effie">>[['"You're Faithful."'|6.k.ira.3.5e]] \<<else>>[['"You're Faithful."'|6.k.ira.3.5g]]<</if>>

"You're one of the Faithful," "No!" they snap, eyes closing and teeth flashing from the force of it. "My Rite of Faith is forfeit! I traded it for //you//; my freedom for your presence in at the ritual, //that// is the deal I made with the Saint. So I am severed. I'm no longer Faithful, which makes me an apostate on one side and a heretic on the other. [[6.k.ira.effie.b]]

"You're one of the Faithful," "No!" they snap, eyes closing and teeth flashing from the force of it. "My Rite of Faith is stagnant! It should be //forfeit//, but you couldn't sit through one damn ritual long enough for the Saint to consider my side of the bargain complete. Gone is the meekness and concerned politeness she'd introduced herself with, replaced with a relaxed kind of malice that makes her smile look hungry in the lanternlight. Ira shrinks back reflexively, but Effie doesn't allow them the space they're desperate for, and crowds forward to block the exit. [[Side by side, the resemblance is clear as day.|6.k.ira.effie.a]]

"You're one of the Faithful," "No!" they snap, eyes closing and teeth flashing from the force of it. "My Rite of Faith is stagnant! It should be //forfeit//, but I couldn't accomplish the //one// task I was given to earn my freedom. So now I'm an apostate on one side and a heretic on the other. "What task?" "//You//," they say, though the venom in their voice sounds more like despair than malice. "I was to bring you to the High Holy Day, keep you in the Theatre while the ritual did its work. But you wouldn't //listen.// [[6.k.ira.effie.b]]

Rounded faces, light eyes, lighter hair. Effie is taller than Ira, and far more pallid, a watercolor portrait done with cheap paints, but there is not a doubt in your mind that the two are related. No, the three- you'd nearly forgotten about the other woman, the way she stands like an unwelcome spirit farther down the hall. <<if hasVisited ("4.i.con sisters") or hasVisited ("4.i.kat sisters") or hasVisited ("4.i.val sisters")>>Sisters. Ira had mentioned something about sisters, hadn't they?<</if>> "Ira, aren't you going to introduce us?" Effie chirps, her voice dripping with such falseness that Ira doesn't grace it with an answer. Effie clicks her tongue impatiently. "Oh, fine, you wet sock. Leave it to me, as usual." "I already know who you are, Effie," you interrupt. Whatever it takes to cut this interaction short- it doesn't take Ira's visible discomfort to know this isn't going anywhere good. Effie turns her gaze on you, and you find you do not enjoy it. "It's //Ophelia//, actually. Ira couldn't manage my name when they were little, so //Effie// I became. And here is sweet Manon-" Effie stretches her free hand back to her sister, who trots forward with apparent glee to take it. "Get out of our way, Effie, you miserable fucking cunt "//Get out of our way!//" echoes Effie, her lips in a mocking pout while Manon giggles over her shoulder. "Or what?" "Or Ira becomes an only child," chimes in Kat. Her voice carries the same lighthearted tilt to it that you've become used to, but for the first time, there's not an ounce of joy in her eyes. Effie's cruel smile flickers.

Val fixed $vtheir eyes on the ground, trembling. //Looking// wasn't really necessary to understand what had happened, but all the same, keeping $vtheir gaze downcast was one last measure of protection. The Saint, $vthey could see. It lay on the ground, unmoving amidst the rubble. Its veil was torn but Val didn't dare look upon its face. Next to it, a waterstained pair of boots, and the heavy scent of Magic poisoning the air. Something drilled into Val's skull, though whether it was the angel's halo or its expectant gaze, $vthey couldn't tell. It had attacked the Saint. It had looked between the holy warrior and Val, and chosen the latter. Over the next five years, Val will think back to this moment more than once and wonder what possessed $vthem. One more broken angel was one less thing to worry about as far as $vthey $vwere concerned, good fucking riddance. But the thing had saved $vthem from the mercy of a //Saint//, and to Val that smelled like salt and unearned sea sickness; the moon high, the waters churning and black with carnage- Oh well. Not for the first time, Val cursed $vtheir stupid bleeding heart, and looked foward. [[Continue.|VI.5]]

"Take me to it," you said, finally breaking your gaze from its lock on the halo; flashing black spots swam in your vision, obscuring Guinefort even further. "Show me the God Beneath." "//Take you?//" There was a level of bewilderment in the Saint's voice that you weren't previously sure they were capable of. It almost sounded too human. "Yes, take me. It's your god, isn't it? And you seem to know the tunnels. I want to see this //'body'//. Is it alive? Is it corporeal? Am I made in its image?" The questions tumbled out of you ungraciously. //"If I had laid eyes on the corpse divine, I would not be here now, little Io. It is beyond my reach."// "So it //is// dead," you confirmed, agitated. "What good does that do anyone?" //"There is power that can overcome death, even that of a god."// The faint incline of Guinefort's head drew your attention back to the halo in response to your unspoken question, and you tried not to scoff at the sheer histronics of it. The Saint's purpose for you was becoming clear; they intended to resurrect their deity, and you were the key. [[Continue.|6.halo.4]]

"Rite of Faith," they repeat. "I will pledge myself to the God Beneath and earn its blessings, along with the love and loyalty of my fellow Faithful, of course. "It opens one's soul to Magic," they explain patiently, "and breaks down the natural barriers between you and the divine. A true Annointment, before the heretics above perverted its purpose and flipped it on its head." You return the acolyte's matter-of-fact explanation with a face of suspicion, if not straight up bewilderment. "Wouldn't that expose you to the rot just from being //near// Magic?" "Yes, exactly! And in that way, salvation is afforded to all Faithful, not just the ones who have been fortunate enough to learn that gift. Though, converts from within the Religion also take the rite, to cleanse them of their ordainments. The rot comes to them much faster, of course, but they've had to come so far that I think they've earned it." [['"But won't it... kill you?"'|6.a.rof.kill]] [['"What does the rite entail?"'|6.a.rof.entail]]

"But," you begin, not entirely sure even of what you're hearing. "That would kill you." "The symptoms can be managed with the right knowledge, but eventually, yes. The acolyte smiles, somewhat pityingly. "That is why it's called faith, <<if $YG is true>>Your Holiness<<else>>$Name<</if>>. To die in the service of one's god is the highest calling there is, is it not? But death is not to be feared, anyway; it would only be an honor to return to the God Beneath before it is reunited with the rest of the world." You look away; the sparkle in their eyes has begun to make you feel ill. "I'm afraid such questions are beyond me<<if $YG is true>>, Your Holiness<</if>>. I am only a novice, after all.

<<set $Val6 to "grateful">>The fear and disdain Val had for Religious and anything resembling the arcane had always been somewhat of a mystery to you; it was just a fact, and not something $vthey ever would explain. A pit $vthey ignored even as $vtheir feet danced around it, closer and closer as of late. Whenever you thought about it too hard, a quiet anxiety would creep in: were you bringing $vthem closer to the edge, toeing the the steep slope with your every <<if $ValMagic is false>>ounce of strangeness? <<else>>breath of Magic and word of the divine?<</if>> It had never occured to you that all this time, Val was trying to pull you out. <<if $RO is "Val" or $RO is "ValKlaus">> \<<if $ValCrush is "old">>And worst of all, //worst of all//, enough to make your heart crack in two- a sudden and complete clarity. You'd long suspected that your attempts to flirt and express the real depths of your love for Val hadn't gone unnoticed, and that $vthey $vwere playing dumb on purpose. A silly part of you had thought maybe $vthey loved you too much to risk it. Now you knew how delusional that truly was. Val was afraid of you, maybe even disgusted. You, a horrible, holy thing, inhuman and spat out by god. Out of some quirk of goodness $vtheyd let you befriend $vthem, but there was a line $vthey couldn't tolerate crossing. Such a burden you were. Shame soured your stomach. But no, you needed to focus; of all the earth-shattering revelations, heartbreak ought to be the least of them. The Saint was still watching you closely. \<<elseif $ValCrush is "new">>And worst of all, //worst of all//, enough to make your heart crack in two- the sudden realization that your newly formed crush would have to be stamped out in its infancy, for your sake and for Val's. At least, you thought, you hadn't fallen too far down the rabbithole; you could still content yourself with friendship, surely. You, a horrible, holy thing, inhuman and spat out by god. Who knew how much longer Val would tolerate even that. Shame soured your stomach. But no, you needed to focus; of all the earth-shattering revelations, this ought to be the least of them. The Saint was still watching you closely. \<<else>>At least the less-than-platonic thoughts had been fleeting strays, a product of longing for things you could never be. All the more reason to defang those late-night cravings and bury them where they could not hurt you, or Val. Friends. A friend was all you can beg for. Out of some quirk of goodness $vtheyd let you befriend $vthem, but who knew how much longer Val would tolerate even that. You, a horrible, holy thing, inhuman and spat out by god. Shame soured your stomach. But no, you needed to focus; of all the earth-shattering revelations, this ought to be the least of them. The Saint was still watching you closely.<</if>> \<<else>>You didn't know how to reconcile it. What had always felt like something of an owed favor was quickly turning into an unrepayable debt. You nearly recoiled at the benevolence it must have taken Val to defend you in the first place, much less keep you around, in $vtheir home, in $vtheir heart. Remembering where you now stood, you could only wonder how much longer Val would tolerate even that. You, a horrible, holy thing, inhuman and spat out by god. Shame soured your stomach. But no, you needed to focus; of all the earth-shattering revelations, this ought to be the least of them. The Saint was still watching you closely.<</if>> [['"Tell me the truth, then."'|6.halo.2]]

<<set $Val6 to "confused">>The fear and disdain Val had for Religious and anything resembling the arcane had always been somewhat of a mystery to you; it was just a fact, and not something $vthey ever would explain. A pit $vthey ignored even as $vtheir feet danced around it, closer and closer as of late. Whenever you thought about it too hard, a quiet fear would creep in: were you bringing $vthem closer to the edge, toeing the the steep slope with your every <<if $ValMagic is false>>ounce of strangeness? <<else>>breath of Magic and word of the divine?<</if>> <<if $RO is "Val" or $RO is "ValKlaus">> <<if $ValCrush is "old">>And worst of all, //worst of all//, enough to make your heart crack in two- a sudden and complete clarity. You'd long suspected that your attempts to flirt and express the real depths of your love for Val hadn't gone unnoticed, and that $vthey $vwere playing dumb on purpose. A silly part of you thought maybe $vthey loved you too much to risk it. Now you just felt stupid. But surely not. Val would never have said those things if $vthey knew it included you, especially when $vthey knew you were listening, would $vthey? Not Val. Not //Val.// Not if $vthey knew how you felt. Right? Anxiety soured your stomach, as you knew even then the justifications were weak. Just denial denial denial. But no, you needed to focus; of all the earth-shattering revelations, this ought to be the least of them. The Saint was still watching you closely. \<<elseif $ValCrush is "new">>And worst of all, //worst of all//, enough to make your heart crack in two- the sudden realization that your newly formed crush was perilous, for you and Val both. At least, you thought, you hadn't fallen too far down the rabbithole; you could still content yourself with friendship, surely. You, a horrible, holy thing, inhuman and spat out by god. Who knew how much longer Val would tolerate even that. Anxiety soured your stomach, as you knew even then the justifications were weak. Just denial denial denial. But no, you needed to focus; of all the earth-shattering revelations, this ought to be the least of them. The Saint was still watching you closely. \<<else>>At least the less-than-platonic thoughts had been fleeting strays, a product of longing for things you could never be. All the more reason to defang those late-night cravings and bury them where they could not hurt you. Val was afraid of you, maybe even disgusted, you knew that with certainty- it was how $vthey treated everything else of your supposed ilk, after all. But surely Val would never have said those things if $vthey knew it included you, especially when $vthey knew you were listening, would $vthey? Not Val. Not //Val.// Guinefort had to be mistaken. Anxiety soured your stomach, as you knew even then the justifications were weak. Just denial denial denial. But no, you needed to focus; of all the earth-shattering revelations, this ought to be the least of them. The Saint was still watching you closely.<</if>> \<<else>>You didn't know how to reconcile it. How many times had you heard Val voice $vtheir fear and digust of Magic, of the things of your //ilk,// knowing you were within earshot and internalizing every word $vthey spoke? It didn't sound right, it didn't sound like //Val//. Surely the Saint was mistaken. It had been someone else, or Val hadn't understood what $vthey were seeing. Maybe Guinefort was lying to you entirely. Anxiety soured your stomach, as you knew even then the justifications were weak. Just denial denial denial. But no, you needed to focus; of all the earth-shattering revelations, this ought to be the least of them. The Saint was still watching you closely.<</if>> [['"Tell me the truth, then."'|6.halo.2]]

<<set $Val6 to "conflicted">>The fear and disdain Val had for Religious and anything resembling the arcane had always been somewhat of a mystery to you; it was just a fact, and not something $vthey ever would explain. A pit $vthey ignored even as $vtheir feet danced around it, closer and closer as of late. Whenever you thought about it too hard, a quiet fear would creep in: were you bringing $vthem closer to the edge, toeing the the steep slope with your every <<if $ValMagic is false>>ounce of strangeness? <<else>>breath of Magic and word of the divine?<</if>> You should have known Val was pulling back all along. <<if $RO is "Val" or $RO is "ValKlaus">> \<<if $ValCrush is "old">>And worst of all, //worst of all//, enough to make your heart crack in two- a sudden and complete clarity. You'd long suspected that your attempts to flirt and express the real depths of your love for Val hadn't gone unnoticed, and that $vthey $vwere playing dumb on purpose. A silly part of you thought maybe $vthey loved you too much to risk it. Now you knew how delusional that truly was. Did $vthey think $vthey could fix you, first? Did $vthey think $vthey needed to? You weighed your options- was that better or worse than Val simply trying to ignore your feelings to death? Val may have been a liar, but //you'd// done nothing but torment you both for years. You tried to temper your guilt with the reminder that Val could have put a stop to it at any time. Conflict soured your stomach. But no, you needed to focus; of all the earth-shattering revelations, this ought to be the least of them. The Saint was still watching you closely. \<<elseif $ValCrush is "new">>And worst of all, //worst of all//, enough to make your heart crack in two- the sudden realization that your newly formed crush would have to be stamped out in its infancy, for your own sanity's sake, if nothing else. At least, you thought, you hadn't fallen too far down the rabbithole; there was a chance you could still salvage this friendship. You, a horrible, holy thing, inhuman and spat out by god. Who knew how much longer Val would tolerate even that, or you how long you could bear knowing that that thought was in $vtheir mind. Conflict soured your stomach. But no, you needed to focus; of all the earth-shattering revelations, this ought to be the least of them. The Saint was still watching you closely. \<<else>>At least the less-than-platonic thoughts had been fleeting strays, a product of wanting things you could never be. All the more reason to defang those late-night cravings and bury them where they cannot hurt you, or Val. Even better, what a chance to dissolve them entirely. Untangling Val from your silly little personal desires would make this all so much easier. Conflict soured your stomach. But no, you needed to focus; of all the earth-shattering revelations, this ought to be the least of them. The Saint was still watching you closely.<</if>> \<<else>>You didn't know how to reconcile it. What had always felt like something of an owed favor was quickly turning into a faustian bargain. Could you resent Val for putting you in this position? Should you? $vThey were apparently too cowardly to admit what you were; there was no telling whether or not you'd be able to do it, either. Maybe you were both doomed to tiptoe around each other for the rest of your lives. Conflict soured your stomach. But no, you needed to focus; of all the earth-shattering revelations, this ought to be the least of them. The Saint was still watching you closely.<</if>> [['"Tell me the truth, then."'|6.halo.2]]

<<set $Val6 to "angry">>The fear and disdain Val had for Religious and anything resembling the arcane had always been somewhat of a mystery to you; it was just a fact, and not something $vthey ever would explain. A pit $vthey ignored even as $vtheir feet danced around it, closer and closer as of late. A pit you crawled out of, and $vthey must have fantasizing shoving you back into with every <<if $ValMagic is false>>ounce of strangeness.<<else>>breath of Magic and hint of the divine.<</if>> All that vitriol directed toward the Religious, knowing you would hear and internalize every word. <<if $RO is "Val" or $RO is "ValKlaus">> \<<if $ValCrush is "old">>And worst of all, //worst of all//, enough to make your heart crack in two- a sudden and complete clarity. You'd long suspected that your attempts to flirt and express the real depths of your love for Val hadn't gone unnoticed, and that $vthey $vwere playing dumb on purpose. A silly part of you thought maybe $vthey loved you too much to risk it. Now you knew how delusional that truly was. Val knew what you were, and $vthey almost certainly knew how you felt. Did $vthey think it was funny, in a pathetic sort of way? Look at this horrible, holy thing, inhuman and spat out by god, pining after a real person. $vThey were a professional at the long con after all, so how long had $vthey been waiting to pull out the rug from under you? Worst case scenario, you supposed, but you were having a worst case scenario kind of day. And the opposite stung just as much- a naive belief that $vthey could fix you, that you needed fixing, that you weren't worthy until you were no longer yourself. Resentment soured your stomach. But no, you needed to focus; of all the earth-shattering revelations, heartbreak ought to be the least of them. The Saint was still watching you closely. \<<elseif $ValCrush is "new">>And worst of all, //worst of all//, enough to make your heart crack in two- the sudden realization that your newly formed crush would have to be stamped out in its infancy, for your own sanity's sake, if nothing else. Val knew what you were, and $vthey probably weren't blind to how you felt. At least, you thought, you hadn't fallen too far down the rabbithole; if this was all true, you doubted your ability to stomach even a friendship much longer. Worst case scenario, you supposed, but you were having a worst case scenario kind of day. And the opposite stung just as much- a naive belief that $vthey could fix you, that you needed fixing, that you weren't worthy until you were no longer yourself. Resentment soured your stomach. But no, you needed to focus; of all the earth-shattering revelations, heartbreak ought to be the least of them. The Saint was still watching you closely. \<<else>>At least the less-than-platonic thoughts had been fleeting strays, a product of wanting things you could never be. All the more reason to defang those late-night cravings and bury them where they cannot hurt you. Maybe if you worked up enough anger, you could get them to dissolve entirely. It would make everything simpler. A few embarrassing memories would be better than whatever self-hating shame Val was leading you into. Resentment soured your stomach. But no, you needed to focus; of all the earth-shattering revelations, this ought to be the least of them. The Saint was still watching you closely.<</if>> \<<else>>You didn't know how to reconcile it. What had always felt like something of an owed favor was quickly turning into a cruel joke. Did $vthey think it was funny, in a pathetic sort of way? Look at this horrible, holy thing, inhuman and spat out by god, thinking it can be a real person. $vThey were a professional at the long con after all, so how long had $vthey been waiting to pull out the rug from under you? Worst case scenario, you supposed, but you were having a worst case scenario kind of day. And the opposite stung just as much- a naive belief that $vthey could fix you, that you needed fixing. Resentment soured your stomach. But no, you needed to focus; of all the earth-shattering revelations, this ought to be the least of them. The Saint was still watching you closely.<</if>> [['"Tell me the truth, then."'|6.halo.2]]

Almost by accident, you stumble upon the largest room in the complex so far- not huge by any stretch of the imagination, but practically a cathedral compared to the cramped hallways you've been navigating. The faint smell of something savory is proof you've found your target. It's more cavern than a polished room, with a ceiling that stretches at least twenty feet up, and rough, uneven stone at your feet. The floor is dominated by three long tables that could seat a dozen each, accompanied by threadbare rugs and time-stained wooden chairs. Everything here is old, and none of it matches, leading you to believe that it's all been scavenged and recovered from various parts of the ruin. To the side, a long wooden counter topped with various covered dishes and stacks of empty plates. The entire sanctuary is in such ragged shape that you still can't tell its age, or even if it's a true ruin from before the Collapse, but some of these items must be hundreds of years old at the very least. The dining hall looks clean enough, though you can still smell the miasma of dust and damp that haunts the rest of the place. A handful of people mill about, some seated, others clearly at their chores. The sounds of their voices echo strangely off the walls. All have the same drab clothing and bare faces you've come to expect from the Faithful. The difference in costume from the rest of the Religious strikes you only now- less uniform, less neat. A far more earthy living, with none of the unnerving homogeny imposed by the Religious. And no hats, though you suppose they wouldn't have much use underground. Before you can ruminate any farther, someone rises from one of the tables with a soft gasp and approaches you hastily. You recognize them immediately- the same acolyte that lead you to the baths a few hours earlier. There's an embarrased burn in their cheeks. "I'm sorry<<if $YG is true>> Your Holiness<</if>>," they say breathlessly, still not quite meeting your eyes. "I should have known you'd be hungry. Here, here- there's bread, and stew, and still some dried fruits left, how fortunate-" [[They flee from you almost as quickly as they arrived.|6.a.food.3]]

You know the river water isn't always safe, but most of the Holy City's supply flows through a hefty series of wards that cleanse and purify, <<if $Val gte 10>>though Val was always determined to boil it anyway<<else>> as well as some physical filters to boot<</if>>. But to have their own filter... either the Faithful are even more paranoid than the rest of the Religious, or their water comes from a different source. An older one, perhaps, from deep within these caves... it would explain the metallic taste, anyway. "I'm pretty good with Magic. If the filter is just wards, I can take a look," you offer. Their eyes widen immediately. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of it! You are a guest here, not some common acolyte. I can fetch more water, it's no problem-" "I don't really have anything better to do," you point out, trying to not sound completely dry, and to resist asking how many guests the Faithful host. "Unless you want to show me the way out of here." Their mouth opens and closes like a surprised fish. It almost makes you feel bad. Finally, they gesture towards the hallway opposite the one you'd entered from. "It's just this way. Uh- the filter, I mean." You diagnose the problem almost instantly- the runes are badly balanced, //technically// correct in their layout but destined to burn out at the slightest overload. "It should be okay now," you say, turning to the acolyte, and not finding them where expected. They've knelt on the stone floor, eyes wide with awe and hands caught between gripping the edge of their robes in trepidation and clasping them in prayer.

Between the bowl and the tray lies a scrap of paper, folded to a size no larger than your thumbnail. You wipe off your hands and unfold it gingerly, squinting to read the tiny script in the dim lanternlight. <blockquote>// during <s>matins.</s> <s>midnight prayer.</s> the prayer with the candles. //</blockquote>

The freezing temperatures of the hallway dissapated along with the mysterious door, replaced by a wave of heat that seemed entirely out of place this far below the surface. The room before you was small, hardly more than a closet of rough-hewn, pock marked stone. At the center, a pedestal seemingly carved from the same material. Only one thing occupied the vault- a narrow slice of the sun itself, bursting with such violent light that it made your lantern look like a mere firefly in comparison. You had little doubt of what you were looking at. The halo was smaller than you expected, though you supposed you had nothing to justify an expectation in the first place. It couldn't have been much larger than your hand at a full stretch, and there was no color to it, only a radiant, scalding white. It did not pulse, it did not waver, it only shone with the ferocity to rival a nuclear blast. A gasp escaped you, but you couldn't find the decency to be ashamed of it. Not only was the halo the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen, it set something resonating within you that would take a thousand years to articulate. You stepped closer, fully into the room, now, and locked your gaze upon it, determined to study every detail even if you went blind in the process. [[An eclipse burned into your retinas.|6.halo.1]]

Despite the muted nature of your words in that moment, they felt strong. "I'm not what you think I am," you said as sensibly as you could manage. "You've misunderstood, or you have the wrong person." //"You cannot escape it, no matter what the thief thinks."// "What thief? Val?" //"$vThey $vhave seen the halo. $vThey know what you are."// Despite your efforts to keep your face plain, the skepticism, the borderline derision for such a patently insane statement, must have shown. Guinefort fixed their faceless stare on you. //"Have you been lied to?"// It was always a bit of a blur, your first day in the Holy City. In retrospect, you figured you were in a state of shock, or at the mercy of whatever head injury had caused your amnesia. One moment you were wandering the endless maze underground, the next <<if def $ValCrush>>you were holding Val's hand.<<else>>Val was leading you home.<</if>> Bits and pieces after that, a jumble of confusion and stress. You remember your fevers, and Val's anxiety, and you know that you were afraid. //"I was the one that found you; the thief only stole."// "And what was I doing?" you asked, making no effort to hide the sudden fragility in your voice. //"Grieving."// The idea that the Saint had been present at your emergence was one thing... the apparent fact that you'd emerged inhuman and blinding was another entirely. Val had known. $vThey had seen your halo, and known of your inhumanity since the very start. [[And yet Val cared for you anyway.|6.v.grateful]] [[You were too confused to know how to feel.|6.v.confused]] [[You hated the reflexive resentment it gave you.|6.v.conflicted]] [[How could Val have lied to you all these years?|6.v.angry]]

<<set $Val6 to "confused">>The fear and disdain Val had for Religious and anything resembling the arcane had always been somewhat of a mystery to you; it was just a fact, and not something $vthey ever would explain. A pit $vthey ignored even as $vtheir feet danced around it, closer and closer as of late. Whenever you thought about it too hard, a quiet fear would creep in: were you bringing $vthem closer to the edge, toeing the the steep slope with your every <<if $ValMagic is false>>ounce of strangeness? <<else>>breath of Magic and word of the divine?<</if>> <<if $RO is "Val" or $RO is "ValKlaus">> \<<if $ValCrush is "old">>And worst of all, //worst of all//, enough to make your heart crack in two- a sudden and complete clarity. You'd long suspected that your attempts to flirt and express the real depths of your love for Val hadn't gone unnoticed, and that $vthey $vwere playing dumb on purpose. A silly part of you thought maybe $vthey loved you too much to risk it. Now you just felt stupid. But surely not. Val would never have said those things if $vthey knew it included you, especially when $vthey knew you were listening, would $vthey? Not Val. Not //Val.// Not if $vthey knew how you felt. Right? Anxiety soured your stomach, as you knew even then the justifications were weak. Just denial denial denial. But no, you needed to focus; of all the earth-shattering revelations, this ought to be the least of them. The Saint was still watching you closely. \<<elseif $ValCrush is "new">>And worst of all, //worst of all//, enough to make your heart crack in two- the sudden realization that your newly formed crush was perilous, for you and Val both. At least, you thought, you hadn't fallen too far down the rabbithole; you could still content yourself with friendship, surely. You, a horrible, holy thing, inhuman and spat out by god. Who knew how much longer Val would tolerate even that. Anxiety soured your stomach, as you knew even then the justifications were weak. Just denial denial denial. But no, you needed to focus; of all the earth-shattering revelations, this ought to be the least of them. The Saint was still watching you closely. \<<else>>At least the less-than-platonic thoughts had been fleeting strays, a product of longing for things you could never be. All the more reason to defang those late-night cravings and bury them where they could not hurt you. Val was afraid of you, maybe even disgusted, you knew that with certainty- it was how $vthey treated everything else of your supposed ilk, after all. But surely Val would never have said those things if $vthey knew it included you, especially when $vthey knew you were listening, would $vthey? Not Val. Not //Val.// Guinefort had to be mistaken. Anxiety soured your stomach, as you knew even then the justifications were weak. Just denial denial denial. But no, you needed to focus; of all the earth-shattering revelations, this ought to be the least of them. The Saint was still watching you closely.<</if>> \<<else>>You didn't know how to reconcile it. How many times had you heard Val voice $vtheir fear and digust of Magic, of the things of your //ilk,// knowing you were within earshot and internalizing every word $vthey spoke? It didn't sound right, it didn't sound like //Val//. Surely the Saint was mistaken. It had been someone else, or Val hadn't understood what $vthey were seeing. Maybe Guinefort was lying to you entirely. Anxiety soured your stomach, as you knew even then the justifications were weak. Just denial denial denial. But no, you needed to focus; of all the earth-shattering revelations, this ought to be the least of them. The Saint was still watching you closely.<</if>> [['"Show me this halo."'|6.g.halo.yes.changedmind]] [['"I've managed this long without it."'|6.g.no.magic]] [['"I don't believe you."'|6.r.body]]

<<set $Val6 to "angry">>The fear and disdain Val had for Religious and anything resembling the arcane had always been somewhat of a mystery to you; it was just a fact, and not something $vthey ever would explain. A pit $vthey ignored even as $vtheir feet danced around it, closer and closer as of late. A pit you crawled out of, and $vthey must have fantasizing shoving you back into with every <<if $ValMagic is false>>ounce of strangeness.<<else>>breath of Magic and hint of the divine.<</if>> All that vitriol directed toward the Religious, knowing you would hear and internalize every word. <<if $RO is "Val" or $RO is "ValKlaus">> \<<if $ValCrush is "old">>And worst of all, //worst of all//, enough to make your heart crack in two- a sudden and complete clarity. You'd long suspected that your attempts to flirt and express the real depths of your love for Val hadn't gone unnoticed, and that $vthey $vwere playing dumb on purpose. A silly part of you thought maybe $vthey loved you too much to risk it. Now you knew how delusional that truly was. Val knew what you were, and $vthey almost certainly knew how you felt. Did $vthey think it was funny, in a pathetic sort of way? Look at this horrible, holy thing, inhuman and spat out by god, pining after a real person. $vThey were a professional at the long con after all, so how long had $vthey been waiting to pull out the rug from under you? Worst case scenario, you supposed, but you were having a worst case scenario kind of day. And the opposite stung just as much- a naive belief that $vthey could fix you, that you needed fixing, that you weren't worthy until you were no longer yourself. Resentment soured your stomach. But no, you needed to focus; of all the earth-shattering revelations, heartbreak ought to be the least of them. The Saint was still watching you closely. \<<elseif $ValCrush is "new">>And worst of all, //worst of all//, enough to make your heart crack in two- the sudden realization that your newly formed crush would have to be stamped out in its infancy, for your own sanity's sake, if nothing else. Val knew what you were, and $vthey probably weren't blind to how you felt. At least, you thought, you hadn't fallen too far down the rabbithole; if this was all true, you doubted your ability to stomach even a friendship much longer. Worst case scenario, you supposed, but you were having a worst case scenario kind of day. And the opposite stung just as much- a naive belief that $vthey could fix you, that you needed fixing, that you weren't worthy until you were no longer yourself. Resentment soured your stomach. But no, you needed to focus; of all the earth-shattering revelations, heartbreak ought to be the least of them. The Saint was still watching you closely. \ <<else>>At least the less-than-platonic thoughts had been fleeting strays, a product of wanting things you could never be. All the more reason to defang those late-night cravings and bury them where they cannot hurt you. Maybe if you worked up enough anger, you could get them to dissolve entirely. It would make everything simpler. A few embarrassing memories would be better than whatever self-hating shame Val was leading you into. Resentment soured your stomach. But no, you needed to focus; of all the earth-shattering revelations, this ought to be the least of them. The Saint was still watching you closely.<</if>> \<<else>>You didn't know how to reconcile it. What had always felt like something of an owed favor was quickly turning into a cruel joke. Did $vthey think it was funny, in a pathetic sort of way? Look at this horrible, holy thing, inhuman and spat out by god, thinking it can be a real person. $vThey were a professional at the long con after all, so how long had $vthey been waiting to pull out the rug from under you? Worst case scenario, you supposed, but you were having a worst case scenario kind of day. And the opposite stung just as much- a naive belief that $vthey could fix you, that you needed fixing. Resentment soured your stomach. But no, you needed to focus; of all the earth-shattering revelations, this ought to be the least of them. The Saint was still watching you closely.<</if>> [['"Show me this halo."'|6.g.halo.yes.changedmind]] [['"I've managed this long without it."'|6.g.no.magic]] [['"I don't believe you."'|6.r.body]]

"I'm not going anywhere with you. I know better than to trust a Saint, especially one with a crazed cult on tap." //"What falsehoods has the thief filled your head with?"// Guinefort spat; their growing irritation was clear. //"Was it not enough to isolate you from your context, that $vthey must turn you against me, as well?"// "The... thief?" you asked dumbly, as if you could delay the next few sentences. There was only one person Guinefort could be referring to, of course, but that didn't make it any easier to swallow. It was always a bit of a blur, your first day in the Holy City. In retrospect, you figured you were in a state of shock, or at the mercy of whatever head injury had caused your amnesia. One moment you were wandering the endless maze underground, the next <<if def $ValCrush>>you were holding Val's hand.<<else>>Val was leading you home.<</if>> Bits and pieces after that, a jumble of confusion and stress. You remember your fevers, and Val's anxiety, and you know that you were afraid. //"It was I that met you, not $vthem."// "But Val always said I was alone." //"Then you have been lied to."// The revelation that the Saint had been present at your emergence was one thing... the apparent fact that you'd emerged inhuman and blinding was another thing entirely. Val had known. $vThey had seen your halo, and known of your inhumanity since the very start. [[And yet Val cared for you anyway.|6.v.grateful]] [[You're too confused to know how to feel.|6.v.confused]] [[You hate the reflexive resentment it gives you.|6.v.conflicted]] [[How could Val lie to you all these years?|6.v.angry]]

"You know what..." you said quickly, before you could talk yourself out of it, "Show me this halo." Guinefort's gauntleted hand found the doorknob as they wordlessly gestured for you to collect the lantern from the floor. Fortunately, it wasn't nearly as heavy as it looked. The hall was better lit than your cell, but the real difference was in the air- still stale, but at least there was //more// of it. You breathed deep once, twice. There was a damp, salty taste on your tongue. Guinefort did not allow for your moment of freedom; their stride was long and steady, and you had to scurry to catch up as they led you deeper into whatever winding complex you found yourself in. Stone, rock, more stone. Built, not carved, though the right angles and precise masonry were dulled by time. The hallway was narrow, barely enough room for two to walk side by side, but tall enough for even the Saint's towering height. An occasional window broke up the monotony of stone, but each was black and opaque, most were cracked, and none offered any light. A weight suffocated the ceiling and walls, giving the impression that you could walk for miles in any direction and never find the end. It had the ancient air of a theatre, but with none of the signs of dramatic architecture or Religious granduer. "Are we underground?" you asked. Guinefort tilted their head, but didn't slow their pace. "Something buried by the Collapse?" //"Many things were lost. Some have been found."// You fell silent, contemplating. You must have heard dozens if not hundreds of rumors that tried to explain what lay under the Holy City, but most seemed pretty sure it was nothing but rubble and soil, a civilization entirely flattened. Only the more fanciful stories grasped at what you knew- that it was traversible, with hollow places and connected routes. Did the Faithful's sanctuary cross the tunnels you'd claimed as your own? You could only wonder at what aeons of memory and lost knowledge wait for those who are willing to dig deep enough. Eventually, the maze came to an end at a heavy metal-banded door, seemingly without lock or knob. You raised your lantern a little higher, illuminating the narrow lines of ward and rune carved directly into the wood. Imprecisions betrayed a shaky hand and poor tools, but there was enough conviction pressed into every knifestroke to make up for the craftmanship a thousand times over. Rarely do you see Magic so sure of itself, so desperately airtight that it would take even //you// several days to unravel its code. [[Magic built this door, and with Guinefort's raised hand, Magic made it fall away.|6.halo.cm.0]]

"I've gone this long without some halo," you argued. "It can't be all that important." And you meant it. If you'd discarded it almost immediately upon beginning your new life, and hadn't once missed it since then, you clearly didn't need or want it. If it meant anything, it was to a $Name that you'd long left behind. //"Healing will not come quickly. You will remain bereft of Magic until then."// You swallowed. "When is //then//? How long until the ritual wears off?" //"Perhaps a year. Perhaps a thousand."// That gave you pause, though you tried to hide it. Could you go that long without even a breath of Magic? You didn't know. <<if $ValMagic is false>>Even when you hadn't reached for it in days, even weeks... you could always feel it there, in the back of your mind.<<else>>It had always been there, a truer self underneath your mortal shell. Even without the day-to-day boons of Magic... it's as though one of your vital senses has been dulled.<</if>> [['"Fine. Show me this halo."'|6.g.halo.yes.changedmind]] [['"I don't believe you."'|6.r.body]]

The freezing temperatures of the hallway dissapated along with the mysterious door,, replaced by a wave of heat that seemed entirely out of place this far below the surface. The room before you was small, hardly more than a closet of rough-hewn, pock marked stone. At the center, a pedestal seemingly carved from the same material. Only one thing occupied the vault- a narrow slice of the sun itself, with such scalding radiance that it made your lantern look like a mere firefly in comparison. You had little doubt of what you were looking at. The halo was smaller than you expected, though you supposed you had nothing to justify an expectation in the first place. It couldn't have been much larger than your hand at a full stretch, and there was no color to it, only a radiant, scalding white. It did not pulse, it did not waver, it only shone with the ferocity to rival a nuclear blast. A gasp escaped you, but you couldn't find the deceny to be ashamed of it. Not only was the halo the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen, it set something resonating within you that would take a thousand years to articulate. You stepped closer, fully into the room, now, and locked your gaze upon it, determined to study every detail even if you went blind in the process. [['"Tell me the truth, then."'|6.halo.2]]

Your stomach hasn't rumbled yet, but the tell-tale hollowness has started to spread through your gut, and if your internal clock has stayed accurate, your next meal won't be delivered for hours yet. <<if $hungry is true>>No chance you'll make it that long.<<else>>Better to get it over with, now.<</if>> So far you've seen half a dozen different cultists and all the signs of many, many more. Unless they're all ascending to the surface for every meal - they'd served you warm bread, after all - there has to be some kind of a kitchen or food stockpile somewhere in the sanctuary. Leaving the cell by yourself is an odd feeling, and you can't help but glance down the hall hesitantly as if you feared being caught. You strain your ears for rapidly approaching footsteps, and when you hear none, you slowly build up the courage to take your own steps outside the cell. You close the door behind you softly, not quite trusting it. The sigh of relief you breathe when you're not immediately slapped in chains or tackled by a spectral hound may be a little dramatic, but you feel it deeply. You pick the same direction as the baths and divert from the path after the first two turns. Nothing logical pulls you that way, just a thought that it has more light and less stale cave air. <<if hasVisited ("6.A1.FREE")>>[[Continue.|6.a.food.2]]<<else>>[[Continue.|6.a.food.2a]]<</if>>

"So now what? I go back to my jail cell?" //"I would not confine you. The sanctuary is yours to roam, if you will abide by it."// In other words, mild freedom if you were willing to follow the rules, whatever those might have been. //Leaving// was almost certainly not an approved activity. It was a bad investment as far as deals go, but then again, you were a hostage, not a merchant. [[It was better than rotting in a cell.|6.B1.FREE]] [[You weren't interested in expanding the walls of your prison.|6.B2.CELL][$Guine +=1]]

"Fine," you said with a measure of defeat. "I won't try and run away." Whether or not Guinefort believed you was impossible to ascertain from their heartbeat of a stare before they pivoted and exited the vault. Almost in a haze, you followed the Saint, unwilling or unable to track the turns and directions. The vault door reformed behind you, solid and keyless as ever. Eventually you arrived back in front of your cell; you could only recognize the door from all its bretheren because you'd spent so many hours staring at its every whorl. //"Wait,"// ordered Guinefort, before striding down the hallway and out of sight. You listened until their heavy footsteps fade, and while you leaned against the cool walls, your eyes flutter closed. The previous few days you'd done nothing but sit and sit and sit, and this one brisk walk was apparently enough to exhaust you. Or perhaps it was the halo, and just beholding it was enough to sap your energy. "Your Holiness?" A light cough jolted you out of your daze. You shuddered awake, blinking away adrenaline to see that a new figure stood before you, carrying a small pile of fabric. You did not recognize this one, but you didn't need many context clues to know they were one of the Faithful. They seemed young, though lines creased their face; you couldn't imagine the life of a cultist was particularly stress-free. They kept their head bowed and eyes fixed on the floor, though whether it was out of respect or fear you could not tell. They extended their bundle toward you, which you now saw was a set of neatly folded clothes. "Fresh garments; I pray they are to size. The Saint has instructed me to guide you to the baths." You took the clothes gingerly and held them close to your chest; the fabric was soft and smelled faintly of soap. "There are baths down here?" you asked, somewhat dully. The functionality of a buried ruin was beyond you, though it'd been at least a week since you last washed, so maybe you were better off not questioning it. "This way, Your Holiness," said the acolyte, with a polite guesture down the dim hall. [['"Please don't call me that."'|6.B1.FREE.NOLO][$YG to false]] [[You didn't correct them on the title.|6.B1.FREE.NOLO][$YG to true]]

<<set $brokenarm to false>>You pull your arm forward, letting it skim the water, and feel along the scraps of cloth to find where the splint is bound. The knot is strong, and gives you considerable trouble between your one hand and its inconvenient angle. Your fingers are a little raw by the time you manage to pry loose one of its loops. The wooden splint falls into the water with a quiet splash, soon followed by bandages that float on the surface momentarily before sinking below. The way they peel from your arm is distinctly unpleasant, revealing your slightly pale and clammy skin beneath. The top layer is dead and gray, and you have to bite your tongue to resist scratching it all away, knowing you'd regret the angry red marks that would follow. Whether it's the last of the pain medicine you'd been given, or the newfound precision of your Magic, you aren't sure, but there's nothing more than mild discomfort as your bones and skin knit themselves back together by your command. The Magic isn't as slippery as it was a few minutes ago- you must already be adjusting- but it still leaves you reeling to catch up with your new reality. The blackened marks do not fade, nor does the ugly tear across your palm or the jagged lines left by the dog's teeth. Your scars are more permanent, it seems. You stretch out your arm, rolling your wrist and elbow experimentally. Other than the rubbery sensation of having just put down a long-carried weight, it feels whole. You dip it into the warm bath, savoring the feeling of clean water running over the skin that's been wrapped up for so long. With your fingernails and a little bit of soap, you gently scrape away the dead cells to reveal the raw, healthy stuff beneath. Finally satisfied, you lift yourself from the bath and shake the water from your body. The chill hits you immediately, and you shiver all the way to the cabinet that the acolyte had pointed out. It takes you two embarrassing tries to unlatch the doors, but inside you find the promised linens- mismatched but neatly folded, and smelling of soap. You pull a towel and close the cabinet once more. You remind yourself to be gentle with your skin as you unfold your towel and press it against your face with one hand. It takes all your strength to not remain there for several minutes, head buried in the warm, marginally gentle dark. Eventually, you summon the courage to dry off the rest of your body. You gather up the splint and your dirty clothes, grimacing a little at their staleness. Spending a moment to soak and scrub them probably would do you some good, but you simply don't have it in you. You're fortunate that the Magic is still flowing freely, and that it takes less than a thought to make the dirt fall away. [[You dress in your own clothes.|6.A1.ROOM][$f_clothing to false]] [[You pull on the new clothes given by the acolyte.|6.A1.ROOM][$f_clothing to true]]

If pressed, you couldn't possibly explain the sudden need to preserve something natural, or even what part of you reasons that Magic //isn't.// It's natural to you, isn't it? Is it? Should it be? //See also:// You shake your head violently before the antiseptic little thought has a chance to provide a string of words that you can't justify. Instead, you lift yourself from the bath and shake the water from your body. The chill hits you immediately, and you shiver all the way to the cabinet that the acolyte had pointed out. It takes you two embarrassing tries to unlatch the doors, but inside you find the promised linens- mismatched but neatly folded, and smelling of soap. You pull a towel and close the cabinet once more. You remind yourself to be gentle with your skin as you unfold your towel and press it against your face with one hand. It takes all your strength to not remain there for several minutes, head buried in the warm, marginally gentle dark. Eventually, you summon the courage to dry off the rest of your body. It's a quick affair, if a bit awkward. Finally, you move to gather your dirty clothes, grimacing a little at their staleness. Spending a moment to soak and scrub them probably would do you some good, but you simply don't have it in you. [[You dress in your own clothes, dirty though they may be.|6.A1.ROOM][$f_clothing to false]] [[You pull on the new clothes given by the acolyte.|6.A1.ROOM][$f_clothing to true]]

Your face widened with alarm and bafflement. "What? What I //am//? I'm just... a person. There's nothing to know." A person with an unknown past, but that didn't make you anything more or less than anyone else. A citizen of the Holy City, maybe not by birth, but- //"You do not believe that."// It wasn't a question. //"And I will not tolerate falsehoods."// Not a threat but a statement, inviting no argument. <<if $Human lte 50>>Part of you bristled at the audacity to tell you what you were, what you believed. The rest felt like a child caught in an unbelievable lie. <<else>>Part of you felt like a child caught in a lie. The rest bristled at the audacity to tell //you// what //you// were, what //you// believed.<</if>> Your thoughts squirmed, desperately searching for an out. But all that came to mind was the solution presented to you days ago, now. "What exactly is the alternative?" you asked finally. Clearly Guinefort seemed to have some sort of answer, even if you didn't believe it. "You said... you said something about a halo. //My// halo." The Saint was quiet for a moment, then- //"Would you like to see it?"// [[Yes.|6.g.halo.yes][$Guine +=1]] [[No.|6.g.halo.no][$Guine -=1]]

You shake away the bright idea to reform your own skeleton and settle for something far less drastic. The splint and your one-handedness makes it awkward, but you're able to gently pat the bandages dry- or at least, acceptably damp. It'll do for now, until you can get some real medical attention. You finish drying off, then gather up your dirty clothes, grimacing a little at their staleness. Spending a moment to soak and scrub them probably would do you some good, but you simply don't have it in you. [[You dress in your own clothes, dirty though they may be.|6.A1.ROOM][$f_clothing to false]] [[You pull on the new clothes given by the acolyte.|6.A1.ROOM][$f_clothing to true]]

"You're delusional," you said quickly, before you could think the better of it. "I don't care how you got it, I'm not interested in halos, or whatever is is that you think you have." The Saint met your rebuke with a kind of silence that brought any momentum in the room to a grinding halt, even as the cell felt charged and rumbling. The stretch of quiet was almost menacing enough to make you flinch when they finally spoke again. //"You have misunderstood. The only question I ask is how willingly you will take it."// "Are you threatening me?" you asked with a delirious laugh, "I thought I was the 'chosen vessel' of your 'god'. Isn't that some kind of deadly sin?" //"So damn me,"// they hissed. //"My soul is not worth ransom."// [[It was hard to know what to say to that.|6.r.san.int.1]]

Guinefort raised a hand; you didn't see the door open, instead half convinced it simply fell away. Any thoughts of it vanished quickly once the room beyond was revealed to you. It was plain, but its size was lost on you; it could have been infinite, it could have been a broom closet. At the center, was pedestal seemingly carved right out of the earth. Only one thing occupied it- a narrow slice of the sun itself, bursting with such violent light that you felt vomit crawl up your throat just from looking upon it. You had little doubt as to what it was. The halo was smaller than you expected, though you supposed you had nothing to justify an expectation in the first place. It couldn't have been much larger than your hand at a full stretch, and there was no color to it, only a radiant, scalding white. It did not pulse, it did not waver, it only shone with the ferocity to rival a nuclear blast. A whimper escaped you, but you couldn't find the deceny to be ashamed of it. The halo was beautiful, certainly, more than you could have ever comprehended. But it set a buzz in you, a molecular vibration deep within your heart that agitated every inch of your existence. [[It was a migraine as much as it was a miracle.|6.r.div.vault.2]]

<<set $angel +=1>>Playing into the role wasn't going to save you, it seemed. Though you didn't know what kind of person was so unafraid of the thing they claimed to worship. Someone you ought to be wary of in turn, you supposed. //"What do you require? Incentive? Conviction?"// Their tone was not kind. //"These things are not in short supply."// "Clearly," you said, unable to temper your derision. "But no, I just don't believe you." //"Memory, then. You must reintegrate. Eat."// "I'm not hungry." //"You are starved,//" they replied simply. //"I speak of angels."// Like some cosmic joke, an ill-timed rumble ripped through the earth below, the violent kind of quake that rattled your skull and took your feet out from under you. The fall hit you hip first and jarred your elbow, and you knew you'd be seeing mottled bruises in the coming days. You sucked air through your teeth to temper the pain, and shifted to a sitting position. At least it faded quickly. Guinefort had caught their balance with only a simple step, you noted sourly. As the palm of your hand slid against the frigid floor still in the throes of the aftershock, a weight grew in your mind, two distinct tethers that prowled and snarled as they traversed the dark somewhere below, far down in the maze of hallways you were imprisoned in. //Integration.// "Is that what you did? To control those demonic dogs?" //"Control?"// Guinefort replied hazily, as if suddenly caught out of a dream, perhaps distracted by the earthquake. //"No. Integrate."// "And what does.... integration take?" //"An open wound to welcome god,"// said Guinefort, their presence returning to them with a snap. They seemed to be losing patience. They begun pacing, their shroud dragging along the dusty floor. [[You didn't like the sound of that, at all.|6.r.san.int.2c]] [['"No blood sacrifice for me, thanks."'|6.r.san.int.2a]] [['"I've already done that."'|6.r.san.int.2b]]

"I'm not doing some blood sacrifice," comes your retort. "I've already eaten angel, and I'm not interested in doing it again. Especially not for some fucked up cult shit." They made a sound you could only interpret as a scoff. //"Why? A second will only bring balance."// <<if $angel gte 2>>"A third," you corrected, which bought you a moment's respite from Guinefort's pacing. "There's been two angels already." They stopped somewhere out of your direct line of sight, no longer even casting a shadow on the floor. //"Then you've even less to fear."// <<else>>"Scar symmetry isn't high on my list of priorities," you said, trying not to roll your eyes. Was it nerves making you so contentious? Guinefort stopped somewhere out of your direct line of sight, no longer even casting a shadow on the floor. Their silence seethed.<</if>> In the corner of your eye you watched them raise a hand, their steel taloned fingers contorting into words only you recognize, releasing a ping of Magic that echoed off into the endless dark halls of the Faithful's sanctuary. It dizzied you to hear the call but to have no means to respond, made you salivate. The speed at which the angel rsponded was unnerving. You'd barely finished trying to anchor your feet to the floor in protest when a light grew around the gaps in your cell door and that eerie placation settled over you, relaxed your muscles while your inner voice screamed bloody murder. The angel waited for a moment in hall, like an absurd farce of a polite guest, until Guinefort reached out with Magic to unlatch the door and let it in. Some inscruitable emotion twisted in your gut as the light of its halo scraped against your retinas. It struck you how similar Guinefort and the angel were, two sides of the same unearthly coin. Faceless, shrouded, only a mere suggestion of humanity. You supposed the rumors that the Saints were half angel could very well be true, if not necessarily accurate. The difference lay in the details, as always. Guinefort was corroded finery, their gloom something earned, where the angel had been as it was since the dawn of time. and always would be. It burned into you, that vicious timelessness. And its vibrant energy was only made worse by Guinefort's heavy, hollow presence behind you. Your world had become terribly uneven, as if you stared at an incoming meteor with your back to a yawning precipice. Much more would have you bent into an unrecognizable shape. You turned back just in time to see Guinefort produce a silver misericorde from somewhere beneath their shroud, a thin blade that was more needle than knife. They held it loosely, and the angel's light made it flash and gleam and leave trails of white dancing across your vision. //"You must integrate, Io."// The angel stood obediently. The longer you stared, the blurrier its lacy edges became. [[Just a small drop of blood to satisfy the Saint.][$Guine +=1]] [[You ground your teeth. You would not.|6.r.san.int.3]]

There wasn't time to come up with something clever, or even something smart, but you would resist, even if that just meant making it as difficult for Guinefort as possible. You heard them move, and balled your fist just in time to feel their heavy form step up behind you. Steel wrapped around your right wrist, easily breaking through your attempt to keep it by your side and prying your fingers apart with nearly enough force to snap the delicate bones. You squirmed and swore when they pressed the tip of the misericorde against your palm, but their grip was like a vice. With a thrust, the blade sliced through tendons, narrowly slipping between bone, and ripped through the back of your hand with a sickening tear. The sight of your fragile skin tenting to the will of the knife was almost too much to bear; your vision reeled to spare you, but it was far too late, and you screamed. Guinefort at least had the mercy to withdraw the misericorde quickly. They shifted their grip to prop your hand up vertically, the chill of their gauntlet a stark contrast to the warm blood gushing from your wound. The armor pinched your skin, and for whatever reason, that made you unfathomably angry. Brute force would gain you no ground, you knew that immediately - their armor alone was enough to crush you. So you threw yourself forward to shake the Saint loose; the surprise of it bought you a sliver of opportunity, and you slipped from their grasp. Guinefort's gasp of frustration was chilling, but you had no time for that- you knew the door was unlocked, and that this could be your only chance. You slipped past the angel, ears popping, and reached for the door. You hand was slick with blood, the other still pinned uselessly to your chest, and you fumbled the latch for a breathless second. It was enough for Guinefort to lash out with a grasping claw, but not enough to catch you. You flung the door wide and bolted into the hall; it was dark and narrow, more endless stone, and your vision was still flashing with an echo of the angel's light, but there were only two ways forward. You chose left. The days of imprisonment had left your limbs stiff, but you found your energy wasn't lacking. You sprinted awkwardly but with purpose, begging your eyes to adjust to the dark before you met a curve or fork in the path. You passed doorways and windows, all opaque and most filled with rubble. Your lungs were tightening and your options were limited; there were no sounds of pursuit and you didn't know if that was a good sign or a very, very bad one. [[You kept going.|6.r.san.int.3.1h]] [[You ducked into a room.|6.r.san.int.3.1r]]

<<set $angel += 1>>"Fine," you croaked. Your throat felt like hot sandpaper. "Show me this halo." You would have added a //'no promises'//, but you didn't think Guinefort would be amused, and this was about survival, after all. You'd seen where provoking them would get you. Being hauled to your feet must have finally been too much; you blacked out, slipping in and out of delirium until finally you stablized against a cool stone wall. You knew you'd traveled, guided by Guinefort's stern hand around the back of your neck, but how far and how long was anyone's guess. Before you, through your heavy-lidded haze, was a metal-banded door, seemingly without lock or knob. Runes and letters were carved deeply into the wood, each burning bright in your mind's eye, but far too dissolved for you to make any sense of them. Or perhaps that was you, and your bloodless state. You didn't see the door open, instead half conviced it simply fell away. Any thoughts of it vanished quickly once the room beyond was revealed to you. It was plain, but its size was lost on you; it could have been infinite, it could have been a broom closet. At the center, was pedestal seemingly carved right out of the earth. Only one thing occupied it- a narrow slice of the sun itself, bursting with such violent light that you felt vomit crawl up your throat just from looking upon it. The halo was smaller than you expected, though you supposed you had nothing to justify an expectation in the first place. It couldn't have been much larger than your hand at a full stretch, and there was no color to it, only a radiant, scalding white. It did not pulse, it did not waver, it only shone with the ferocity to rival a nuclear blast. A whimper escaped you, but you couldn't find the deceny to be ashamed of it. The halo was beautiful, certainly, more than you could have ever comprehended. But it set a buzz in you, a molecular vibration deep within your heart that agitated every inch of your existence. [[It was a migraine as much as it was a miracle.|6.r.halo.0]]

You squeezed your eyes shut to keep your head from splitting open like a ripe fruit. When you opened them again, your visitor was gone, the room once again dark. The memory was spent, if it was even a memory at all... it was certainly the first to be imposed over the waking world. Slowly, the fire abated in waves, every second of relief wasted on bracing yourself for the inevitable resurgence. It left you curled on the floor tightly, heaving and sobbing, long after the final aches had passed. At least the stone floor was cool against your inflammed cheek. Guinefort stood a few feet away, keeping their place as the uncertain thing in the corner of your vision. You wondered if your cries had drawn them to <<if hasVisited ("6.r.san.int.3.1r")>>your hiding place,<<else>>you,<</if>> or if they'd simply been watching the entire time. //"The halo is //your// gift and //your// burden. You will not cheat it."// <<if hasVisited ("6.B.halochance2")>>[['"Fuck off."'|6.r.san.vault.1a]]<<else>>[['"Fuck off."'|6.r.san.vault.1]]<</if>> [[The words rang true.]]

"Fuck you," you spat, trying to ignore the taste of sepsis on your tongue. "God doesn't even know your name." The Saint only allowed you a brief exhale before they acted. Being hauled to your feet must have finally been too much; you blacked out, slipping in and out of delirium until finally you stablized against a cool stone wall. You knew you'd traveled, guided by Guinefort's stern hand around the back of your neck, but how far and how long was anyone's guess. Before you, through your heavy-lidded haze, was a metal-banded door, seemingly without lock or knob. Runes and letters were carved deeply into the wood, each burning bright in your mind's eye, but far too dissolved for you to make any sense of them. Or perhaps that was you, and your bloodless state. You didn't see the door open, instead half conviced it simply fell away. Any thoughts of it vanished quickly once the room beyond was revealed to you. It was plain, but its size was lost on you; it could have been infinite, it could have been a broom closet. At the center, was pedestal seemingly carved right out of the earth. Only one thing occupied it- a narrow slice of the sun itself, bursting with such violent light that you felt vomit crawl up your throat just from looking upon it. Cold sweat broke out on your brow; the angel's heat was still fresh in your mind, and the light of the halo was far too familiar. The halo was smaller than you expected, though you supposed you had nothing to justify an expectation in the first place. It couldn't have been much larger than your hand at a full stretch, and there was no color to it, only a radiant, scalding white. It did not pulse, it did not waver, it only shone with the ferocity to rival a nuclear blast. A whimper escaped you, but you couldn't find the deceny to be ashamed of it. The halo was beautiful, certainly, more than you could have ever comprehended. But it set a buzz in you, a molecular vibration deep within your heart that agitated every inch of your already fragile existence. [[It was a migraine as much as it was a miracle.|6.r.san.vault.2]]

<<if hasVisited ("6.B.halochance2")>>You stared at a point just to the left of it, troubled as to how you'd found yourself back in the vault once more. You'd been strong enough to resist the first time, but what business did you have giving it a second chance? /<<else>>You couldn't tear your eyes away from that bright sun, enchanting as it was even in its tyranny. The Saint's obsession with it seemed less and less freakish by the second. Maybe it //was// holy. <</if>>//"No sacrifice is needed,"// Guinefort said as softly as they could manage, as if sensing your apprehension. //"It is already yours."// A small comfort, but not nearly enough to quell the static electricity churning your stomach. [[Fuck it. Fine.|6.r.halo.0]] [[You refused.|6.r.san.vault.3]]

<<if hasVisited ("6.B.halochance2")>>You stared at a point just to the left of it, troubled as to how you'd found yourself back in the vault once more. You'd been strong enough to resist the first time, but what business did you have giving it a second chance? //"No sacrifice is needed,"// Guinefort said as softly as they could manage, as if sensing your apprehension. //"It is already yours."// /<<else>>You couldn't tear your eyes away from that bright sun, enchanting as it was even in its tyranny. The Saint's obsession with it seemed less and less freakish by the second. Maybe it //was// holy. //"Do not fear it,"// Guinefort said as softly as they could manage, as if sensing your apprehension. //"It is already yours."//<</if>> A small comfort, but not nearly enough to quell the static electricity churning your stomach. [[Fuck it. Fine.|6.r.halo.0]] [[No chance in hell.|6.r.div.vault.3]]

"I already told you," you stated slowly to control your tremble. "I don't want it. And I don't think you can make me take it." A gamble, to be sure, but one that had footing. If they could force the halo down your throat, surely they would have by now. //"You only prolong this,"// replied Guinefort. You heard the creak of their armor and braced yourself for whatever violence they intended next. It did not come. The vault remained quiet, only the hum of the halo to accompany you. Still tense, you peeled your eyes from the halo and risked a glance over your shoulder, expecting to see the Saint's faceless mask staring back. But Guinefort was gone, and the vault door was once again in place. You turned fully, fearful anticipation giving way to confusion, and then more slowly to dawning horror. You approached the door, tested it with a hearty shove, to no avail. They had locked you in. Seized by a sudden panic, you pounded and kicked and screamed until you were hoarse, but the door remained resolute. You shouted senseless obscenities to goad your captor into returning, pleas to any sympathetic Faithful to help. No one came to your aid, and the door was now flecked with your sticky dark blood. Panting, you knelt and pressed your cheek to the floor to peer out the minute gap between wood and stone, trying to see anything, anything at all, whether it be light or shadow, good or ill. But not even the radiance of the halo behind you could cut through more than a few feet of the darkness beyond, as forboding as it was. Nothing more than specks of ancient dust would stir. Flattening your hand, you slid an experimental fingertip through the gap. An arctic chill met your skin. You shot backwards as something slammed against the door, a roar and snarl as punctuation to your shriek. Teeth snapped in the gap, inky black tongues and half-formed claws scrabbling at the emptiness, hellbent on breaking through or dragging a piece of you under. A discordant cacophany of barking followed as you scrambled away, while your heart pounded faster than a freight train. The door held strong, but with every bang and slam more grit shook loose from the surrounding stone blocks. It was already taking settling in your lungs. You found solace with your back against the far wall, putting the gleaming halo between you and the exit. The assault on the door finally abated, though you could still hear the demonic dogs pacing and sniffing the air hungrily. Every inch of you trembled as you slid to the floor and drew your knees up to your chest, and it was all you could do to keep yourself from sliding into hyperventaliation. Even with your eyes trained on the floor, the halo's light stung. [[It was time.|6.r.halo.0]] <<if $Sanity gte 75>>[[You could take it, and not consume it.|6.r.san.vault.take]]<<else>>[[You could take it, and not consume it.|6.r.san.vault.take]]<</if>> [[Still, you would not touch it.|6.r.san.vault.4]]

[[End of demo.]]

You were no stranger to boredom; you'd learned long ago that you could coast through any situation by imagining yourself already on the other side of it, now a ghost from the future looking in to reassure your past self it was survivable. It had a surprising success rate, if only by killing time by daydreaming. This was not boredom. Every time you came back to yourself, you were still there. Hours could have passed, days, seconds, even. It was still the same moment, always, always, always, every time you opened and closed and unfocused your eyes. Your cheeks stung, burnt raw by tears you didn't remember shedding. At least the bleeding seemed to have stopped; your shirt was sticky with clotted blood, and you half feared moving would reopen the wound. Guinefort's horrific little ritual couldn't have at least cauterized it? Integration, they had called it, though they'd given little in the way of explanation. You turned the word over in your feverish mind, trying to parse its meaning. Integrate. Integral. So the angel was a part of you now, but what part? Was it gone? You'd eaten a memory, but did you retain any of its commands? You veered away from the thought; a hit to your free will was a daunting prospect. You focused on your breathing, instead. An inhale, an exhale, just to make sure at least //something// was still under your control. No shortage of pain accompanied the motion, your lungs still tender from whatever angelic particles had made their home there, but at least it was inflicted of your own accord. The growing hunger, though, you couldn't mitigate. It was making you nauseous. There was no telling how long you sat in that corner. The halo never flickered, never pulsed. Its light simply //was//, just six degrees out of your vision and still bright enough to strain. [[It was time.|6.r.halo.0]] <<if $Sanity gte 75>>[[You could take it, and not consume it.|6.r.san.vault.take]]<<else>>[[You could take it, and not consume it.|6.r.san.vault.take]]<</if>> [[Not now, not ever.|6.r.san.vault.loop.b]]

"I already told you," you stated slowly to control your tremble. "I don't want it. And I don't think you can make me take it." A gamble, to be sure, but one that had footing. If they could force the halo down your throat, surely they would have by now. //"You only prolong this,"// replied Guinefort. You heard the creak of their armor and braced yourself for whatever violence they intended next. It did not come. The vault remained quiet, only the hum of the halo to accompany you. Still tense, you peeled your eyes from the halo and risked a glance over your shoulder, expecting to see the Saint's faceless mask staring back. But Guinefort was gone, and the vault door was once again in place. You turned fully, fearful anticipation giving way to confusion, and then more slowly to dawning horror. You approached the door, tested it with a hearty shove, to no avail. They had locked you in. Seized by a sudden panic, you pounded and kicked and screamed until you were hoarse, but the door remained resolute. You shouted senseless obscenities to goad your captor into returning, pleas to any sympathetic Faithful to help. No one came to your aid, and your hand was now raw and splintered. Panting, you knelt and pressed your cheek to the floor to peer out the minute gap between wood and stone, trying to see anything, anything at all, whether it be light or shadow, good or ill. But not even the radiance of the halo behind you could cut through more than a few feet of the darkness beyond, as forboding as it was. Nothing more than specks of ancient dust would stir. Flattening your hand, you slid an experimental fingertip through the gap. An arctic chill met your skin. You shot backwards as something slammed against the door, a roar and snarl as punctuation to your shriek. Teeth snapped in the gap, inky black tongues and half-formed claws scrabbling at the emptiness, hellbent on breaking through or dragging a piece of you under. A discordant cacophany of barking followed as you scrambled away while your heart pounded like a freight train. The door held strong, but with every bang and slam more grit shook loose from the surrounding stone blocks. It was already settling in your lungs. You found solace with your back against the far wall, putting the gleaming halo between you and the exit. The assault on the door finally abated, though you could still hear the demonic dogs pacing and sniffing the air hungrily. Every inch of you trembled as you slid to the floor and drew your knees up to your chest, and it was all you could do to keep yourself from sliding into hyperventaliation. Even with your eyes trained on the floor, the halo's light stung. <<if $Sanity gte 75>>[[You could take it, and not consume it.|6.r.san.vault.take]]<<else>>[[You could take it, and not consume it.|6.r.san.vault.take]]<</if>> [[Still, you would not touch it.|6.r.div.rescue]]

<<if hasVisited ("6.g.angel")>>"You never answered my question. If I'm not an angel, how could this be mine?" you argued. The Saint's stories weren't going to distract you from your answers, even as your gaze remained glued to that nuclear sun of a halo. //"Not all parts of a whole are equal."//<<else>>"That still doesn't explain how this could be //mine//. People don't just have halos, and I'm not an angel," you argued. Something stubborn in the back of your brain was refusing to even look at the pieces, much less try to put them together, even as your gaze remained glued to that nuclear sun of a halo. //"Personhood..."// murmured Guinefort with a note of resentment before returning to their normal volume. //"Not all parts of a whole are equal."//<</if>> "What whole?" you asked tersely. Fuck, if your patience wasn't wearing thin. "What //part//?" Guinefort looked down at their hand, flexing their gauntlet in apparent apprehension. //"There is a body."// They paused, and the silence nearly stretched to a length that you thought you'd need to prod them again. //"An angel is a memory and you are the soul."// "I have my own body," you protested, but your sense was already sliding off anything rational like oil on water. The beat of your heart in your ears was nearly as loud as the catastrophic silence of the vault. //"A proxy, only. A created vessel cut from the greater thing."// [['"So where is it?"'|6.halo.3]]

Frustration bubbled up through your throat, barely cut off by the vigorous clamping of your teeth. You may not have been a doctor, or really had any idea what your bones were supposed to look like, but Magic had always been reliable enough to fill in the gaps. Your complacency almost irritated you. There was no reason for your suffering, no matter the fact that you still couldn't hear the distant chatter of Magic. <<if hasVisited ("6.g.no.magic")>>Guinefort may have predicted years until you could manipulate the arcane again, but what did they know?<<else>>Everything else was so muffled, anyway. Who was to say that didn't include the arcane?<</if>>

<<if hasVisited ("6.A2.1")>><<else>>A surprise, to be sure, but not necessarily an issue. Could be reverse psychology, you reason. Guinefort seems more straightforward than manipulative, but you aren't ready to put anything past them just yet. You're better off right where you are, where you can see the one and only exit and entrance. And besides, you're exhausted. <</if>>You collapse onto your cot with a deep weariness. Your bedding appears to have been washed, which is a win, though the blanket's quality hasn't improved. Still that same rough wool that's warm but irritating against your tender skin. With little else to occupy your mind besides an infinite loop of existential crises, you turn to sleep, bracing yourself for whatever nonsensical puppet show of a dream awaits you on the other side. The sanctuary is quiet, you'll give it that. The kind of quiet that presses in on your skull, palms clapped against your ears until nothing is audible but your own pulse. If you turn your head just right, you can imagine a tiny army of a thousand soldiers marching in unison with every heartbeat. You lie there for twenty minutes, thirty, an hour. And still sleep does not come. Your brain will not rest, your breathing will not slow. It's as if a light has turned on somewhere inside you that refuses to extinguish or even dim. Annoyance gives way to the creeping suspicion that you know the source of said light, that this is another result of reclaiming your halo. After a few long minutes, you find you don't even have the willpower to keep your eyes closed. With a frustrated huff, you kick off the scratchy blanket and sit up. To your surprise, Guinefort had been right. Now that your eyes have had a chance to adjust, you find you can see every corner of the cell clearly. Something absurd within you wonders if the halo did something to your vision, or if you were the one providing the light, instead. [[You move to the floor, back against the wall.|6.A2.2]] [[You could use something to eat.|6.a.food.1]] [[End of demo.]]

<<set $brokenarm to false>>"Fine," you exhaled, something dragging in your words. "Blood it is." Guinefort offered the knife to you handle first, apparently unconcerned by the idea of giving you a weapon, and you nearly reached for it before pausing and shaking your head meekly. "I can't." The fingers of your broken arm flexed feebly, just to the point of pain. "I doubt I can even hold it." Wordlessly, Guinefort transferred the knife to their other hand and held out the first, as if to help you up from the floor. You stared warily at the tarnished steel and worn leather of their gauntlet, before untying your makeshift splint and placing your arm in their waiting grasp. The solidity of their grip was as shocking as its clinicality. Any strange notion you'd had that Guinefort was nothing but a incorporeal wraith dissolved, though your moment of reflection was soon overshadowed by the sudden influx of Magic- a cool mist on a sun-addled day that left your heart pounding and lungs greedily gasping. You lurched foward, as if pulled by an invisible rope or new force of gravity. There was only vague pain as your skin and bones knit themselves back together, though the sensation made you nauseous enough to be deeply aware of the amount of hot saliva behind your teeth. It could have been the bitter medication you'd been given, but part of you felt that Guinefort simply knew their craft well. The second it was done they released you, letting your arm fall back into your lap before you could gather the strength to catch yourself, and resumed their pacing. You shuddered a moment, swallowing back sickness, and then with clumsy fingers picked apart the bandages' securing knot. You reminded yourself to breathe before you set at unwinding the cloth, exposing your $skin_color skin. The blackened marks had not faded, nor had the ugly tear across your palm or the jagged lines left by the dog's teeth. Your scars were more permanent, it seemed. You stretched, rolling your wrist and elbow experimentally. Other than the rubbery sensation of having just put down a long-carried weight, it felt whole. Without wasting another second, Guinefort once again held out the dagger. You found it feather-light and cool in your hand, and your grip sure. Grayish dirt highlighted the folds of your other hand. You'd never been much for parlor tricks and divination, but for a moment you found yourself wishing you knew which was the life line, and which was for fate. The flesh was raw and unmarked as you leveled the point of the misericorde at your palm. [[It was just enough to draw blood.][$Sanity +=1]] [[You cut deep.][$Sanity -=1, $Guine +=2]]

You could hardly believe the thought. To come so far and waver now? It had to be the angel's influence, still simmering in your veins, making you stupid and malleable. But you couldn't shake it. What if it was the thing you were missing? No matter how happy or discontent the last five years had been, hadn't it always felt like you'd forgotten something? That something was //wrong// with you and needed to be remedied? Maybe the martyrdom was getting to your head. <<if hasVisited ("6.B.halochance2")>>[[Maybe you just wanted to see it again.|6.r.san.int.givein.a]]<<else>>[[But just seeing the halo couldn't hurt.|6.r.san.int.givein]]<</if>>

Everything was warm, everything was... weightless? You shot upright, pulling yourself out of the water and clinging to the ledge with a gasp, coughing and snorting water from your nose. Your throat burned; you must have drifted off sometime in your reverie. You clasped a shuddering hand against your cheeks, feeling the cold, goosebumped skin there and trying to orient yourself back in your own body. At least the part of you that was underwater had remained warm. It only could have been a few seconds- your fingertips weren't even wrinkled- but you felt like you'd aged a year since you first sat in the pool. Thinking on the possible reality in which you drowned didn't help. The chill hit you immediately as you clambered out of the bath, and you shivered all the way to the cabinet that the acolyte had pointed out. It took you two embarrasing tries to unlatch the doors, but inside you found the promised linens- mismatched but neatly folded, and smelling of soap. Below was a collection of dully dyed clothing. You pulled a towel and closed the cabinet once more. You reminded yourself to be gentle with your skin as you unfolded your towel and pressed it against your face with one hand. It took all your strength to not remain there for several minutes, head buried in the warm, marginally gentle dark. Eventually, you summoned the courage to dry off the rest of your body. With a curse, you realized the depth of your earlier mistake: your broken arm had gone under the water, leaving your bandages and sling entirely soaked. You certainly wouldn't be able to fix the wrappings yourself. Trying not to feel too bitter about how easy of a fix it would have been if you could still reach your Magic. Instead, you'd have to settle for something a little more mundane. The splint and your one-handedness made it awkward, but you were able to gently pat the bandages dry- or at least, acceptably damp. It would have to do until you could get some real medical attention. The provided clothing was ill-fitting and hung awkwardly over your frame; you seemed to have lost some weight, but by the jaggedness of your joints, none of it was healthy. You then gathered up your dirty clothes, grimacing a little at their staleness. Maybe you should have taken some time to wash them, but just cleaning yourself had sapped all your energy. [[The walk back to your cell was simple and uneventful.|6.B1.ROOM]] <<set $f_clothing to true>>

<<set $brokenarm to false>>You drape your towel over your shoulders to keep warm, and feel along the scraps of cloth around your arm to find where the splint is bound. The knot is strong, and gives you considerable trouble between your one hand and its inconvenient angle. Your fingers are a little raw by the time you manage to pry loose one of its loops. The wooden splint falls to the floor with a clatter, soon followed by wet bandages. The way they peel from your arm is distinctly unpleasant, revealing your slightly pale and clammy skin beneath. The top layer is dead and gray, and you have to bite your tongue to resist scratching it all away, knowing you'd regret the angry red marks that would follow. Whether it's the last of the pain medicine you'd been given, or the newfound precision of your Magic, you aren't sure, but there's nothing more than mild discomfort as your bones and skin knit themselves back together by your command. The Magic isn't as slippery as it was a few minutes ago- you must already be adjusting- but it still leaves you reeling to catch up with your new reality. The blackened marks do not fade, nor does the ugly tear across your palm or the jagged dog's teeth down your forearm. Your scars are permanent, it seems. You stretch out your arm, rolling your wrist and elbow experimentally. Other than the rubbery sensation of having just put down a long-carried weight, it feels whole. You kneel by the bath again and dip your arm into the warmth, savoring the feeling of cleanliness running over the skin that's been wrapped up for so long. With your fingernails and a little bit of soap, you gently scrape away the dead cells to reveal the raw, healthy stuff beneath. You gather up the splint and your dirty clothes, grimacing a little at their staleness. Spending a moment to soak and scrub them probably would do you some good, but you simply don't have it in you. You're fortunate that the Magic is still flowing freely, and that it takes less than a thought to make the dirt fall away. [[You dress in your own clothes.|6.A1.ROOM][$f_clothing to false]] [[You pull on the new clothes given by the acolyte.|6.A1.ROOM][$f_clothing to true]]

The silver dagger cut easily into the soft skin of your palm, meeting less resistance than warm butter. You watched in morbid fascination as it slid between bones, sliced through tendons, and tented the skin on the back of your hand before piercing through, crimson and wet. There was pain, certainly, but it was distant, unattached to your mortal body, and easy enough to ignore. Your other hand shook minutely but frantically as it pulled the dagger free, the only outward sign that you'd committed any violence against yourself. You did not scream, or flinch. There was only the blood, and the wound. Guinefort spoke, but their unearthly voice had become little more than a buzz in the background. The first drop of blood hit the floor with a heavy splat, and you imagined it sizzling and seeping into the stone to be whisked away by the very earth itself and its rivers below. Exhaustion washed through you, and your hands and head began to droop. The Saint caught your wrist before it could fall too far, holding it aloft and letting the blood drain slowly. The chill of their gauntlet was a stark contrast to the warmth gushing forth. The armor pinched your skin, and for whatever reason, you found that oddly reassuring. You'd nearly forgotten about the angel. Its cold light shone upon your face and your wound. [[It was already drawing closer.|6.r.san.int.4.vol]]

The silver dagger cut easily into the soft skin of your palm, and a bead of blood welled up in response immediately. The pain was minimal- you'd had worse papercuts- but you shook even with that small effort, somehow needing more strength than if you had passed the blade clean through your hand. It was still //sacrifice//, no matter how small. The drop of blood fell to the floor with an almost impercetable splat, just as you felt Guinefort's heavy form behind you. Steel wrapped around your knife-wielding fist, gripping the blade handle with the intent of a soldier putting a foe to rest. //"Almost is nothing."// Your scream drowned out their voice. With a thrust, the blade sliced through tendons, narrowly slipping between bone, and ripped through the back of your hand with a sickening tear. The sight of your fragile skin tenting to the will of the knife was almost too much to bear; your vision reeled to spare you, but it was far too late. Guinefort at least had the mercy to withdraw the misericorde quickly. They shifted their grip to your wrist to prop your hand up vertically, the chill of their gauntlet a stark contrast to the warm blood gushing from your wound. The armor pinched your skin, and for whatever reason, you found that absurd enough to elicit a delirious laugh between your heaving gasps. //"Save your breath,"// Guinefort warned, though you couldn't have complied even if you wanted to. A more primal part of your brain had taken control, focused on survival above all else. You felt yourself try to throw your body free from Guinefort's grasp, but you succeeded in little but wrenching new pain into your tendons. One of the Saint's taloned fingers pressed against the new hole in your hand, catching on raw skin and tearing it deeper, and wider, and making what little strength remained in you cry out. Even then you knew it was more cruelty than necessity, a reminder that //you// had abandoned the easy way. [[The angel was already drawing closer.|6.r.san.int.4.vol]]

You shake your head. "I don't hear anything. Why, can you?" //"Little hope for immediate miracles."// There's disappointment in the words, even as Guinefort remains rigid and faceless. //"It may need time."// You nod noncommittally, not pressing the unanswered question. You may have just eaten a piece of god, but you're still at a disadvantage. "What were you expecting?" you ask distantly, still trying to chase the metallic tang from your tongue, and failing to keep the discomfort from your face. Guinefort once again disregards your own query. //"Holiness has a bitter taste, but it will fade."// "Right," you murmur dryly. "So now what? I go back to my jail cell?" //"I would not confine you. The sanctuary is yours to roam, if you will abide by it."// In other words, mild freedom if you're willing to follow the rules, whatever those might be. //Leaving// is almost certainly not an approved activity. It's a bad investment as far as deals go, but then again, you're a hostage, not a merchant. [[It's better than rotting in a cell.|6.A1.FREE]] [[You're not interested in expanding the walls of your prison.|6.A2.CELL][$Guine +=1]]

<<if hasVisited ("6.B")>>"I don't see the point," you retorted, shaking your head. "I know what a prison is, no matter how many walls it has. I'd rather the cell, unless you're going to let me go entirely." You expected increduality in their reply, but they only nodded knowingly. //"If that is your wish."// <</if>>Not wasting another moment, Guinefort pivoted and exit the vault. Almost in a haze, you snatched the lantern from the floor and followed the Saint, unwilling or unable to track the turns and directions. The vault door reformed instantly behind you; you'd have been locked in if you waited a moment longer. You contemplated turning tail and running, of course. Swinging the lantern at Guinefort's head and making a break for it, hoping your instincts would lead you from the maze. But it was one of those moments where you simply didn't move, you didn't act. You just followed. Eventually you arrived back in front of your cell; you were only able recognize the door from all its bretheren because you'd spent so many hours staring at its every whorl. Before turning the latch, Guinefort extended a hand expectantly toward your own, the one still carrying the lantern. You gripped it a little tighter. "I'd rather keep it. Those candles are shit." //"Why? You have nothing to see."// Guinefort hooked their gauntlet through the handle and took it from you gently. Your hand dropped away without resistance. They twisted the knob, cutting the flow of gas and plunging you both into darkness. But even in the pitch-black they found the door latch easily, and opened it with a soft creak. It was only the slightest shift in the shadows that allowed you to see Guinefort gesturing into the cell, as if ushering you in politely. A bit at a loss for what else to do, you reached a hand out and felt around for the wall, then the door frame, and eased yourself back into your little cloister. A few awkward shuffles later, your shin collided with the edge of the cot, and you lowered yourself onto the rigid mattress. Another metallic groan, and the door closed firmly behind you. You held your breath, but you heard no click of a padlock, only Guinefort's fading footfalls. It seemed you've been afforded some semblance of the freedom you rejected. [[You didn't trust it.|6.B2.1]] [[Huh. Well.|6.B2.1a]]

You took the opportunity to study your captor, or at least as well as you could in the half-light. The Saint's great height was even more pronounced in the cramped cell, <<if $height is "tall">>providing you with the rare experience of having to tilt your head back to make (approximate) eye contact. <<elseif $height is "short">>making you both grateful for and alarmed by your own small stature in comparison.<<else>> towering at least a head and a half over your own.<</if>> The posture was strange, a conflicted compromise between upright militancy and the hunched shoulders of someone who wished to disappear. Over the armor was a long bolt of cloth, threadbare in places and water-stained in others, wrapped and folded and draped like a shroud and a cloak and a veil. It gave the Saint the appearance of a dark marble statue made as transparent and fleeting as graphite. The silver of armor shone through in critical places- gauntlets, greaves, faulds- and even through the tarnish you could see that it was once fine. No scabbard, you noted, but plenty of space to hide a weapon, if the Saint truly even needed one. It was the atrophy that struck you the most. You hadn't had the chance (or bad luck) to see many Saints in your lifetime, but you knew that while their appearances varied widely, no emissary of the Acropolis would ever be allowed to exist in such a diminished state. [['"Who are you?"'|6.guine.name]]

"That's all?" you replied, simultaneously underwhelmed and suprised by your own response. You wiggled your mangled arm. "I've already done that. An angel took a bite out of me long before your dogs ever did." They made a sound you could only interpret as a scoff. //"It was dying. There was nothing to chew."// You didn't bother questioning how Guinefort got that information. //There was plenty to chew,// you thought grimly. They stopped somewhere out of your direct line of sight, no longer even casting a shadow on the floor. In the corner of your eye you watched them raise a hand, their steel taloned fingers contorting into words only you recognize, releasing a ping of Magic that echoed off into the endless dark halls of the Faithful's sanctuary. It dizzied you to hear the call but to have no means to respond, made you salivate. The speed at which the angel rsponded was unnerving. You'd barely finished trying to anchor your feet to the floor in protest when a light grew around the gaps in your cell door and that eerie placation settled over you, relaxed your muscles while your inner voice screamed bloody murder. The angel waited for a moment in hall, like an absurd farce of a polite guest, until Guinefort reached out with Magic to unlatch the door and let it in. Some inscruitable emotion twisted in your gut as the light of its halo scraped against your retinas. It struck you how similar Guinefort and the angel were, two sides of the same unearthly coin. Faceless, shrouded, only a mere suggestion of humanity. You supposed the rumors that the Saints were half angel could very well be true, if not necessarily accurate. The difference lay in the details, as always. Guinefort was corroded finery, their gloom something earned, where the angel had been as it was since the dawn of time. and always would be. It burned into you, that vicious timelessness. And its vibrant energy was only made worse by Guinefort's heavy, hollow presence behind you. Your world had become terribly uneven, as if you stared at an incoming meteor with your back to a yawning precipice. Much more would have you bent into an unrecognizable shape. You turned back just in time to see Guinefort produce a silver misericorde from somewhere beneath their shroud, a thin blade that was more needle than knife. They held it loosely, and the angel's light made it flash and gleam and leave trails of white dancing across your vision. //"You must integrate, Io."// The angel stood obediently. The longer you stared, the blurrier its lacy edges became. [[Just a small drop of blood to satisfy the Saint.][$Guine +=1]] [[You ground your teeth. You would not.|6.r.san.int.3]]

You took its spiny hand in your own, the fresh blood staining its pearly purity and tracking along the lines of its lace immediately. There was no tight anxious grip, or the dainty layering of skin on skin. Just placation, yours and the angel's, as you lead it to its death. A sigh, then a keening howl as it folded in on itself, a star going supernova as it is consumed by its own energy. You were spared the rot and putrification this time. It died quickly, much faster than the <<if $angel gte 2>>two previous<<else>>first<</if>>; for a moment it seemed that perhaps there was something to Guinefort's bloodletting. Sacrificial efficiency was something a Saint could be trusted with. The notion vanished once your blood began to boil. Divinity met you like an infection, a heatstroke in the bloodstream. The panicked beating of your heart could not meet the sluggish flow of your veins, where angel-tainted blood clotted like spoiled milk and left rotten bruises to bloom across your skin. Was that the sound of fat popping? Of meat roasting? Why were you cold? You tried to spit out a sob but all that came out was a wretched cough that tasted of vomit. Pressure built in your limbs, in your lungs; you were on the precipice of bursting, your skin rapturing... rupturing? That wasn't right. The infection must have reached your brain, prying apart the folds and liquifying the soft tissues. War was waged betwen your organs and your cells, and fuck, did it hurt. No flowery language could come close to describing it. Just agony. You rolled onto your side, buried your face in the floor, tried to will away this affliction, this malady. You wrapped your arms around your core like you could protect yourself from the thing already deep within you. There was movement beside you, though you struggled to find a reason to acknowledge it. If it had come to kill you, then by god, you might just let it try. Three quiet footfalls, not armored like the Saint's, then a shuffle, barely audible over your own groans. You cracked open your eyes, and through the mirage-bent haze, found two more staring back. They were $eye_color. [[Continue.|6.r.san.int.5.vol]]

Almost by accident, you stumble upon the largest room in the complex so far- not huge by any stretch of the imagination, but practically a cathedral compared to the cramped hallways you've been navigating. The faint smell of something savory is proof you've found your target. It's more cavern than a polished room, with a ceiling that stretches at least twenty feet up, and rough, uneven stone at your feet. The floor is dominated by three long tables that could seat a dozen each, accompanied by threadbare rugs and time-stained wooden chairs. Everything here is old, and none of it matches, leading you to believe that it's all been scavenged and recovered from various parts of the ruin. To the side, a long wooden counter topped with various covered dishes and stacks of empty plates. The entire sanctuary is in such ragged shape that you still can't tell its age, or even if it's a true ruin from before the Collapse, but some of these items must be hundreds of years old at the very least. The dining hall looks clean enough, though you can still smell the miasma of dust and damp that haunts the rest of the place. A handful of people mill about, some seated, others clearly at their chores. The sounds of their voices echo strangely off the walls. All have the same drab clothing and bare faces you've come to expect from the Faithful. The difference in costume from the rest of the Religious strikes you only now- less uniform, less neat. A far more earthy living, with none of the unnerving homogeny imposed by the Religious. And no hats, though you suppose they wouldn't have much use underground. Before you can ruminate any farther, someone rises from one of the tables with a soft gasp and approaches you hastily. You do not recognize this one. They seem young, though lines crease their face; you can't imagine the life of a cultist is particularly stress-free. They keep their head bowed and eyes fixed on the floor, though whether it's out of respect or fear you cannot tell. There's an embarrased burn in their cheeks. "Your Holiness!" they exclaim breathlessly, "Our sincerest apologies. I should have known you'd be hungry. Here, here- there's bread, and stew, and still some dried fruits left, how fortunate-" [['"Please don't call me that."'|6.a.food.3][$YG to false]] [[You don't correct them on the title.|6.a.food.3][$YG to true]]

<<if hasVisited ("6.a.food.2a") and $YG is false>>"Don't call me that," you respond, startled once again by the honorific. What has Guinefort been telling them? "My name is $Name." They blink, and glance up at you for the briefest of moments before correcting their mistake and looking away once again. "As you say. Please, please, you should eat-" <</if>>They scurry to bring you a plate, fussing for a moment over cracks and chips in the wooden dishes and eventually presenting you with a humble pile of food sourced from a series of pots behind the counter, and a hunk of fresh brown bread on top. "I will fetch some more drinking water," they say, tutting at an empty pitcher and vanishing around a corner before you can blink. You claim a seat and turn to the food in the meantime, not quite able to summon a reply. It's rather bland, but filling, and between the bread and the sweet dried fruits - apricot, maybe - you can solidly rate the meal as... edible. Whoever cooks for the Faithful is certainly no Val, you think, <<if $Val6 is "angry" or $Val6 is "conflicted">>then desperately expel the thought from your brain with a grimace.<<else>>almost immediately losing your appetite to a spike of worry.<</if>> You grip the bread a little tighter and rip off a chunk. It doesn't make you feel better. You finish the meal quickly, before the acolyte can return with a grim face instead of the promised water. "Apologies<<if $YG is true>> Your Holiness<</if>>, but the filter has broken and the water won't be safe to drink until one of the priestesses is able to repair the sigils. We have some stored in barrels, but it'll take me some time to fetch it. Or there is wine, if you'd prefer." [['"I'm not thirsty, really."'|6.a1.notthirsty]] [['"Wine will do."'|6.a1.wine]] [[Sigils? You can repair sigils.|6.a.sigil]]

The wall is cool, just enough to be bracing without making you shiver. You can't rest, even though the events of the day have exhausted you. Is it even daytime? Your internal clock still feels tuned in, but you have no way to know for sure. Really your only reliable measurement of passing time was the meals you'd been served; it could have been a matter of days, like you assumed, or just hours. Or maybe, you think with some disquiet, much, much longer. //See also: gnomon.// <<silently>>I LOVE YOU.<</silently>> You shudder, and press the heel of your hand against the sudden stabbing ache behind your brow. Are you feeling the consequences of the halo already? A new voice in your head is the last thing you need next to rotting skin and a fractured arm. It dawns on you that you can do something about one of those things; you might not be a doctor, or really have any idea what your bones are supposed to look like, but Magic has always been reliable enough to fill in the gaps. Your complacency almost irritates you. What business do you have claiming a raw piece of divinity if you can't even remember to wield it? You never particularly considered yourself //helpless// before, but this growing notion of power is apparently going to take some getting used to. You regard your broken arm. It's comfortable for now, snug in its sling and splint, but you can already feel the bitter medication you were given start to wear off. No pain yet, just a pervasive dullness. [[Fix it.|6.A2.ARM]] [[Let it heal on its own.|6.A2.NoArm]]

[[6.a.rof.1]]

There was no lantern this time. //"Are you prepared?"// [[6.b.halo.0]] <<if $Sanity gte 50>>[[You refused.|6.r.san.int.1]]<<else>>[[You refused.|6.refuse.div.1a]]<</if>>

<<if hasVisited ("6.r.san.int")>>The weight of it as you pulled it from the pedestal surprised you; not heavy, but certainly solid. An undeniable presence. The white-gold sank through the gaps in your fingers just enough to conform to the shape of your cupped hands. the same viscosity as you imagine molten glass. You fought through a violent flinch as it ran through the still-stinging wound in your palm, but to your dizzied surprise, you felt not pain but tangible glory as it mingled with your blood.<<else>>You pulled the silk-wrapped bundle closer, once again surprised by its weight, and unwrapped it with shaking hands. You released the silk unceremoniously, focused on nothing by the furious heat pooling in your palms. The white-gold sank through the gaps in your fingers just enough to conform to the shape of your cupped hands. the same viscosity as you imagine molten glass. <</if>> You wanted to speak, but your throat was far too raw. You were spared the effort by a new sound emerging from the air- a wordless, noteless song, the same speech you'd heard so many times from the tongues of angels, but far too cacophanous to make out. Alive, but not foreign. The radiance was a mirror and you looked upon yourself, cradled in your own palms. Your arms shook with the effort. <<if hasVisited ("You placed it on your tongue.")>>Heat blossomed against your skin as you lifted your hands to your lips. This was no flickering campfire warmth, but the relentless pressure of a blast furnace. Distantly, you could feel sweat gather at the back of your neck, as if your body was still something of consequence. To care would be absurd. You were already splitting at the seams, anyway. Its taste was less hypnotic, but by the time it touched your tongue you had no thought or hope of pulling back. Somewhere between industrial slag and fermented fruit, and still heavenly in its presentation. It rolled past your tongue like unset gelatin, narrowly avoiding your gag reflex, though you managed to capture the last of it between your tongue and the roof of your mouth. Just one last moment to savor it, a heartbeat of a moment to question it, and a final moment to let go before it slid like a thousand razors into your throat. [[You came apart like well-cooked meat.|6.r.halo.2]]<<else>>Heat blossomed against your skin as you lifted the halo into your eyeline. This was no flickering campfire warmth, but the relentless pressure of a blast furnace. Distantly, you could feel sweat gather at the back of your neck, as if your body was still something of consequence. To care would be absurd. You were already splitting at the seams, anyway. It glimmered up close, the infintesimal sparkle of a thousand thousand stars coalesced into granite, writhing like the vitreous cobwebs that sometimes haunt your vision. You peered closer, drawing those lifeforms into yourself until nothing remained but the light of the halo. For a moment, reality tried to eat its way back in through the edges, but you would not blink. Your sight no longer mattered; the brightness was on the inside of your vision, now. [[You broke like an antique glass.|6.r.halo.2]]<</if>>

<<silently>>IO.<</silently>>Your lips form the words, but no sound comes forth. //It's going to hurt.// It's a lifetime before your eyes close, the light dims, and your depth perception returns. <<silently>>IO.<</silently>>You blink your eyes several times to banish the bright orbs swimming through your vision, and even then you worry you've suffered something permanent: a strange lack of contrast has fallen over the vault, a dullness, a lack of care attributed to the difference between shadows. Had it always been like this?<<silently>>WHERE DID YOU GO?<</silently>> No, there's one thing you can see clearly now, despite the relative dark - Guinefort. Their silhouette is an ebon stain against the walls of the vault, gnarled and looming. Something has changed, though you struggle to put a finger on what. Their posture, their energy, their countenance, has shifted subtly from grotesque to pained. You do not fear it as you once did, though it's no less grim. //"Wake slowly."// Their words jumble in your head like dice. //"It is no small feat, and you have been through much."// <<silently>>PLEASE RESPOND.<</silently>>Even as Guinefort talks, you can't shake the distinct feeling that another voice haunts the air, one that screams and shakes and pleads. You take advantage of one of the Saint's many silences to strain your hearing, but nothing stirs beyond the pained tremble of your own hands. Are your ears ringing? Your focus doesn't escape Guinefort's attention, and they tilt their own head at you inquisitively.<<silently>>PLEASE RESPOND.<</silently>> //"Can you hear our God Below? Does it speak?"// [['"There's... something."'|6.r.halo.4]] [['"Yeah, it says you should kill yourself."']]<<silently>>PLEASE.<</silently>> <<silently>>I LOVE YOU.<</silently>>

<<set $halo to true>>In the end, despair and exhaustion won over, fueled by more than a little curiosity. <<if hasVisited ("6.r.div.sac.1")>>Shaking, you let the knife drop to the floor with a clatter, and clambered to your feet. All caution drained from you as you approached the pedestal, knowing you could no longer turn back. <<else>>Shaking, you clambered to your feet and approached the pedestal, knowing you could no longer turn back.<</if>> One summer evening, years ago now, Val took you to a craft market. It was before you'd mastered the art of following $vthem through a crowd, and you quickly lost $vthem the second your attention was pulled elsewhere. Val found you again outside a glassblower's booth, where you'd apparently spent the last hour staring at the white-hot material as it flowed from kiln to workbench, slowly being molded into a small figurine in ways that were simply beyond anyone's comprehension. The fact that no Magic was involved baffled you. More importantly, you later talked yourself hoarse trying to explain to Val your absolute certainty that you knew what hot glass felt like. Soft but stiff, tacky in your grip and glimmeringly hot. To bite down would be a slow sink of your jaw until the top and bottom rows of your teeth met with a snap. It was //not// honey, you insisted. It was taffy. And it would never burn you. And with the halo in your hands now, you knew you'd been right all along. [[The perfect warmth of a forge on a winter's night.|6.r.halo.1]]

<<set $angel += 1>>You squeezed your eyes shut to keep your head from splitting open like a ripe fruit. When you opened them again, your visitor was gone. The memory was spent, if it was even a memory at all. It was certainly the first to be imposed over the waking world. Slowly, the fire abated in waves, every second of relief wasted on bracing yourself for the inevitable resurgence. It left you curled on the floor tightly, heaving and sobbing, long after the final aches had passed. At least the stone floor was cool against your inflammed cheek. Guinefort still kept their place as the uncertain thing in the corner of your vision. //"Are you cured of your doubts?"// <<if hasVisited ("6.B.halochance2")>>[[Maybe you just wanted to see it again.|6.r.san.int.givein.a]]<<else>>[[But just seeing the halo couldn't hurt.|6.r.san.int.givein]]<</if>> <<if hasVisited ("6.B.halochance2")>>[['"Fuck you."'|6.r.san.vault.1a]]<<else>>[['"Fuck you."'|6.r.san.vault.1]]<</if>>

<<set $halo to true>> a dizzy spell seized you, and only by a morbid familiarity did you manage to recognize the path. Even through your haze you could remember the Magic-eaten door of the vault before you, not to mention the wordless scream of a halo beyond. The door fell away for Guinefort almost gleefully- or perhaps you were just getting lightheaded. White light dawned upon you like a new sun. The halo was much the same as you'd left it, still pure and blinding, still with a voice to deafen your innermost thoughts. Perfect in its immutability; you weren't sure if the same could be said of yourself. [[It was a migraine as much as it was a miracle.|6.b.halo.1]]

<<set $halo to true>>One summer evening, years ago now, Val took you to a craft market. It was before you'd mastered the art of following $vthem through a crowd, and you quickly lost $vthem the second your attention was pulled elsewhere. Val found you again outside a glassblower's booth, where you'd apparently spent the last hour staring at the white-hot material as it flowed from kiln to workbench, slowly being molded into a small figurine in ways that were simply beyond anyone's comprehension. The fact that no Magic was involved baffled you. More importantly, you later talked yourself hoarse trying to explain to Val your absolute certainty that you knew what hot glass felt like. Soft but stiff, tacky in your grip and glimmeringly hot. To bite down would be a slow sink of your jaw until the top and bottom rows of your teeth met with a snap. It was //not// honey, you insisted. It was taffy. And it would never burn you. And with the halo in your hands now, you knew you'd been right all along. The weight of it as you lifted it from the pedestal surprised you; not heavy, but certainly solid. An undeniable presence. The white-gold sank through the gaps in your fingers just enough to conform to the shape of your cupped hands. Not a drop was spilt; you had the notion that even an atom escaping would be a betrayal, and that it would never sin against you in such a way. You tried to speak, though you didn't know what you could possibly say. You were spared the effort by a new sound emerging from the air- a wordless, noteless song, the same speech you'd heard so many times from the tongues of angels, but far too cacophanous to make out. Alive, but not foreign. The radiance was a mirror and you looked upon yourself, cradled in your own palms. <<if hasVisited ("You placed it on your tongue.")>>Heat blossomed against your skin as you lifted your hands to your lips. This was no flickering campfire warmth, but the relentless pressure of a blast furnace. Distantly, you could feel sweat gather at the back of your neck, as if your body was still something of consequence. To care would be absurd. You were splitting at the seams, anyway. Its taste was less hypnotic, but by the time it touched your tongue you had no thought or hope of pulling back. Somewhere between industrial slag and fermented fruit, and still heavenly in its presentation. It slid into your throat like unset gelatin, narrowly avoiding your gag reflex, though you managed to capture the last of it between your tongue and the roof of your mouth. Just one last moment to savor it, a heartbeat of a moment to question it, and a final moment to let go before it slid like a thousand razors into your throat. [[You came apart like well-cooked meat.|6.b.halo.2]]<<else>>Heat blossomed against your skin as you lifted the halo into your eyeline. This was no flickering campfire warmth, but the relentless pressure of a blast furnace. Distantly, you could feel sweat gather at the back of your neck, as if your body was still something of consequence. To care would be absurd. You were splitting at the seams, anyway. It glimmered up close, the infintesimal sparkle of a thousand thousand stars coalesced into granite, writhing like the vitreous cobwebs that sometimes haunt your vision. You peered closer, drawing those lifeforms into yourself until nothing remained but the light of the halo. For a moment, reality tried to eat its way back in through the edges, but you would not blink. Your sight no longer mattered; the brightness was on the inside of your vision, now. [[You broke like an antique glass.|6.b.halo.2]]<</if>>

Your body stretches for what feels like miles, intestines flayed and nerves pinned to paper like dead butterflies. Le-pi-dop-tera. Het-ero-cera. Maggot. Midge. //See also: Lachesis, aposematism.// The scales of your mind crumble with every stroke. //See also: hemorrhage.// A hand reaches out from the void; you cannot feel it, but you know it's there. "You're dreaming again," someone says. A familiar voice, a beloved voice, but... odd, as if coming from the wrong direction. "You must stop this. I cannot protect you much longer," the voice continues with a tremble. Fear? Or anger? "Are you listening to me? Can't you just lie down and play dead!?" <<if $Human gte 50>>//How could you?// is your reply. //How could you how could you how could you?//<<else>>//You did this,// is your reply. //You did this you did this you did this.//<</if>> //It's unfair, it's so unfair,// you scream, and the world screams with you. A great groaning across every corner of the earth, the sun itself offering scalding tears in sympathy. //See also: eschaton, laschamp, ekpyrosis.// Every evil is at your doorstep and you cannot take the weight. "I know you're in pain," the voice continues, softer now, apologetic for the outburst. "I know the work is taxing." Vi-vi-sec-tion. Not to be confused with dis-sec-tion. //See also: scaphism.// You do not know how a specimen can be chided for its pins. "But this cannot continue." //See also: guilt, earth-shattering guilt.// You freeze, too devastated to respond. From somewhere in the distance, a soft curse and a frantic clacking. You retreat into yourself violently before any wrongs can be made right. [[It will hurt. It has to hurt.|6.b.halo.3]]

[[End of demo.]]

[[6.B.halochance2]]

Talks of god aside, whatever Guinefort had in mind for //wounds// surely wasn't good. It baffled you, actually. What kind of person wasn't afraid of harming something they called an aspect of their god? Someone that frightened you, in turn. In the corner of your eye you watched them raise a hand, their steel taloned fingers contorting into words only you recognize, releasing a ping of Magic that echoed off into the endless dark halls of the Faithful's sanctuary. It dizzied you to hear the call but to have no means to respond, made you salivate. The speed at which the angel rsponded was unnerving. You'd barely finished trying to anchor your feet to the floor in protest when a light grew around the gaps in your cell door and that eerie placation settled over you, relaxed your muscles while your inner voice screamed bloody murder. The angel waited for a moment in hall, like an absurd farce of a polite guest, until Guinefort reached out with Magic to unlatch the door and let it in. Some inscruitable emotion twisted in your gut as the light of its halo scraped against your retinas. It struck you how similar Guinefort and the angel were, two sides of the same unearthly coin. Faceless, shrouded, only a mere suggestion of humanity. You supposed the rumors that the Saints were half angel could very well be true, if not necessarily accurate. The difference lay in the details, as always. Guinefort was corroded finery, their gloom something earned, where the angel had been as it was since the dawn of time. and always would be. It burned into you, that vicious timelessness. And its vibrant energy was only made worse by Guinefort's heavy, hollow presence behind you. Your world had become terribly uneven, as if you stared at an incoming meteor with your back to a yawning precipice. Much more would have you bent into an unrecognizable shape. You turned back just in time to see Guinefort produce a silver misericorde from somewhere beneath their shroud, a thin blade that was more needle than knife. They held it loosely, and the angel's light made it flash and gleam and leave trails of white dancing across your vision. //"You must integrate, Io."// The angel stood obediently. The longer you stared, the blurrier its lacy edges became. [[Just a small drop of blood to satisfy the Saint.][$Guine +=1]] [[You ground your teeth. You would not.|6.r.san.int.3]]

Maybe the stubbornness would kill you, but even that would be better than giving in. Guinefort would find you a skeleton in this vault before you did their bidding. You let out a low groan of resentment. From just outside, the whine of an equally frustrated predator. The dogs were memories, a god's memories, you reminded yourself, if Guinefort was to be believed. Violent things, concerned with nothing but devourment of //you// specifically. You had to wonder if it was hate or desperation, but then, what kind of god needed a survival instinct? Especially against an aspect of itself? You ground your teeth. No, it was fucking ridiculous. No matter if you believed the Saint's stories or not, you could not accept that you were anything other than what you were- $Name, a //human//, a drifter in the Holy City. You were not the God Beneath, nor its kin or its creation. The halo's light would not waver, but for a moment you thought it shone more fiercely, as if in protest to your very thoughts. You swallowed, trying to chase away the dryness in your mouth. [[Maybe it was time.|6.r.halo.0]] <<if $Sanity gte 75>>[[You could take it, and not consume it.|6.r.san.vault.take]]<<else>>[[You could take it, and not consume it.|6.r.san.vault.take]]<</if>> [[Not now, not ever.|6.r.san.vault.loop.a]]

<<silently>>IO.<</silently>>Your lips form the words, but no sound comes forth. //It's going to hurt.// It's a lifetime before your eyes close, the light dims, and your depth perception returns. <<silently>>IO.<</silently>>You blink your eyes several times to banish the bright orbs swimming through your vision, and even then you worry you've suffered something permanent: a strange lack of contrast has fallen over the vault, a dullness, a lack of care attributed to the difference between shadows. Had it always been like this?<<silently>>WHERE DID YOU GO?<</silently>> No, there's one thing you can see clearly now, despite the relative dark - Guinefort. You'd been found, if you'd even truly ever been //lost// at all. Reality is ever more questionable. Their silhouette is an ebon stain against the walls of the vault, gnarled and looming. Something has changed, though you struggle to put a finger on what. Their posture, their energy, their countenance, has shifted subtly from grotesque to pained. You do not fear it as you once did, though it's no less grim. //"Wake slowly."// Their words jumble in your head like dice. //"It is no small feat, and you have been through much."// <<silently>>PLEASE RESPOND.<</silently>>Even as Guinefort talks, you can't shake the distinct feeling that another voice haunts the air, one that screams and shakes and pleads. You take advantage of one of the Saint's many silences to strain your hearing, but nothing stirs beyond the pained tremble of your own hands. Are your ears ringing? Your focus doesn't escape Guinefort's attention, and they tilt their own head at you inquisitively.<<silently>>PLEASE RESPOND.<</silently>> //"Can you hear our God Below? Does it speak?"// [['"There's... something."'|6.r.halo.4]] [['"Yeah, it says you should kill yourself."']]<<silently>>PLEASE.<</silently>> <<silently>>I LOVE YOU.<</silently>>

Its spiny hand clicked with yours like a magnet, your fresh blood staining its pearly purity and flooding the lines of its lace. Your fingers locked around the angel's own and rejected your authority. You could not let go. A sigh, then a keening howl as the angel folded in on itself, a star going supernova as it is consumed by its own energy. You were spared the rot and putrification this time. It died quickly, much faster than the <<if $angel gte 2>>two previous<<else>>first<</if>>; for a moment it seemed that perhaps there was something to Guinefort's bloodletting. Sacrificial efficiency was something a Saint could be trusted with. The notion vanished once your blood began to boil. Divinity met you like an infection, a heatstroke in the bloodstream<<if hasVisited ("6.r.san.int.3.1h")>>; your knees buckled and you hit the floor hard<</if>>. The panicked beating of your heart could not meet the sluggish flow of your veins, where angel-tainted blood clotted like spoiled milk and left rotten bruises to bloom across your skin. Was that the sound of fat popping? Of meat roasting? Why were you cold? You tried to spit out a sob but all that came out was a wretched cough that tasted of vomit. Pressure built in your limbs, in your lungs; you were on the precipice of bursting, your skin rapturing... rupturing? That wasn't right. The infection must have reached your brain, prying apart the folds and liquifying the soft tissues. War was waged betwen your organs and your cells, and fuck, did it hurt. No flowery language could come close to describing it. Just agony. You rolled onto your side, buried your face in the floor, tried to will away this affliction, this malady. You wrapped your arms around your core like you could protect yourself from the thing already deep within you. There was movement beside you, though you struggled to find a reason to acknowledge it. If it had come to kill you, then by god, you might just let it try. Three quiet footfalls, not armored like the Saint's, then a shuffle, barely audible over your own groans. You cracked open your eyes, and through the mirage-distorted haze, found two more staring back. They were $Eye_color. [[Continue.|6.r.san.int.5]]

You couldn't decide if you recognized this thing, couldn't decide if you wanted to. It was hard to imagine you could know such a horror, such a dull thing with its eerily perfect face that could only be dreamed up by something that knew no joy. It lay on its side, mirroring your own posture, but with one arm cushioning its head. For a moment you felt like a child at a sleepover whispering secrets late at night, but this was not the time for impossible memories. It wore a conflicted expression, open but uncertain. There was concern also, in a way that you thought was meant to be comforting. The eyes softened as another wave of pain clamped down around you, and when you found a moment to catch your breath, its mouth tightened in a strained smile. You wanted to brush back its $hair_color hair. No words came from its lips, perfect in their symmetry, and you found yourself desperate for it to speak. //Please,// you begged. //Please.// But it only smiled. You searched its face for a flaw, an imperfection to reveal its nature, but found none. Perhaps that was why it did not show its teeth. //This// was the memory the angel had carried? [[At least it was a better one than the last.|6.r.san.int.6.vol]] [[You would spit it back out.|6.r.san.int.6.vol]]

You couldn't decide if you recognized this thing, couldn't decide if you wanted to. It was hard to imagine you could know such a horror, such a dull thing with its eerily perfect face that could only be dreamed up by something that knew no joy. It lay on its side, mirroring your own posture, but with one arm cushioning its head. For a moment you felt like a child at a sleepover whispering secrets late at night, but this was not the time for impossible memories. It wore a conflicted expression, open but uncertain. There was concern also, in a way that you thought was meant to be comforting. The eyes softened as another wave of pain clamped down around you, and when you found a moment to catch your breath, its mouth tightened in a strained smile. You wanted to brush back its $hair_color hair. No words came from its lips, perfect in their symmetry, and you found yourself desperate for it to speak. //Please,// you begged. //Please.// But it only smiled. You searched its face for a flaw, an imperfection to reveal its nature, but found none. Perhaps that was why it did not show its teeth. A surge of energy filled the room, the strange cabinets lighting up like an artificial night sky, humming, humming, rumbling. //This// was the memory the angel had carried? [[At least it was a better one than the last.|6.r.san.int.6]] [[You would spit it back out.|6.r.san.int.6]]

<<if hasVisited ("6.g.angel")>>"You never answered my question. If I'm not an angel, how could this be mine?" you argued. The Saint's stories weren't going to distract you from your answers. //"Not all parts of a whole are equal."//<<else>>"People don't just have halos, and I'm not an angel," you argued. Something stubborn in the back of your brain was refusing to even look at the pieces, much less try to put them together. //"Personhood..."// murmured Guinefort with a note of resentment before returning to their normal volume. //"Not all parts of a whole are equal."//<</if>> "What whole?" you asked tersely. Fuck, if your patience wasn't wearing thin. "What //part//?" Guinefort looked down at their hand, flexing their gauntlet in apparent apprehension. //"There is a body."// They paused, and the silence nearly stretched to a length that you thought you'd need to prod them again. //"An angel is a memory and you are the soul."// "I have my own body," you protested, but your sense was already sliding off anything rational like oil on water. The beat of your heart in your ears was nearly as loud as the catastrophic silence of the vault. //"A proxy, only. A created vessel cut from the greater thing."// [['"So where is it?"'|6.r.body.2]]

"Fine," you croaked. Your throat felt like hot sandpaper. "Show me this halo." You would have added a //'no promises'//, but you didn't think Guinefort would be amused, and this was about survival, after all. You'd seen where provoking them would get you. Being hauled to your feet must have finally been too much; you blacked out, slipping in and out of delirium until finally you stablized against a cool stone wall. You knew you'd traveled, guided by Guinefort's stern hand around the back of your neck, and only by a morbid familiarity did you recognize the path. Even through your haze, you remembered the Magic-eaten door of the vault before you, not to mention the wordless scream of a halo beyond. The door fell away for Guinefort almost gleefully- or perhaps you were just getting lightheaded. White light dawned upon you like a new sun. The halo was much the same as you'd left it, still pure and blinding, still with a voice to deafen your innermost thoughts. Perfect in its immutability; you weren't sure if the same could be said of yourself. [[It was a migraine as much as it was a miracle.|6.r.san.vault.2]]

Even wasting a second on looking over your shoulder would be a mistake; you certainly didn't have time to stop and hide. It was better to run, you decided, even acutely aware of the dripping crimson trail you were leaving behind. You pressed your bloody hand against your stomach alongside its broken twin. You could only hope the way out had stairs. If you had to climb... No. You bit the thought in half and willed yourself to move faster. You'd left your shoes behind, you realized. It was just a little thing, and you tried to not feel so foolish. You suddenly wondered if you'd been wearing shoes when you'd first emerged from underground years ago, or any clothes for that matter. You couldn't remember. Left, right, right, left. The halls were endless, and you had a eerie suspicion that none of the turns made sense. Logic dictated that you'd gone in at least a few circles, but nothing in your path looked familiar beyond its bland homogeny. Still, nothing stirred, no armored footsteps echoed your own; no telling if that was a good sign or a very bad one. The path began to slope downward, and in your fear of realizing you had picked the wrong direction, you nearly missed the staircase. It caught the edge of your vision like a jagged rock, making you pivot so suddenly you slid. Up, up it went, twisted and steep, but the way seemed clear. Even after all these years it was still drilled into you- up was correct, up was //good//. You lept onto the second step without a further thought, taking them two, three at a time when you could. It must have been a few flights before you saw the colors shift- there was a light growing in the distance, a soft breeze and a feeling of tranquility. You could hardly believe your luck. Had you really found the way out on perfect chance? You'd done it before, you supposed; maybe it was written into your very instincts. You suffered a prick of despair at the jelly-like weakness seizing your legs, wishing you had use of your hands so you could bend down on all fours and propel yourself like an animal. But sheer momentum would carry you onwards. [[Directly into the angel's waiting arms.|6.r.san.int.4]]

Sparing a moment to glance over your shoulder- you either weren't being followed or it was too dark to see a pursuer- you looked for a door that wasn't broken in or half-collapsed. Quickly, you wrapped your hand in your shirt and pushed the latch down. You weren't about to be betrayed by bloodstains. It seemed to be some kind of records room, twice the size of your cell and populated by rows of ugly, blocky cabinets that were probably metallic under all the dust. Ugh, the //dust//. The little of the air you could see swirled with it, and the floor felt disgustingly soft. You thanked the dark for its persistence, certain you were leaving clear footsteps in your wake. You'd left your shoes behind, you realized. It was just a little thing, and you tried to not feel so foolish. You suddenly wondered if you'd been wearing shoes when you'd first emerged from underground years ago, or any clothes for that matter. You couldn't remember. Shaking the thoughts away, you scanned the room for somewhere to hide. There was a desk or counter of some sort off to one side, deep in the gloom. It wasn't much, but it would at least obscure your silhouette should Guinefort come prowling. You just needed a moment to think, to plan. Particles of dust and grime puffed into the air as you shuffled onto the floor. You pulled the collar of your shirt over your nose to keep from choking; it was soaked with blood, but at least the wetness would filter out some of the ancient dust. With your fist balled and using your forearm as support, you crawled underneath the desk, curled yourself into a tiny shape, and listened for Guinefort's footsteps. You'd escaped them before, hadn't you? But you had the halo, then. Perhaps you could take it without letting it take you, and use it against the Saint. And surely that was the last place they expected you to run to. It was worth a try. Your other option was to crawl your way out in the dark, hoping to stay undetected, and that was unlikely. First you would need to find it. Magic may still have been ignoring you, but you'd felt the angel as it approached, so you clearly weren't entirely severed from the network. And if this thing was as powerful and as intrinsically linked to you as Guinefort had implied, it should at least be a blip on your radar. You quieted your thoughts, and closed your eyes. You drifted at first, stumbling in the dark reaches of thought just as you had moments ago in your mad dash, but slowly you found your footing. The landscape wasn't nearly as clear or as solid as it would be normally, but at least you had some purchase. You envisioned the tunnels of the sunken sanctuary, a rat's nest of intersecting halls and corridors; you'd never seen them, of course, but the passageways were as familiar to you as your own face. You crawled through the warren like you were surveying blueprints, keeping a wary eye out for any hostile presence. Magic bloomed throughout the entire complex, but it was all minute, a sneeze in the face of what should be a hurricane, but... //there//- something bright, and not too far away. Not very far at all, actually. It was almost as if- You opened your eyes, and slammed them back shut. But it was too late. They already blistered with the angel's radiance. [[Stifling a sob, you put up your bloody hand to shield your face.|6.r.san.int.4]]

You take a deep breath, desperate to leave behind the stale air of the Faithful's underground sanctuary and trade it for the fresh breezes of the surface. "Don't-" starts Constantine. You choke. It's like you've inhaled hot sand. You spit the sour taste from your mouth, gagging and hacking. Ira wordlessly hands you a handkerchief, one of their own against their face and barely obscuring the melancholic expression behind. You press it to your nose and inhale the faint aroma of herbs and citrus. A bit cloying, but miles better than the brimstone stench of the air. "//Don't// breathe it in," orders Constantine, a scarf pulled over $chis own nose. "Keep it shallow. It's not toxic so far, but you'll spend the rest of the day coughing up a lung." You get your fit under control with no shortage of gracelessness, and finally get a chance to look out onto the landscape. It's not yet dawn, but even in the moonlight you can see a reddish haze to the air. The Holy City still sleeps, but something is horribly amiss. [['"What the hell is it?"']]

"What //is// that?" you wheeze, feeling it scrape the inside of your lungs. This is the last thing you need after who-knows-how-long underground. You spit again, mourning your long-awaited breath of fresh air. <<if hasVisited ("DT.B.3") or hasVisited ("DT.A.3")>>Constantine lets out a stifled sigh. "You were right about the High Holy ritual. It went wrong." <<if $Connie is "Connie">>Now doesn't seem like the right time to revel in hearing $chim admit it, so you save the moment for later and settle for a raised eyebrow.<</if>> "But not immediately? Everything was fine when I.... left." "If it was, it wasn't obvious. It's been more like a steady, steep decline. One thing after another without getting a chance to fix the first." <<else>> <</if>> "So the smog? Is that from the ritual?" Constantine shook his head. "Not directly, as it's been explained to me. Nothing //happened// at the ritual, and that's the problem. The wards didn't get charged. Something about 'cyclical refreshment' and 'impossible triage'?" "There's been an interruption to the flow of Magic," Ira clarifies distantly. "We can't keep up." "That. The priestesses have been working their asses off trying to repair the city's wards and hold the rest together. River almost dried up before they got it flowing again." >>>after a millennia you start to forget how many things there are to break. [[At least the priestesses have kept track.]] [[It's the Religion's fault for building them in the first place.]]

Your ears are ringing. Or- no, it's distant wail, a rising and falling banshee scream that shows no sign of breaking its hellish loop. "Do you hear that?" you ask, not sure whether you're hoping for a yes or a no. "You get used to it," responds Constantine grimly. A spot of color stands out amidst the smog, bringing you to a slow stop while your mind turns. The trees are blossoming. Petals of soft pinks and yellows bud resolutely against the branches, some curling and browned by the harsh air, but showing no signs of nervousness as they emerge into the world. Lowering your handkerchief, a faint, sweet scent brushes against your nostrils. "The trees are blooming early," you state quietly. It worries you, somehow. "Not really," Constantine says. "Same time as usual; the pollen's a nightmare on top of the smog." "But it's barely mid-winter." Shock lights up Constantine's face, and for the first time since you've met $chim, something like pity. Even Ira turns, finally looking you in the eyes. "$Name…" they murmur, "It's been months." [['"I... what?"']] [[You can only shake your head.]] [['"Don't bullshit me, Ira, I've had enough."'][$Ira -=1]]

"No," you said with finality. "I'm not, and I don't ever intend to be." //"How long will you deny?"// Before you could answer, Guinefort's steel gauntlet was wrapped around the back of your neck, scruffing you like an ill-behaved cat. You barely managed a yelp before they tossed you through the cell door and into the hallway with so much force that you nearly fell to the floor. Roughly, they guided you forward, swinging lantern in their other hand, into the deep pits of the ever-winding hallway. A dizzy spell seized you along with the near-strobe of the lantern light, and only by a morbid familiarity did you manage to recognize the path. Even through your angry haze you could remember the Magic-eaten door of the vault before you, not to mention the wordless scream of a halo beyond. The door fell away for Guinefort almost gleefully- or perhaps you were just getting lightheaded. White light dawned upon you like a new sun. The halo was much the same as you'd left it, still pure and blinding, still with a voice to deafen your innermost thoughts. Perfect in its immutability; you weren't sure if the same could be said of yourself. [[It was a migraine as much as it was a miracle.|6.r.div.vault.2]]

Maybe the stubbornness would kill you, but even that would be better than giving in. Guinefort would find you a skeleton in this vault before you did their bidding. You let out a low groan of resentment. From just outside, the whine of an equally frustrated predator. The dogs were memories, a god's memories, you reminded yourself, if Guinefort was to be believed. Violent things, concerned with nothing but devourment of //you// specifically. You had to wonder if it was hate or desperation, but then, what kind of god needed a survival instinct? Especially against an aspect of itself? You ground your teeth. It was fucking ridiculous. Even if all of it were true- your origin, the halo, your first encounter with Guinefort- to expect you to want anything to do with it was absurd. Weren't you $Name? Weren't you your own person? Not a mistake piloting a stolen life. The halo's light never flickered, but for a moment you thought it shone more fiercely, as if in protest to your very thoughts. You swallowed, trying to chase away the dryness in your mouth. Something shuffled against the door; the dogs again, you supposed, still salivating over their next meal. Your flesh, or your soul, or whatever it was that demons ate. But, then.... a hesitant knock. "$Name? $Name, are you in there?" You went still, very still. You knew that voice. What the hell was it doing //here//? [['"Val?"'|6.r.val]] [['"Constantine?"'|6.r.con]] [['"Ira?"'|6.r.ira]] [['"Kat?"'|6.r.kat]] [['"Klaus?"'|6.r.klaus]]

//"Hey!"// Constantine snaps, leveling a stern eye at you and stepping between you and Ira. " "It's alright, $Dane, it's well deserved," Ira interjects, though there's still a bitterness in their eyes when they look at you.

<<set $sixr to "Val">>"Val?" you called out, at first hesitant, then a little bolder. "Is that you? Tell me I'm not hallucinating." You pushed yourself to your knees and crawled across the room. "I'm sorry, $Name, I'm so sorry," $vthey whispered frantically, $vtheir voice sick with regret. "I've never felt so stupid,<<if hasVisited ("5.guine.00")>> letting you walk away. I knew you weren't okay, and I never should have left in the first place, and-" <<elseif hasVisited ("5.guine.v.0")>>getting jumped by a fucking Saint like that. I just wanted to protect you, but I wasn't strong enough, and we never should have been there in the first place-" <<else>> and I didn't mean to leave you. I just panicked, and I couldn't think, and I thought you'd be okay, because I know how strong you are, and-" <</if>>//"Val,"// you cut in before $vthey could start crying; it was the last thing you needed, no matter how you felt about it all. "That's not important right now, just get me out of here." "Okay. Okay," $vthey sniffled. "What do you need me to do?" You could hear the slide of $vtheir fingertips against the wood. [['"Can you open this door?"'|6.r.val.2]] [[Paranoia arose in your gut.|6.r.div.rescue.sus]]

<<set $sixr to "Ira">>"Ira?" you called out, at first hesitant, then a little bolder. "Is that you? Tell me I'm not hallucinating." You pushed yourself to your knees and crawled across the room. "I'm sorry," they replied, voice muffled and weak. "I fear I led you into danger, Io. I thought the Divine Theatre was safe, I truly did." <<if hasVisited ("5.ira.g1")>>You pressed closer to the rune-riddled door. "What happened? You just vanished into that fog-" "There are strange things afoot; it's rare that a priestess should fear anything in the Holy City, and I was too bold. I hope you can forgive me," Ira asked. The plea was so genuine it made your chest ache. "Get me out of here, and I'll consider us even." <<else>>"It fucked me up. And then there was this Saint, and they're saying I'm a //piece// of the God Beneath-" "What? Truly?" You couldn't help but notice that there was more awe than shock in their gasp. "I don't... I'm not even sure if I know what that means." "It means I need to get out of here //immediately.//" <</if>>"What do I need to do?" they breathed. You could hear the slide of their fingertips against the wood. [['"Can you open this door?"'|6.r.ira.2]] [[Paranoia arose in your gut.|6.r.div.rescue.sus]]

<<set $sixr to "Kat">>"Kat?" you called out, at first hesitant, then a little bolder. "Is that you? Tell me I'm not hallucinating." You pushed yourself to your knees and crawled across the room. "I appreciate the implication that you dream of me," she replied, her drawl barely muffled by the thick door. "Now how did you find yourself all the way down here amongst the Faithful?" <<if hasVisited ("5.kat")>>You pressed closer to the rune-riddled door. "Kat, you just vanished into that fog-" She //tsked//. "I am sorry about that, doll, it was not my intention. Some mischief or higher power was at play that night, and I should have seen it. I can only hope you have it in your little heart to forgive me." "Get me out of here, and we're more than even." <<else>>"The High Holy Ritual, it fucked me up. And then there was this Saint, and they're saying I'm a //piece// of the God Beneath-" <<if hasVisited ("4.kat.tunnels")>>You spoke the words too quickly, half expecting that oppressive thing in your throat to cut you off. But they tumbled free without restraint.<<else>>You spoke the words too quickly, before you could have the sense to lose your courage. It was an insane thing to admit, after all.<</if>> "Well, that //is// a mighty claim, Io," she began. "I'm not even certain where to begin with that one." "Let's begin with getting me out of here //immediately.//" <</if>>"What do you need?" she breathed. You could hear the slide of her fingertips against the wood. [['"Can you open this door?"'|6.r.kat.2]] [[Paranoia arose in your gut.|6.r.div.rescue.sus]]

<<set $sixr to "Constantine">>"$Connie?" you called out, at first hesitant, then a little bolder. "Is that you? Tell me I'm not hallucinating." You pushed yourself to your knees and crawled across the room. "If you are, it's a shitty dream," $che replied, gruffness only slightly muffled by the thick door. "What the hell happened to you? A bad case of nausea doesn't put you in an underground cell." <<if hasVisited ("5.con")>>A flash of irritation overtook your palpable relief. "I told you," you tried not to hiss. "I told you something was wrong, and you wouldn't listen." $cHis reply was hesitant, and slow in coming. "You're right," $che said. Was that through gritted teeth? "I should not have brushed you off, Io. And I'm... sorry." You let the words hold their weight. "Get me out of here, and I'll consider us even." <<else>>"There was this Saint, and these demons, and they're saying I'm a //piece// of the God Beneath-" You spoke the words too quickly, before you could have the sense to lose your courage. It was an insane thing to admit to Constantine, even considering where you both now were. "The hell are you saying? Is that what the Faithful want with you?" "Constantine, I need to get out of here //immediately.//" <</if>>"What do you need?" $che breathed. You could hear the slide of $chis fingertips against the wood. [['"Can you open this door?"'|6.r.con.2]] [[Paranoia arose in your gut.|6.r.div.rescue.sus]]

<<set $sixr to "Klaus">>"Klaus?" you called out, at first hesitant, then a little bolder. "Is that you? Tell me I'm not hallucinating." You pushed yourself to your knees and crawled across the room. "Can never be too sure of that," he replied, sarcasm barely muffled by the thick door. "What the hell happened to you? <<if hasVisited ("5.klaus")>>Was this really the ritual?" A flash of resentment overtook your palpable relief. "I told you," you tried not to hiss. "I told you something was wrong, and you ignored me." "I'm sorry, I should have listened," he interrupted. There was a strain to his voice. "And I don't say that lightly." You let the words hold their weight. "Get me out of here, and I'll consider us even." <<else>>Something to do with the High Holy Day?" "It fucked me up. And then there was this Saint, and they're saying I'm a //piece// of the God Beneath-" <<if hasVisited ("4.klaus.tunnels")>>You spoke the words too quickly, half expecting that oppressive thing in your throat to cut you off. But they tumbled free without restraint.<<else>>You spoke the words too quickly, before you could have the sense to lose your courage. It was no small thing to admit to the Handmaiden.<</if>> "What," began Klaus. "The hell does that mean?" "It means I need to get out of here //immediately.//" <</if>>"What do you need?" he breathed. You could hear the slide of his fingertips against the wood. [['"Can you open this door?"'|6.r.klaus.2]] [[Paranoia arose in your gut.|6.r.div.rescue.sus]]

<<if $sixr is "Klaus">> [['"Can you open this door?"'|6.r.klaus.2]]<<elseif $sixr is "Constantine">> [['"Can you open this door?"'|6.r.con.2]]<<elseif $sixr is "Ira">> [['"Can you open this door?"'|6.r.ira.2]]<<elseif $sixr is "Val">> [['"Can you open this door?"'|6.r.val.2]]<<else>> [['"Can you open this door?"'|6.r.kat.2]]<</if>> [['"I think you should leave."'|6.r.div.rescue.sus.2]]

"The door, can you open it? I didn't get a good look, but the whole thing is Magic. Find the right thread and it'll come undone," you called, ear pressed against the wood as if you were trying to identify its heartbeat. You received an irritable noise in response. "You don't say?" A pause, then another bout of muttering. "Fucking //saints,// this is a mess-" You felt it before you saw it, the pressure of Magic falling into just the right place and //nudging//, prying the atoms of the door apart as easily as dissolving sugar in water. The darkness threw you for a moment, with nothing for the halo's mighty light to bounce off of. It took your eyes a moment to peer around the deep-seated fear that any other face would be waiting for you on the other side- Guinefort's, or one of the hounds, or something else equally ghoulish. You had to force yourself to look. Klaus. There was dust in his chestnut hair and the ritual paint was still smudged around his eyes, but it was Klaus, as genuine as the mild condescension he greeted you with. "Are you always such a pain to track down?" [[You hugged him.|6.r.kl.hug]] [['"How did you find me?"'|6.r.kl.3]]

Your head was spinning like you'd had too much to drink, like the world itself had upended its own axis for you personally. You clung to the nearest walls even as the room grew more cramped, the bonfire more and more like a.... a halo. You were back in the vault. Or worse still, you'd never left. Guinefort once more haunted the corner of your vision like a moth both allergic to and fascinated by the halo's light. Dead at your feet was... something. Not $sixr, to your smallest relief, but it was suspiciously human shaped, and the sticky warmth still coating your torso had not lost its crimson hue. Your eyes felt hot, like a fever raged in your skull. You turned toward the Saint, trying and failing to focus on their form. There was two, three, four of them. "What the fuck?" you slurred, "What the //fuck//?" //"All worship requires sacrifice,"// they said. Their voice sounded like it was inside your ear drum. //"All divinity thrives off of worship. You will receive what you are due, even if it must be cruel."// The pooling blood had grown half an inch thick, just enough to carress the tops of your fingers with your palm splayed against the floor. It clung to the folds of your knuckles. Either an earthquake miles and miles away was making the ground vibrate, or you could feel every individual strand of DNA against your skin. //"There is suffering for every hour you delay."// [[Fine. The Saint had found your limit.|6.r.halo.0]] [[You would not give in.|6.r.div.sac.2]]

"You have no power over me," you growled between your clenched jaws. //"Perhaps not,"// Guinefort replied. //"Perhaps this is simply your bloodlust disguised as noble stoicism, to test your Faithful's dedication."// They had moved closer sometime while your eyes had been closed. They crouched over you, one hand on the pedestal above and their frighteningly empty visage like a floating void consuming your field of vision. //"Is that the kind of god you are, Io? Do you demand more?"// The whole of you was shuddering. [[No. No more.|6.r.halo.0]] [[Just a little longer, you just had to hold out a little longer.|6.r.div.sac.loop.a]]

You were no stranger to boredom; you'd learned long ago that you could coast through any situation by imagining yourself already on the other side of it, now a ghost from the future looking in to reassure your past self it was survivable. It had a surprising success rate, if only by killing time by daydreaming. This was not boredom. Every time you came back to yourself, you were still there, and the blackened Saint still stuck to the shadows like cobwebs. Hours could have passed, days, seconds, even. It was still the same moment, always, always, always, every time you opened and closed and unfocused your eyes. Your cheeks stung, burnt raw by tears you didn't remember shedding. You could no longer tell if the pool of blood was still warm with life, or as cold as the stone beneath. Maybe it was all the same by then. You knew it wasn't $sixr's blood. You had been hallucinating. You //knew// that. But knowledge didn't stop the crumpled body on the floor from looking hauntingly $sixr-like, or your fingers from curling into the shape of a knife grip. And it was //someone//, anyway. You laid down, shivering, with your back to the stranger you'd sacrificed in the name of nothing. Your broken arm shrieked in protest at the weight, but when your spine brushed against the cooling corpse, you found little in you that could care. There was no telling how long you lay there. Guinefort did not speak further, apparently possesed by a saintly patience that you could not dream of. The halo never flickered, never pulsed. Its light simply //was//, just six degrees out of your vision and still bright enough to strain. [[It was time.|6.r.halo.0]] <<if $Sanity gte 75>>[[You could take it, and not consume it.|6.r.san.vault.take]]<<else>>[[You could take it, and not consume it.|6.r.san.vault.take]]<</if>> [[Not now, not ever.|6.r.div.sac.loop.b]]

Magic may be an easy solution, but it's a monopolizing one. To rely the entire city's infrastructure on You eye Constantine with a silent question. "Earthquakes." [[6.c.exit.2]]

I imagine the libraries have never been so valued." you direct the last towards Ira, but to no response You eye Constantine with a silent question. "Earthquakes." [[6.c.exit.2]]

Crinkling your brow in suspicion, you pushed yourself back onto your feet and approached the general direction of the door. It took some shuffling and tapping around with your good hand, but eventually your skin emt wood, which trailed down to cold metal. You pressed against the door latch, expecting resistance, and had to catch yourself when you find none. It turned easily, and the door creaked open in your hand. With a deep breath, you leaned through the doorway, peering out left and right. It was all darkness, various levels of muddy gray and black. Nothing stirred. It seemed like you could just... //go.// [[You needed rest, before anything else.|6.B2.1a]] [[Was there really nothing stopping you from leaving?|6.b.exit.1]]

<<if hasVisited ("6.B2.1")>><<else>>It was a surprise, to be sure, but not necessarily an issue. Could be reverse psychology, you reasoned. Guinefort seemed more straightforward than manipulative, but you weren't ready to put anything past them just yet. You were better off right where you were, where you could see the one and only exit and entrance. And besides, you were exhausted. <</if>>You collapsed onto your cot with a deep weariness. Your bedding appeared to have been washed, which was a win, though the blanket's quality hadn't improved. It was still the same rough wool that you found warm but irritating against your tender skin. With little else to occupy your mind besides an infinite loop of existential crises, you turned to sleep, and braced yourself for whatever nonsensical puppet show of a dream awaited you on the other side. The sanctuary was quiet, you'd give it that. The kind of quiet that pressed in on your skull, palms clapped against your ears until nothing was audible but your own pulse. If you turned your head just right, you could imagine a tiny army of a thousand soldiers marching in unison with every heartbeat, and before long, it lulled you to sleep. Dreamless, again. You'd have been hardly convinced that you slept at all, if it wasn't for the drop in temperature- the motionless chill of very early morning, exacerbated by your distance underground- and the creeping pain in your broken arm. It throbbed, made worse by your every movement, the previous dullness long gone and replaced by a sharpness that nearly rivaled the hound's teeth. Waiting around for the stern-faced physician and his painkillers to make another appearance was absolutely not an option. [[The sanctuary couldn't have been that big. You went in search of the physician.|6.b.phys]] [[Damn it all, you'd fix it yourself.|6.B2.2]] [[End of demo.]]

Fuck decorum, fuck your broken arm. Everything be damned, you needed a hug, no matter what sly taunts you got in response. The results were far less disastrous than you expected- you weren't chided at all, in fact. Klaus' hands found your back in what was certainly a //loose// hug, but an undeniable one all the same. His sweater was buttery soft, if a bit grimy from the locale, and his hair brushed against your cheek with the scent of a heavy rain. Something within wobbled at your first humane touch in days; he was warm, and you didn't want to move away. Your reverie was short lived, however. Eventually Klaus pulled back, and the moment you moved from his direct line of sight, you could hear his breath stutter. "Io, what... is //that//?" You didn't turn. Your unbroken hand lingered on his arm. "A halo," you answered, unsure what emotion was keeping your tone so neutral. "//My// halo, apparently." It wasn't a wise thing to admit, you knew that. The Religious guarded their power with a fierce jealousy, and anything outside their immediate control was destined to be struck down. But in the moment, you didn't care; you were appealing to Klaus for help, not the Handmaiden. And a Handmaiden would never have taken the time nor the risk to come find you. "Your-" Klaus paused, and fixed you with that inscrutably perceptive look you'd come to expect from him. "What do you mean?" You didn't have time for this, and you told Klaus as much. "Later, I'll explain //later//," you urged, taking a few steps into the pitch-dark hall. "You know the way out?" "Yes, but we sure as hell aren't leaving //that// behind. Can you touch it? Pick it up?" He gestured toward the object of your ire. Its radiance cast stark shadows on his face that made him look both older and ageless. [['"I can try."'|6.r.kl.yes]] [['"Leave it alone."'|6.r.kl.no]]

"How did you find me? Are you here by yourself?" you blurted. It seemed absurd that Klaus was standing in front of you; maybe your disappearance had brought much-needed urgency to the investigation of the Faithful. Nonetheless, your gratitude could not be measured. "You're like a living magnetic pole for Magic, and I wasn't about to walk in here with an army of the Blessed Guard, no," he replied, far more nonchalant than the situation called for. Then his eyes slid past you, shining with light, and he frowned. "Io, what... is //that//?" You didn't turn. A halo," you answered, unsure what emotion was keeping your tone so neutral. "//My// halo, apparently." It wasn't a wise thing to admit, you knew that. The Religious guarded their power with a fierce jealousy, and anything outside their immediate control was destined to be struck down. But in the moment, you didn't care; you were appealing to Klaus for help, not the Handmaiden. And a Handmaiden would never have taken the time nor the risk to come find you. "Your-" Klaus paused, and fixed you with that inscrutably perceptive look you'd come to expect from him. "What do you mean?" You didn't have time for this, and you told Klaus as much. "Later, I'll explain //later//," you urged, taking a few steps into the pitch-dark hall. "You know the way out?" "Yes, but we sure as hell aren't leaving //that// behind. Can you touch it? Pick it up?" He gestured toward the object of your ire. Its radiance cast stark shadows on his face that made him look both older and ageless. [['"I can try."'|6.r.kl.yes]] [['"Leave it alone."'|6.r.kl.no]]

"That doesn't change anything," you said quickly, before you could spiral any further. "I don't care how you got it, I'm not interested in halos, or whatever is is that you think you have." //"You doubt?"// Before you could answer, Guinefort's steel gauntlet was wrapped around the back of your neck, scruffing you like an ill-behaved cat. You barely managed a yelp before they tossed you through the cell door and into the hallway with so much force that you nearly fell to the floor. Roughly, they guided you forward, swinging lantern in their other hand, into the deep pits of the ever-winding hallway. The hall was better lit than your cell, but the real difference was in the air- still stale, but at least there was //more// of it. You had to twist your throat away from Guinefort's grip to finally inhale, and when you did, a damp, salty taste infected your tongue. Guinefort did not allow you your moment to breathe; their stride was long and steady, and you had to scurry to not be simply dragged alongside them as they pushed you deeper into the winding complex. Stone, rock, more stone. Built, not carved, and almost too narrow, but tall enough for even the Saint's immense height. An occasional window broke up the monotony, but all were opaque and black, some evenbursting with rubble. You didn't need Guinefort to confirm that you traversed an ancient ruin buried long ago by the Collapse. You could only wonder fleetingly if the Faithful had been the ones to excavate, and if these halls ever crossed the tunnels you'd claimed as your own. Eventually, the maze came to an end at a heavy metal-banded door, seemingly without lock or knob. If you squinted, you could see narrow lines of ward and rune carved directly into the wood. It was too dark to make anything out clearly, but you knew Magic when you saw it. You gulped at the air when Guinefort finally released you; between the intense pace and the steel crushing your windpipe, your lungs were burning. [[Continue.|6.r.div.vault.1]]

"How did you find me? Are you here by yourself?" you blurted. It seemed absurd that Constantine was standing in front of you; maybe your disappearance had brought much-needed urgency to the investigation of the Faithful. Nonetheless, your gratitude could not be measured. "Who said I was looking for //you//? You really have a knack for showing up in the wrong places," $che replied, far less flippant than you'd expect from $chim. Then $chis eyes slid past you, shining with light, and $che frowned. "Io, what... is //that//?" You didn't turn. "A halo," you answered, unsure what emotion was keeping your tone so neutral. "//My// halo, apparently." It wasn't a wise thing to admit, you knew that. The Religious guarded their power with a fierce jealousy, and anything outside their immediate control was destined to be struck down. But in the moment, you didn't care; you were appealing to Constantine for help, not $chis employer. And the Religious never would have sent someone for you. "Your-" Constantine paused, and fixed you with a look of that tired incredulity you'd come to expect from $chim. "What do you mean?" You didn't have time for this, and you told Constantine as much. "Later, I'll explain //later//," you urged, taking a few steps into the pitch-dark hall. "You know the way out?" "Yes, but we sure as hell aren't leaving //that// behind. Can you touch it? Pick it up?" $cHe gestured toward the object of your ire. Its radiance cast stark shadows on $chis face that made $chim look both older and ageless. [['"I can try."'|6.r.c.yes]] [['"Leave it alone."'|6.r.c.no]]

Fuck decorum, fuck your broken arm. Everything be damned, you needed a hug, no matter what irate protests you got in response. The results were far less disastrous than you expected- you weren't even pushed away. A calloused hand brushed against the top of your head in a hestitant pat accompanied by an awkward grumble. You tried not to think of the future consequences; all you knew was the scent of a heavy rain. Something within wobbled at your first humane touch in days; $che was warm, and you didn't want to move away. Your reverie was short lived, however. After only a moment, Constantine pulled back, and the second you moved from $chis direct line of sight, you could hear $chis breath stutter. "Io, what... is //that//?" You didn't turn. Your unbroken hand lingered near $chis arm. "A halo," you answered, unsure what emotion was keeping your tone so neutral. "//My// halo, apparently." It wasn't a wise thing to admit, you knew that. The Religious guarded their power with a fierce jealousy, and anything outside their immediate control was destined to be struck down. But in the moment, you didn't care; you were appealing to Constantine for help, not $chis employer. And the Religious never would have sent someone for you. "Your-" Constantine paused, and fixed you with a look of that tired incredulity you'd come to expect from $chim. "What do you mean?" You didn't have time for this, and you told Constantine as much. "Later, I'll explain //later//," you urged, taking a few steps into the pitch-dark hall. "You know the way out?" "Yes, but we sure as hell aren't leaving //that// behind. Can you touch it? Pick it up?" $cHe gestured toward the object of your ire. Its radiance cast stark shadows on $chis face that made $chim look both older and ageless. [['"I can try."'|6.r.c.yes]] [['"Leave it alone."'|6.r.c.no]]

"How did you find me? Are you here by yourself?" you blurted. It seemed absurd that Ira was standing in front of you; maybe their curiosities had sent them much deeper than they'd ever expected. Nonetheless, your gratitude could not be measured. "You have a very unique... aura," they explained. "It wasn't too hard to follow with the right Magic. And uh, yes. It's just me, I figured it would be easier." Their eyes slid past you, shining with light, and they frowned. "Io, what... is //that//?" You didn't turn. Your unbroken hand lingered on their arm. "A halo," you answered, unsure what emotion was keeping your tone so neutral. "//My// halo, apparently." It wasn't a wise thing to admit, you knew that. The Religious guarded their power with a fierce jealousy, and anything outside their immediate control was destined to be struck down. But Ira had already voiced heresies in front of you; it was time to return the favor. If anyone was to be trusted with this, it was them. "Your-" Ira paused, and fixed you with a look of that wide-eyed sincerity you'd come to expect from them. "What do you mean?" You didn't have time for this, and you told Ira as much. "Later, I'll explain //later//," you urged, taking a few steps into the pitch-dark hall. "You know the way out?" "Yes, but we sure as hell aren't leaving //that// behind. Can you touch it? Pick it up?" They gestured toward the object of your ire. Its radiance cast stark shadows on their face that made them look both older and ageless. [['"I can try."'|6.r.i.yes]] [['"Leave it alone."'|6.r.i.no]]

Fuck decorum, fuck your broken arm. Everything be damned, you needed a hug. The results were better than you could have ever expected; Ira's response was delayed only a second in surprise before their hands found your back and pulled you close. Their fingers pressed comfortingly into the base of your neck as their curls brushed against your cheek with the scent of a heavy rain. Something within wobbled at your first humane touch in days; they were warm, and you didn't want to move away. Your respite was short lived, however. Eventually, Ira stepped back, and the moment you moved from their direct line of sight, you could hear their breath stutter. "Io, what... is //that//?" You didn't turn. Your unbroken hand lingered on their arm. "A halo," you answered, unsure what emotion was keeping your tone so neutral. "//My// halo, apparently." It wasn't a wise thing to admit, you knew that. The Religious guarded their power with a fierce jealousy, and anything outside their immediate control was destined to be struck down. But Ira had already voiced heresies in front of you; it was time to return the favor. If anyone was to be trusted with this, it was them. "Your-" Ira paused, and fixed you with a look of that wide-eyed sincerity you'd come to expect from them. "What do you mean?" You didn't have time for this, and you told Ira as much. "Later, I'll explain //later//," you urged, taking a few steps into the pitch-dark hall. "You know the way out?" "Yes, but we sure as hell aren't leaving //that// behind. Can you touch it? Pick it up?" They gestured toward the object of your ire. Its radiance cast stark shadows on their face that made them look both older and ageless. [['"I can try."'|6.r.i.yes]] [['"Leave it alone."'|6.r.i.no]]

"How did you find me? Are you here by yourself?" you blurted. It seemed absurd that Val was standing in front of you, but then, did it really? Val was always there, and perhaps you'd been too harsh. Either way, you were grateful for this one. "Oh, I could find you anywhere," $vthey replied, far more chipper than the situation called for. "And yes, just me, but what else could you ask for?" Then $vtheir eyes slid past you, shining with light, and $vthey frowned. "Io, what... is //that//?" You didn't turn. Your unbroken hand lingered on $vtheir arm. "A halo," you answered, unsure what emotion was keeping your tone so neutral. "//My// halo." It was a risky thing to admit, you knew that. No matter your own feelings, it was a declaration that you now knew the truth, and that you knew Val did, as well. There was simply no turning back. "Your-" Val paused, and fixed $vtheir gaze on the floor. "Oh, right. Um. So..." You didn't have time for this, and you told Val as much. "Later, we can talk about it //later//," you urged, taking a few steps into the pitch-dark hall. "You know the way out?" "Yes, but we sure as hell aren't leaving //that// behind this time. Can you touch it? Pick it up?" $vThey gestured toward the object of your ire. Its radiance cast stark shadows on their face that made $vthem look both older and ageless. [['"I can try."'|6.r.v.yes]] [['"Leave it alone."'|6.r.v.no]]

Fuck decorum, fuck your broken arm. Everything be damned, you needed a hug. The results were better than you could have ever expected; Val's response was instantaneous, and before you knew it, $vtheir hands had found your back and you were pulled close. The cool metal of $vtheir jewelry was a boon to your aching mind, as was the way $vtheir hair brushed against your cheek with the scent of a heavy rain. Something within wobbled at your first humane touch in days; $vthey $vwere warm, and you didn't want to move away. Your respite was short lived, however. Eventually, Val stepped back, and the moment you moved from $vtheir direct line of sight, you could hear $vtheir breath stutter. "Io, what... is //that//?" You didn't turn. Your unbroken hand lingered on $vtheir arm. "A halo," you answered, unsure what emotion was keeping your tone so neutral. "//My// halo." It was a risky thing to admit, you knew that. No matter your own feelings, it was a declaration that you now knew the truth, and that you knew Val did, as well. There was simply no turning back. "Your-" Val paused, and fixed $vtheir gaze on the floor. "Oh, right. Um. So..." You didn't have time for this, and you told Val as much. "Later, we can talk about it //later//," you urged, taking a few steps into the pitch-dark hall. "You know the way out?" "Yes, but we sure as hell aren't leaving //that// behind this time. Can you touch it? Pick it up?" $vThey gestured toward the object of your ire. Its radiance cast stark shadows on their face that made $vthem look both older and ageless. [['"I can try."'|6.r.v.yes]] [['"Leave it alone."'|6.r.v.no]]

"How did you find me? Are you here by yourself?" you blurted. It seemed absurd that Kat was standing in front of you; maybe your disappearance had brought much-needed urgency to her investigation of the Faithful. Nonetheless, your gratitude could not be measured. "Oh, doll, you could never hide from me," she replied, far more nonchalant than the situation called for. "And yes, it's just little ol' me, don't go getting greedy, now." Her eyes slid past you, shining with light, and she frowned. "Io, what... is //that//?" You didn't turn. Your unbroken hand lingered near her arm. "A halo," you answered, unsure what emotion was keeping your tone so neutral. "//My// halo, apparently." It wasn't a wise thing to admit, you knew that. Kat's motives and creed were still a mystery to you, beyond her clear disdain for the Faithful, which you were now intricately connected to. But in the moment, you didn't care; you were appealing to Kat for help, and somehow you knew she couldn't resist a wounded animal like you. "Your-" Kat paused, and fixed you with that hawkish look you'd come to expect from her. "What do you mean?" You didn't have time for this, and you told Kat as much. "Later, I'll explain //later//," you urged, taking a few steps into the pitch-dark hall. "You know the way out?" "Yes, but we sure as hell aren't leaving //that// behind. Can you touch it? Pick it up?" She gestured toward the object of your ire. Its radiance cast stark shadows on her face that made her look both older and ageless. [['"I can try."'|6.r.k.yes]] [['"Leave it alone."'|6.r.k.no]]

Fuck decorum, fuck your broken arm. Everything be damned, you needed a hug, no matter what debilitating teasing you got in response. The results were far less disastrous than you expected- you weren't chided at all, in fact. Kat's hands found your back and pulled you close, her long nails gently scratching at your shirt while her hair brushed against your cheek with the scent of a heavy rain. Something within wobbled at your first humane touch in days; she was warm, and you didn't want to move away. Your reverie was short lived, however. Eventually, Kat stepped back, and the moment you moved from her direct line of sight, you could hear her breath stutter. "Io, what... is //that//?" You didn't turn. Your unbroken hand lingered near her arm. "A halo," you answered, unsure what emotion was keeping your tone so neutral. "//My// halo, apparently." It wasn't a wise thing to admit, you knew that. Kat's motives and creed were still a mystery to you, beyond her clear disdain for the Faithful, which you were now intricately connected to. But in the moment, you didn't care; you were appealing to Kat for help, and somehow you knew she couldn't resist a wounded animal like you. "Your-" Kat paused, and fixed you with that hawkish look you'd come to expect from her. "What do you mean?" You didn't have time for this, and you told Kat as much. "Later, I'll explain //later//," you urged, taking a few steps into the pitch-dark hall. "You know the way out?" "Yes, but we sure as hell aren't leaving //that// behind. Can you touch it? Pick it up?" She gestured toward the object of your ire. Its radiance cast stark shadows on her face that made her look both older and ageless. [['"I can try."'|6.r.k.yes]] [['"Leave it alone."'|6.r.k.no]]

You suppressed a groan. "I... maybe? I don't know. I don't know what would //happen//." Klaus peered past your shoulder, his eyes shining with its light. "Nothing you weren't built to handle. You said it's //yours//, didn't you? I can almost guarantee it's far safer with you and I than with a doomsday cult." He was right, you couldn't deny that. "I can't just walk around with a miniature sun like it's nothing," you offered as one last attempt at a protest. "Then cover it," he said shortly, before bending back his arms and slipping out of the sleeves of his long, dark coat. He held it out to you expectantly; it was heavy, and thick, and felt like a much finer quality than anything you'd ever expect to touch. The fabric was still flush with his warmth, and for a momen that gave you pause. You laid it over the halo; it was surprisingly effective at dimming its light, though a pearly glow still broke through the edges. At least it was something of a barrier between that merciless shine and your vulnerable skin. The weight of the halo as you pulled it from the pedestal caught you off guard; not heavy, but certainly solid. An undeniable presence with an inexplicable hum. Klaus' nod was slight, clearly eager to get moving and not at all surprised at your willingness to follow instructions. You could only imagine how desperately he wanted to study the halo and all its implications. But first things first. [["Okay," you said. "Let's go."|6.r.klaus.4]]

You stepped in front of Klaus before he could approach the halo, "Leave it alone," you warned. "I don't want anything to do with it, and it's staying here." Klaus' brows tightened. "It's not about what you want. Do you have any idea how catastrophic that thing could be in the Faithful's hands?" "The last time you didn't listen to me didn't end so well," you pointed out, to a rare twitch of guilt from Klaus. "I'm going to stick with my own instincts on this one." He peered past your shoulder, eyes shining with its light. You could only imagine how desperately he wanted to study the halo and all its implications, but after a moment, he nodded reluctantly. "Fine," he murmured. "It can stay for now, but I'm sending the Blessed Guard for it first thing." [["Okay," you said. "Let's go."|6.r.klaus.4]]

You suppressed a groan. "I... maybe? I don't know. I don't know what would //happen//." Constantine peered past your shoulder, $chis eyes shining with its light. "Anything that could happen to you can't be worse than whatever the Faithful plan on doing with it. I know what power looks like when I see it, and that thing's like bringing a knife to a fist fight." $cHe was right, you couldn't deny that. "I can't just walk around with a miniature sun like it's nothing," you offered as one last attempt at a protest. "Ah, //ugh//, here-" Constantine muttered before bending back $chis arms and sliding off $chis coat and tossing it at you. It was heavy and practical, and nearly made you stumble, but it was also still flush with Constantine's warmth, and for a second that made you pause. You laid it over the halo; it was surprisingly effective at dimming its light, though a pearly glow still broke through the seams. At least it was something of a barrier between that merciless shine and your vulnerable skin. The weight of the halo as you pulled it from the pedestal caught you off guard; not heavy, but certainly solid. An undeniable presence with an inexplicable hum. Constantine's nod was definitive, clearly eager to get moving. You couldn't imagine what thoughts were racing through $chis head at the sight of you with a tool of mass divinity. But first things first. [["Okay," you said. "Let's go."|6.r.con.4]]

You stepped in front of Constantine before $che could approach the halo, "Leave it alone," you warned. "I don't want anything to do with it, and it's staying here." Constantine's dark eyes went wide. "What? Are you kidding me? It can't stay anywhere //near// the Faithful, whether //you// want it or not." "The last time you didn't listen to me didn't end so well," you pointed out, to a flash of guilt from Constantine. "I'm going to stick with my own instincts on this one." $cHe peered past your shoulder, eyes shining with its light. You couldn't imagine what thoughts were racing through $chis head at the sight of a tool of mass divinity. But after a moment, $che nodded. "Fine, but you're the one who has to explain that decision to Klaus," $che muttered. [["Okay," you said. "Let's go."|6.r.con.4]]

You suppressed a groan. "I... maybe? I don't know. I don't know what would //happen//." Ira peered over your shoulder, their eyes shining with its light. "If it's truly //yours//, I don't think it could hurt you." "That's what you said about the Divine Theatre," you pointed out, to a mournful look from Ira. It almost made you feel bad. "And I will always be sorry." They wrung their hands. "But surely you can see how the opposite would be far worse. A halo isn't a thing to be ignored or left to rot. We can't leave it here." They were right, you couldn't deny that. "I can't just walk around with a miniature sun like it's nothing," you offered as one last attempt at a protest. "Here, use this." Ira undid the knot of their scarf with deft hands, pulled it free, and held it out to you. It was small, more a handkerchief than anything, made of low-quality silk and long past its glory days. Still, you took it gingerly, almost out of instinct. It was still flush with Ira's warmth. You laid it over the halo; it was surprisingly effective at dimming its light, though a pearly glow still broke through the weave. At least it was something of a barrier between that merciless shine and your vulnerable skin. The weight of the halo as you pulled it from the pedestal caught you off guard; not heavy, but certainly solid. An undeniable presence with an inexplicable hum. Ira's nod was almost excited, clearly eager to get moving. You could only imagine how desperately they wanted to study the halo and all its implications. But first things first. [["Okay," you said. "Let's go."|6.r.ira.4]]

You stepped in front of Ira before they could approach the halo, "Leave it alone," you warned. "I don't want anything to do with it, and it's staying here." Ira's gray eyes went wide. "What? Don't be absurd; it can't stay anywhere //near// the Faithful. And if it's truly //yours//, I don't think it could hurt you." "That's what you said about the Divine Theatre," you pointed out, to a mournful look from Ira. It almost made you feel bad. "I'm going to stick with my own instincts on this one." Ira peered over your shoulder, face shining with the light of the halo. Rescue aside, you could only imagine how desperately they wanted to study it and all its implications. But after a moment, they nodded solemnly. "It's your choice," they murmured. [["Okay," you said. "Let's go."|6.r.ira.4]]

You suppressed a groan. "I... maybe? I don't know. I don't know what would //happen//." Val peered over your shoulder, $vtheir eyes shining with its light. "You've worn it before, and you were fine, then. Confused, maybe, but you were plenty nice to me." "I wouldn't know," you pointed out, to a sheepish look from Val. It almost made you feel bad. "It can't stay here, though," $vthey said quietly. "We can take it to Klaus, at the very least." $vThey $vwere right, you couldn't deny that. "I can't just walk around with a miniature sun like it's nothing," you offered as one last attempt at a protest. "Oh, uh, here-" $vthey mumbled, and reached up to untangle $vtheir long scarf from $vtheir neck before holding it out to you all bundled up. It was colorful, and a bit tattered, but you'd worn it yourself enough times to know its warmth. It was still flush with Val's own body heat when you took it from $vthem. You laid it over the halo; it was surprisingly effective at dimming its light, though a pearly glow still broke through the weave. At least it was something of a barrier between that merciless shine and your vulnerable skin. The weight of the halo as you pulled it from the pedestal caught you off guard; not heavy, but certainly solid. An undeniable presence with an inexplicable hum. Val's nod was quick, clearly eager to get moving. You couldn't begin to imagine what thoughts were racing through $vtheir head at the sight of the halo; you could barely fathom your own. But first things first. [["Okay," you said. "Let's go."|6.r.val.4]]

You stepped in front of Val before $vthey could approach the halo, "Leave it alone," you warned. "I don't want anything to do with it, and it's staying here." Val's warm brown eyes went wide. "I don't think that's a good idea. It can't stay here with the Faithful, Io. We should at least take it to Klaus." "Good ideas haven't been your forte lately," you pointed out, to a sheepish look from Val. It almost made you feel bad. "I'm going to stick with my own instincts on this one." Val peered over your shoulder, face shining with the light of the halo. You couldn't begin to imagine what thoughts were racing through $vtheir head at the sight of the halo; you could barely fathom your own. "I- alright," $vthey relented. "It's your choice." [["Okay," you said. "Let's go."|6.r.val.4]]

You stepped in front of Kat before she could approach the halo, "Leave it alone," you warned. "I don't want anything to do with it, and it's staying here." She shot you a sharp frown. "Not to be a critic, dear, but that's patently insane. I'm not saying you have to keep it, but it certainly can't stay with the cult." "Kat," you said with a edge of impatience. "I need you to trust me. No good's going to come out of that thing, and we're all better off with it down here in a forgotten corner. It's been here for years; it'll hold." She peered past your shoulder, eyes shining with its light. You couldn't imagine what thoughts were racing through her head at the sight of a tool of mass divinity. But after a moment, she nodded. "Fine," she relented. "I suppose I wouldn't trust the Religious with it, either." [["Okay," you said. "Let's go."|6.r.kat.4]]

You suppressed a groan. "I... maybe? I don't know. I don't know what would //happen//." Kat peered past your shoulder, her eyes shining with its light. "Nothing we can't handle, I'm certain. Whatever it may be, it's absolutely better than leaving it in the hands of unpredictable cultists." She winked. "If you turn into a rage monster, I'll still love you, doll." She was right, you couldn't deny that, though you had to do you best to ignore the last part. "I can't just walk around with a miniature sun like it's nothing," you offered as one last attempt at a protest. Kat hummed. "We'll just have to cover it, then," she said, then reached for the hem of her sweater. Panic muted you for a moment when she pulled it over her head in one smooth motion, but to your relief, she wore a buttoned shirt underneath. You breathed out as she passed you the sweater; it would have been simply too much for your brain in the moment, but from the way her eyes sparkled, you suspected she'd done it entirely on purpose. The thick cotton was still flush with her warmth. You laid it over the halo; it was surprisingly effective at dimming its light, though a pearly glow still broke through the weave. At least it was something of a barrier between that merciless shine and your vulnerable skin. The weight of the halo as you pulled it from the pedestal caught you off guard; not heavy, but certainly solid. An undeniable presence with an inexplicable hum. Kat's nod was sure, clearly eager to get moving. You couldn't imagine what thoughts were racing through her head at the sight of you with a tool of mass divinity. But first things first. [["Okay," you said. "Let's go."|6.r.kat.4]]

"The door, can you open it? I didn't get a good look, but the whole thing is Magic. It might have a weak spot. Anything that looks asymmetrical or not reinforced-" you called, ear pressed against the wood as if you were trying to identify its heartbeat. "I can read a damn rune, Io. Stand back," $che ordered, though you hesitated. "I mean it, Io. Back." You scrambled away, nearly bumping against the halo's pedestal just as the door rippled with a mighty //crash//. The Magic fizzled and sparked, and something sharp tore free from the wood. Was that- another //bang//. Yes. An axe. A brute-force kind of solution, but an effective one, when all else failed. As long as $che didn't mutilate the wrong rune and kill you both in an arcane explosion. Constantine's aim was true, as was $chis apparent knowledge of wards. With one last //bang//, the axe blade cleared tore through the door and left the most crucial parts of the spell nothing more than disjointed lines. The ward collapsed, the material of the door dissolving along with it. The darkness threw you for a moment, with nothing for the halo's incessant light to bounce off of. It took your eyes a moment to peer around the deep-seated fear that any other face would be waiting for you on the other side- Guinefort's, or one of the hounds, or something else equally ghoulish. You had to force yourself to look. Constantine, a small wood-axe dangling from one hand. There was dust in the wisps of $chis dark braid and sweat along $chis collar, but it was Constantine, as genuine as the look of mild distaste $che greeted you with. "Don't make this a habit," $che said with a tired huff. <<if $cgender is "male">>[[You hugged him.|6.r.c.hug]]<<else>>[[You hugged her.|6.r.c.hug]]<</if>> [['"How did you find me?"'|6.r.c.3]]

"The door, can you open it? I didn't get a good look, but the whole thing is Magic. Find the right thread and it'll come undone," you called, ear pressed against the wood as if you were trying to identify its heartbeat. "I- yes, hold on," replied Ira. "It's a complex ward, but I think-" You felt it before you saw it, the pressure of Magic falling into just the right place and //nudging//, prying the atoms of the door apart as easily as dissolving sugar in water. The darkness threw you for a moment, with nothing for the halo's mighty light to bounce off of. It took your eyes a moment to peer around the deep-seated fear that any other face would be waiting for you on the other side- Guinefort's, or one of the hounds, or something else equally ghoulish. You had to force yourself to look. Ira. There was dust in their golden curls and smudges of chalk across their otherwise pristine black uniform, but it was Ira, as genuine as the relieved smile they greeted you with. "Oh, I'm glad to see you, Io." [[You hugged them.|6.r.i.hug]] [['"How did you find me?"'|6.r.i.3]]

"The door, can you open it? It's solid Magic, but I don't know, maybe there's still a lock to pick or a hinge to break-" "Yeah, um, oh... hold on-" you heard a muffled rattle; it was a familiar sound, one you've heard dozens of times when Val had locked you both out of the house, or had some particular mischief up $vtheir sleeve. You never thought you'd be so relieved at the sound of lockpicks. "There's no lock, but I've robbed enough priestesses to know how to break a locking ward," Val explained from the other side. Skepticism rose in your gut, but you were quickly proven wrong. You felt it before you saw it, the pressure of Magic falling into just the right place and //nudging//, prying the atoms of the door apart as easily as dissolving sugar in water. The darkness threw you for a moment, with nothing for the halo's mighty light to bounce off of. It took your eyes a moment to peer around the deep-seated fear that any other face would be waiting for you on the other side- Guinefort's, or one of the hounds, or something else equally ghoulish. You had to force yourself to look. Val. There was dust in $vtheir dark hair and chalky smudges on $vtheir cheeks, but it was Val, as genuine as the anxious smile $vthey greeted you with. "Hi," was all $vthey said. <<if $vgender is "male">>[[You hugged him.|6.r.v.hug]]<<elseif $vgender is "female">>[[You hugged her.|6.r.v.hug]]<<else>>[[You hugged them.|6.r.v.hug]]<</if>> [['"How did you find me?"'|6.r.v.3]]

"The door, can you open it? It's solid Magic, but I don't know, maybe there's still a lock to pick or a hinge to break-" "Obviously," she said with a snort. "Magic's not as failproof as the priestesses would like you to think, you know." There came a faint rattling from the other side of the door, one you recognized. You'd heart itdozens of times when Val had locked you both out of the house, or had some particular mischief up $vtheir sleeve. You never thought you'd be so relieved at the sound of lockpicks. Skepticism rose in your gut as to whether a ward could be picked, but you were quickly proven wrong. You felt it before you saw it, the pressure of Magic falling into just the right place and //nudging//, prying the atoms of the door apart as easily as dissolving sugar in water. The darkness threw you for a moment, with nothing for the halo's mighty light to bounce off of. It took your eyes a moment to peer around the deep-seated fear that any other face would be waiting for you on the other side- Guinefort's, or one of the hounds, or something else equally ghoulish. You had to force yourself to look. Kat. There was dust in her raven hair and the slightest smudge of makeup along her top lip, but it was Kat, as genuine as the sly grin she greeted you with. "Hello, there. Fancy meeting you here," she purred. [[You hugged her.|6.r.k.hug]] [['"How did you find me?"'|6.r.k.3]]

You raised a skeptical eyebrow in protest. "So where is it? Take me to the God Beneath." "//Take you?//" There was a level of bewilderment in the Saint's voice that you weren't previously sure they were capable of. It almost sounded too human for the thing in front of you. "Yes, take me. It's your god, isn't it? And you seem to know the tunnels. I want to see this //'body'//, if it's so much like me. We can compare notes." The words tumbled out of you ungraciously, before you could consider their wisdom. //"If I had laid eyes on the corpse divine, I would not be here now, little Io. It is beyond my reach."// "So it's dead?" A laugh gurgled in your chest. "Then what's the point? //"There is power that can overcome death, even that of a god."// You tried not to scoff at the sheer histronics of it. Guinefort's purpose for you was becoming clear; they thought this halo was going to resurrect their deity. <<if $Sanity gte 50>>[['"You're delusional."'|6.refuse.san.1]]<<else>>[['"You're delusional."'|6.refuse.div.1]]<</if>>

If pressed, you couldn't possibly explain the sudden need to preserve something natural, or even what part of you reasons that Magic //isn't.// It's natural to you, isn't it? Is it? Should it be? //See also:// You shake your head violently before the antiseptic little thought has a chance to provide a string of words that you can't justify. You don't need these intrusions, and you don't need a forearm malformed by your own stupidity. Between the fracture and the angel's... infection, your arm's been through enough. You eye the dark lines that peek out from the yellowing bandages. Experiementally, you push back your sleeve a few inches, then a few more, and a few more, and... your fingertips reach your shoulder, and... An itching panic crawls up your spine, and you hook your fingers under the hem of your shirt, pulling it off with no shortage of difficulty. You abandon your grunt of frustation in favor of a strangled gasp at the sight that awaits you. There are dark, grasping welts across your skin. Lines and lines and lines and circles and dots like a river basin mapped out by a madman across your frame. What had once gone no higher than your elbow now creeps across your torso, carving out meaningless paths on your collarbones and throat. The entire upper half of your body has fallen prey to the markings, and the sickly discoloration along with it. The lowest of the lines reaches your opposite hip, the highest nearing your ear lobe. There is no more hiding it. [[It is, strictly speaking, cool as hell.|6.A2.POS]] [[You're numb. How the hell are you supposed to feel?|6.A2.NEU]] [[Feeling sick, you tear your eyes away.|6.A2.NEG]]

<<set $brokenarm to false>>You pull your arm forward and feel along the scraps of cloth to find where the splint is bound. The knot is strong, and gives you considerable trouble between your one hand and its inconvenient angle. Your fingers are a little raw by the time you manage to pry loose one of its loops. The wooden splint falls to your feet with a clatter, soon followed by bandage. The way they peel from your arm is distinctly unpleasant, revealing your slightly pale and clammy skin beneath. The top layer is dead and gray, and you have to bite your tongue to resist scratching it all away, knowing you'd regret the angry red marks that would follow. Whether it's the last of the pain medicine you'd been given, or the newfound precision of your Magic, you aren't sure, but there's nothing more than mild discomfort as your bones and skin knit themselves back together by your command. The Magic isn't as slippery as it was a few minutes ago- you must already be adjusting- but it still leaves you reeling to catch up with your new reality. The blackened marks do not fade, nor does the ugly tear across your palm or the jagged lines left by the dog's teeth. Your scars are more permanent, it seems. You stretch out your arm, rolling your wrist and elbow experimentally. Other than the rubbery sensation of having just put down a long-carried weight, it feels whole. But... You squint in the low light; the rush of adrenaline had nearly disguised it, but your own flesh is not as you remembered it. Those strange in human lines that had previously gone no farther than your elbow now creep into your sleeve. An itching panic crawls up your spine, and you hook your fingers under the hem of your shirt, pulling it off in one smooth motion. You ignore the immediate goosebumps from the chill air in favor of a strangled gasp. There are dark, grasping welts across your skin. Lines and lines and lines and circles and dots like a river basin mapped out by a madman across your frame. What had once gone no higher than your elbow now creeps across your torso, carving out meaningless paths on your collarbones and throat. The entire upper half of your body has fallen prey to the markings, and the sickly discoloration along with it. The lowest of the lines reaches your opposite hip, the highest nearing your ear lobe. There is no more hiding it. [[It is, strictly speaking, cool as hell.|6.A2.POS]] [[You're numb. How the hell are you supposed to feel?|6.A2.NEU]] [[Feeling sick, you tear your eyes away.|6.A2.NEG]]

<<set $appearance to "neg">>You don't want to look at that. You don't want to look at yourself, much less process what's become of you. So you close your eyes, and blindly reach out to your cot until your hand grasps the blanket tightly enough to pull it free. Tucked over your shoulders and under your chin, it's just enough to cover the unwelcome sight of your body without cutting you off from the comforting chill of the wall at your back. Only once it's secure do you open your eyes again, and try to swallow down the lump in your throat. You aren't going to cry. You //aren't//.

You listen a moment more before interrupting the silence, but the sound is little more than a whisper in a distant room. Unintelligible, at best. Wishful thinking at worst. "There's... something," you say, fruitlessly trying to tune out your own voice. "But I don't know where it's coming from. Or what it is. Or //if// it is." //"You would not question the voice of God,"// answers Guinefort, and you suppose they may have a point. There's disappointment in the words, even as they remain rigid and faceless. //"I must pray. As should you. You will only strengthen with faith."// You can only sigh, too exhausted to play along or to rebel against their spiritualism. Your body is still shaking with the effort, like you've run ten marathons back to back. Guinefort takes notice. //"You need rest, Io. I will ask no more of you today, or even tomorrow."// "Don't act kind," you mutter. There's still a flicker of anger in you, somewhere. Maybe you can foster it just enough to survive this. //"That is not kindness,"// they say. //"But I am also not your enemy. We both serve the same God."// You turn your gaze on them once more, finally pausing to take in the details. Still a wraith, still a manifestation of shadow and silence. But for a moment, you see the weave of their veil, the stitch marks in the long-destroyed embroidery, and you wonder by what hand those threads were placed. That veil was made for Guinefort, crafted over dozens if not hundreds of hours, just to rest against their masked face. And even through whatever led them down this path, they have clung to it. They are just as exhausted as you. "So let me rest." [[End of demo.]]

Two, three turns later, the light reinforcing itself with every step, you passed through a doorway that spilled into something far larger. It was almost jarring, to go from the cramped passages to this great expanse. Your hopes of bursting on to the surface were crushed, and quickly replaced with trepidation. The glow was a bonfire, burning bright and inexplicable in the center of the yawning cavern. There was no fuel or source that you could see, it simply burned. Distantly, it struck you as a miracle, but you were far more concerned with the figures dotting the room. Robed, hooded, masked, all in white and gray. Maybe a dozen, probably more. Some held runes - you could feel the perfect balance of their distribution, lacing the air with a powerful song - others were empty-handed. They all simply stood, waiting like chorus in the wings of a theatre. "What the hell?" you breathed, turning to Ira. They regarded the scene evenly, with no surprise or concern. "Ira, what is this?" "The way out." Their response was brief, factual, and before you could question it, they moved foward, towards the raging fire. You met them at its edge, just close enough within the ring of heat to feel your cheeks burn, but not close enough to sweat. Ira looked at you, and smiled. "I don't understand," you said. "I don't know what to do." "It's better not to." You felt their soft hand laid over your own, something hard and cold underneath. Sharp, pressed against their skin, slid between two ribs. Scarlet heat blossomed across your hand. "Ira?" "You're doing so well," they said, with a voice that was not their own. The runes were growing loud, so damn deafening that you strained to hear. "Just be strong a little longer, okay?" The last word was a choke, frothy and wet, but accompanied by an encouraging smile. You only stared dumbly as all their limbs gave out like a discarded doll, and they collapsed at the edge of the bonfire. Golden firelight reflected merrily off the blade half-buried in their chest. It wouldn't //click// in your brain. Ira had simply passed out, and your body refused to move and help them. It was just shock, your inner voice screamed. You hadn't. You //hadn't//. It wasn't real. For a moment you glanced at the other figures in the room, caught between pleading for help and professing your innocence. None moved, or even so much as acknowledged you. And neither did Ira stir, nor you while the flames of the bonfire licked at their edges hungrily, desperate to consume and destroy. Part of you craved its devourment of the evidence of your wickedness. What was the point? How did this help you? It needed to go away. A kind of claustrophobia you'd never known crawled up your throat; the cavern suddenly seemed much smaller than you'd thought- perhaps it was the light, eating at the once mysterious voids? The figures were no closer, but the lines of their unspoken ward grew tighter, vicelike. Or maybe the walls really were closing in. A cavern, then a hall, then a room, then nothing more than a passage. The robed figures were long gone, lost to the reduction of space. [[Just you, the body, and the fire.|6.r.div.sac.1]]

Boredom, you could handle; you'd long ago found your own horrid little coping mechanism in daydreaming about the future, pretending that you were already on the other side of the great tedium, and that all your perceptions were just a particularly vivid memory. one that could be weathered. It worked better than it should, even if you were doing little more than wasting time with your imagination. This, you could not weather, this tedious suffering did not end, no matter how many times you tried to splinter your mind into an idyllic future, the distraction never lasted. Countless hours or days or seconds could pass, and you always found yourself and the Saint once again in the same moment. Stuck. Eyes open, eyes shut, still there. You didn't remember crying, but your cheeks and eyelids stung, rubbed raw with tears. The pool of blood under you could have still been warm with life, or it could hvae been as cold and stale as the stone beneath; you could no longer tell. Maybe it was all the same by then. It was not $sixr's blood, you //knew// that. It had all been a hallucination, or some cruel trick played on your aching mind. But your flimsy reassurances couldn't stop your brain from recognizing patterns, the ways the corpse on the floor looked suspiciously $sixr-like, the way your fingers felt molded and cramped around the hilt of a non-existent knife. And you had killed //someone//, anyway, even if they had been a stranger to you. You shivered as you lay on your side, putting your back to the person you'd sacrificed in the name of nothing. The tender bones of your broken arm screamed in agony as you transferred your weight, but there wasn't much left in you to care, not when your spin brushed against the cooling corpse behind you. There was no telling how long you lay there. Guinefort had grown silent, content to wait you out. The halo never flickered, never pulsed. Its light simply //was//, just six degrees out of your vision and still bright enough to strain. [[It was time.|6.r.halo.0]] <<if $Sanity gte 75>>[[You could take it, and not consume it.|6.r.san.vault.take]]<<else>>[[You could take it, and not consume it.|6.r.san.vault.take]]<</if>> [[Not now, not ever.|6.r.div.sac.loop.a]]

Boredom, you could handle; you'd long ago found your own horrid little coping mechanism in daydreaming about the future, pretending that you were already on the other side of the great tedium, and that all your perceptions were just a particularly vivid memory. one that could be weathered. It worked better than it should, even if you were doing little more than wasting time with your imagination. This, you could not weather, this tedious suffering did not end, no matter how many times you tried to splinter your mind into an idyllic future, the distraction never lasted. Countless hours or days or seconds could pass, and you always found yourself once again in the same moment. Stuck. Eyes open, eyes shut, still there. You didn't remember crying, but your cheeks and eyelids stung, rubbed raw with tears. Your sole comfort was that your hand seemed to have stopped bleeding; it was pressed against your shirt, and you half feared that trying to check would tear the fabric away and sever whatever sticky clot had managed to form. Sourly, you wished Guinefort's awful ritual could have at least cauterized the wound. They'd called it //integration//, with little explanation offered. You tasted the word, rolling it around on your tongue to dissect its meaning. Integrate. Integral. What did it mean to absorb an angel? Which of your limbs or organs did it occupy? Did it still think? Could it still hear commands? Even a devoured memory could be altered. You cringed and shied away from the thought. Free will was starting to feel like all you had, and losing even a shred of it was daunting. You inhaled, instead, then exhaled. Wrestling control of your breathing away from the subconscious part of your brain was at least a little soothing, a reminder that //something// was still within your power. It hurt, of course, your lungs still full of angel shrapnel, but at least it was your own pain, inflicted of your own accord. There was nothing for the hunger, though, or the raw nausea it brought along. There was no telling how long you sat in that corner. The halo never flickered, never pulsed. Its light simply //was//, just six degrees out of your vision and still bright enough to strain. [[It was time.|6.r.halo.0]] <<if $Sanity gte 75>>[[You could take it, and not consume it.|6.r.san.vault.take]]<<else>>[[You could take it, and not consume it.|6.r.san.vault.take]]<</if>> [[Not now, not ever.|6.r.san.vault.loop.a]]

"Let's go," you said, and Ira wasted no time. They half-turned, watching to make sure you didn't hesitate, and proceeded back down the dark hallway. <<if hasVisited ("6.r.i.yes")>>You clutched the wrapped halo to your chest, pinning it with your broken arm, and followed. <<else>>You clutched your broken arm to your chest, and followed.<</if>> They spoke as you went, and though any noise made you nervous of being caught, you found yourself grateful and grounded by it. The kindest, most human thing you'd experienced in who knew how long. "We've all been so worried about you," they said, fixing you with a look of concern. "I had to force that Val of yours to get some sleep before $vthey passed out. I think your priest friend may have just drugged $vthem in the end." "Where is everyone? I can't believe you came by yourself." "They're waiting above. It was less conspicuous this way. It's much easier for me to blend in with the Faithful than Constantine or even Kat. And none of them would be able to counter any Magic involved." "So you snuck in?" "Yes," Ira admitted with a slight smile. "It wasn't too hard; I know a thing or two about blasphemy and over-enthusiasm. And they're all so secretive, it seems like they don't all know each other's faces." "There's a Saint, too," you warned, and they nodded. "Saint Guinefort." "I know. It took some research to figure out which one, but the list of Saints missing-in-action is fortunately very, very small. They're at prayer right now, so we should be safe. Oh, look there!" Ira paused, and pointed. The endless gray of the hall was lightening, a soft yellow glow spilling across the floor from around the next corner. Relief fluttered in your chest. It was warm and steady, not like that of a lantern or candle. Could it be daylight? Fuck, you missed the sun. "We're almost there," Ira whispered, and you quickened your pace after them. [[Continue.|6.r.ira.5]]

"Let's go," you said, and Constantine wasted no time. $cHe half-turned, watching to make sure you didn't hesitate, and proceeded back down the dark hallway. <<if hasVisited ("6.r.i.yes")>>You clutched the wrapped halo to your chest, pinning it with your broken arm, and followed. <<else>>You clutched your broken arm to your chest, and followed.<</if>> $cHe spoke as you went, and though any noise made you nervous of being caught, you found yourself grateful and grounded by it. The kindest, most human thing you'd experienced in who knew how long; it was a surprise, coming from Constantine, for certain, but you didn't question it. "You'll be happy to know you've caused a big fucking commotion. Turns out Val's even more insufferable //without// you, and Klaus and Kat Saxon managed to tolerate each other long enough to track the Faithful down, so congratulations, I guess." "Where is everyone? Why's it just you?" "Waiting above, mostly. Too risky to send more than one person. Though Ira's around here somewhere, pretending to be one of those cult freaks to keep an eye out. It's eerie how well they blended in. It helps that the Faithful are so secretive they don't know each other on sight." "There's a Saint, too," you warned, and $che nodded. "Saint Guinefort." "I know. Val was able to describe them, and Klaus figured it out pretty quick. Not that there's a whole lot of missing-in-action Saints running around. But if I timed it right, they're at prayer right now. Should be safe from that pious fucker. Oh, finally-" Constantine paused, and pointed. The endless gray of the hall was lightening, a soft yellow glow spilling across the floor from around the next corner. Relief fluttered in your chest. It was warm and steady, not like that of a lantern or candle. Could it be daylight? Fuck, you missed the sun. "We're almost there," $che said in a hushed tone, and you quickened your pace after $chim. [[Continue.|6.r.ira.5]]

"Let's go," you said, and Klaus wasted no time. He half-turned, watching to make sure you didn't hesitate, and proceeded back down the dark hallway. <<if hasVisited ("6.r.i.yes")>>You clutched the wrapped halo to your chest, pinning it with your broken arm, and followed. <<else>>You clutched your broken arm to your chest, and followed.<</if>> He spoke as you went, and though any noise made you nervous of being caught, you found yourself grateful and grounded by it. The kindest, most human thing you'd experienced in who knew how long. It suprised you, coming from Klaus, but you weren't going to complain. "Don't let it go to your head, but you've had everyone all very concerned. I've never seen Val so serious, or so cooperative with Constantine. Maybe you should go missing more often." "Where is everyone? I can't believe you came by yourself." "They're waiting above. Your priestess friend might have also been able to blend in with the Faithful, but I wasn't confident they'd be able to handle themself if anything went wrong. And don't sound so shocked- I'm not a damn choir boy, you know." "So you snuck in?" "Yes," he admitted, the slightest of smug smiles shining through. "It wasn't that hard. I can talk circles around any cultist about theology; the only challenge was sounding just enough like a heretical idiot to pass. Anyway, they're all so secretive it seems like they don't know each other's faces." "There's a Saint, too," you wared. "Saint Guinefort." He hestiated, just a moment. "I know. Don't worry about them, they're at prayer. They always were strict on piety. Oh- thank fuck, there we go-" Klaus stopped, and pointed. The endless gray of the hall was lightening, a soft yellow glow spilling across the floor from around the next corner. Relief fluttered in your chest. It was warm and steady, not like that of a lantern or candle. Could it be daylight? Fuck, you missed the sun. "We're almost there," he whispered, and you quickened your pace after him. [[Continue.|6.r.klaus.5]]

"Let's go," you said, and Kat wasted no time. She half-turned, watching to make sure you didn't hesitate, and proceeded back down the dark hallway. <<if hasVisited ("6.r.i.yes")>>You clutched the wrapped halo to your chest, pinning it with your broken arm, and followed. <<else>>You clutched your broken arm to your chest, and followed.<</if>> She spoke as you went, and though any noise made you nervous of being caught, you found yourself grateful and grounded by it. The kindest, most human thing you'd experienced in who knew how long. Something in her tone betrayed the fact she was doing it on purpose, but you weren't about to complain. "Everyone's been so worried, doll, I hope you know that," she said. "Every waking moment was spent trying to find you. That Val of yours has hardly taken a moment to breathe since the moment you vanished, and even our dearest Handmaiden put aside his work for your cause." "Where is everyone? Did you really come on your own?" "They're waiting above. Seemed far too risky to send a whole troop swarming these foul little rabbit warrens. Being places I shouldn't and looking like someone I'm not is my specialty, after all. No one else was going to get as far as I could, and did." "So you snuck in?" "Of course, doll," she said with a gleeful grin. "It was easy as pie. These little zealots are so over-secretive they don't even know each other's faces. Bit paranoid, if you ask me, though I suppose they clearly have a right to be." "There's a Saint, too," you warned. "Saint Guinefort." "I know. Ira and Klaus were able to put their heads together to figure out which one. Not that the list of suspects is particularly long. But anyway, the spooky thing's off doing its prayers. I have no intention of a surprise meeting. Oh, //fantastic//, look at that-" Kat paused, and pointed. The endless gray of the hall was lightening, a soft yellow glow spilling across the floor from around the next corner. Relief fluttered in your chest. It was warm and steady, not like that of a lantern or candle. Could it be daylight? Fuck, you missed the sun. "We're almost there," Kat whispered, smiling, and you quickened your pace after her. [[Continue.|6.r.kat.5]]

"Let's go," you said, and Val wasted no time. $vThey half-turned, watching to make sure you didn't hesitate, and proceeded back down the dark hallway. <<if hasVisited ("6.r.i.yes")>>You clutched the wrapped halo to your chest, pinning it with your broken arm, and followed. <<else>>You clutched your broken arm to your chest, and followed.<</if>> $vThey spoke as you went, and though any noise made you nervous of being caught, you found yourself grateful and grounded by it. The kindest, most human thing you'd experienced in who knew how long. "Everyone's been so worried," $vthey admitted breathlessly. "//I've// been so worried. That little priestess Ira had to bully me into getting some sleep. Even Connie's been on the case, with not a single complaint, and if //that's// not a sign of how much you mean to people, I don't know what is." "Are they here?" you asked, if only to cut Val off before $vthey started crying- you could hear the wobble in $vtheir voice. "They're all waiting above. Oh, Ira's down here somewhere dressed like a cultist to keep an eye out. Kinda spooky how well they blended in, but I'm not going to complain. Anyway, we figured the chances were better if there was just one person snooping around, and there was no way I was going to sit back and wait." "You snuck in?" "Yeah," $vthey said. "Hey, this place sucks. It's //awful// down here, the exact kind of place you'd find an evil cult. //And// they all have matching robes? Geez." "What if we run into Guinefort again?" You asked with trepidation. Val shot you a questioning look. "The Saint. That's their name." $vTheir face grayed slightly, but $vthey just shook $vtheir head. "Oh. No, we should be fine. The Saint's off praying or something, that's what Ira's watching for. Oh, fuck yes, look-" Val paused, and pointed. The endless gray of the hall was lightening, a soft yellow glow spilling across the floor from around the next corner. Relief fluttered in your chest. It was warm and steady, not like that of a lantern or candle. Could it be daylight? Fuck, you missed the sun. "We're almost there," Val whispered, and you quickened your pace after $vthem. [[Continue.|6.r.val.5]]

Two, three turns later, the light reinforcing itself with every step, you passed through a doorway that spilled into something far larger. It was almost jarring, to go from the cramped passages to this great expanse. Your hopes of bursting on to the surface were crushed, and quickly replaced with trepidation. The glow was a bonfire, burning bright and inexplicable in the center of the yawning cavern. There was no fuel or source that you could see, it simply burned. Distantly, it struck you as a miracle, but you were far more concerned with the figures dotting the room. Robed, hooded, masked, all in white and gray. Maybe a dozen, probably more. Some held runes - you could feel the perfect balance of their distribution, lacing the air with a powerful song - others were empty-handed. They all simply stood, waiting like chorus in the wings of a theatre. "What the hell?" you breathed, turning to Kat. They regarded the scene evenly, with no surprise or concern. "Kat, what is this?" "The way out." Her response was brief, factual, and before you could question it, she moved foward, towards the raging fire. You met her at its edge, just close enough within the ring of heat to feel your cheeks burn, but not close enough to sweat. Kat looked at you, and smiled. "I don't understand," you said. "I don't know what to do." "It's better not to." You felt her soft hand laid over your own, something hard and cold underneath. Sharp, pressed against her skin, slid between two ribs. Scarlet heat blossomed across your hand. "Ira?" "You're doing so well," she said, with a voice that was not her own. The runes were growing loud, so damn deafening that you strained to hear. "Just be strong a little longer, okay?" The last word was a choke, frothy and wet, but accompanied by an encouraging smile. You only stared dumbly as all her limbs gave out like a discarded doll, and she collapsed at the edge of the bonfire. Golden firelight reflected merrily off the blade half-buried in her chest. It wouldn't //click// in your brain. Kat had simply passed out, and your body refused to move and help them. It was just shock, your inner voice screamed. You hadn't. You //hadn't//. It wasn't real. For a moment you glanced at the other figures in the room, caught between pleading for help and professing your innocence. None moved, or even so much as acknowledged you. And neither did Kat stir, nor you while the flames of the bonfire licked at her edges hungrily, desperate to consume and destroy. Part of you craved its devourment of the evidence of your wickedness. What was the point? How did this help you? It needed to go away. A kind of claustrophobia you'd never known crawled up your throat; the cavern suddenly seemed much smaller than you'd thought- perhaps it was the light, eating at the once mysterious voids? The figures were no closer, but the lines of their unspoken ward grew tighter, vicelike. Or maybe the walls really were closing in. A cavern, then a hall, then a room, then nothing more than a passage. The robed figures were long gone, lost to the reduction of space. [[Just you, the body, and the fire.|6.r.div.sac.1]]

Two, three turns later, the light reinforcing itself with every step, you passed through a doorway that spilled into something far larger. It was almost jarring, to go from the cramped passages to this great expanse. Your hopes of bursting on to the surface were crushed, and quickly replaced with trepidation. The glow was a bonfire, burning bright and inexplicable in the center of the yawning cavern. There was no fuel or source that you could see, it simply burned. Distantly, it struck you as a miracle, but you were far more concerned with the figures dotting the room. Robed, hooded, masked, all in white and gray. Maybe a dozen, probably more. Some held runes - you could feel the perfect balance of their distribution, lacing the air with a powerful song - others were empty-handed. They all simply stood, waiting like chorus in the wings of a theatre. "What the hell?" you breathed, turning to Val. $vThey regarded the scene evenly, with no surprise or concern. "Val, what is this?" "The way out." $vTheir response was brief, factual, and before you could question it, $vthey moved foward, towards the raging fire. You met $vthem at its edge, just close enough within the ring of heat to feel your cheeks burn, but not close enough to sweat. Val looked at you, and smiled. "I don't understand," you said. "I don't know what to do." "It's better not to." You felt $vtheir familiar hand laid over your own, something hard and cold underneath. Sharp, pressed against $vtheir skin, slid between two ribs. Scarlet heat blossomed across your hand. "Val?" "You're doing so well," $vthey said, with a voice that was not $vtheir own. The runes were growing loud, so damn deafening that you strained to hear. "Just be strong a little longer, okay?" The last word was a choke, frothy and wet, but accompanied by an encouraging smile. You only stared dumbly as all $vtheir limbs gave out like a discarded doll, and they collapsed at the edge of the bonfire. Golden firelight reflected merrily off the blade half-buried in $vtheir chest. It wouldn't //click// in your brain. Val had simply passed out, and your body refused to move and help them. It was just shock, your inner voice screamed. You hadn't. You //hadn't//. It wasn't real. For a moment you glanced at the other figures in the room, caught between pleading for help and professing your innocence. None moved, or even so much as acknowledged you. And neither did Val stir, nor you while the flames of the bonfire licked at $vtheir edges hungrily, desperate to consume and destroy. Part of you craved its devourment of the evidence of your wickedness. What was the point? How did this help you? It needed to go away. A kind of claustrophobia you'd never known crawled up your throat; the cavern suddenly seemed much smaller than you'd thought- perhaps it was the light, eating at the once mysterious voids? The figures were no closer, but the lines of their unspoken ward grew tighter, vicelike. Or maybe the walls really were closing in. A cavern, then a hall, then a room, then nothing more than a passage. The robed figures were long gone, lost to the reduction of space. [[Just you, the body, and the fire.|6.r.div.sac.1]]

Two, three turns later, the light reinforcing itself with every step, you passed through a doorway that spilled into something far larger. It was almost jarring, to go from the cramped passages to this great expanse. Your hopes of bursting on to the surface were crushed, and quickly replaced with trepidation. The glow was a bonfire, burning bright and inexplicable in the center of the yawning cavern. There was no fuel or source that you could see, it simply burned. Distantly, it struck you as a miracle, but you were far more concerned with the figures dotting the room. Robed, hooded, masked, all in white and gray. Maybe a dozen, probably more. Some held runes - you could feel the perfect balance of their distribution, lacing the air with a powerful song - others were empty-handed. They all simply stood, waiting like chorus in the wings of a theatre. "What the hell?" you breathed, turning to Constantine. $cHe regarded the scene evenly, with no surprise or concern. "Constantine, what is this?" "The way out." $cHis response was brief, factual, and before you could question it, $che moved foward, towards the raging fire. You met $chim at its edge, just close enough within the ring of heat to feel your cheeks burn, but not close enough to sweat. Constantine looked at you, and smiled. It set you immediately on edge. "I don't understand," you said. "I don't know what to do." "It's better not to." You felt $chis calloused hand laid over your own, something hard and cold underneath. Sharp, pressed against $chis skin, slid between two ribs. Scarlet heat blossomed across your hand. "Constantine?" "You're doing so well," $che said, with a voice that was not their own. The runes were growing loud, so damn deafening that you strained to hear. "Just be strong a little longer, okay?" The last word was a choke, frothy and wet, but accompanied by an encouraging smile. You only stared dumbly as all #chis limbs gave out like a discarded doll, and $che collapsed at the edge of the bonfire. Golden firelight reflected merrily off the blade half-buried in $chis chest. It wouldn't //click// in your brain. Constantine had simply passed out, and your body refused to move and help them. It was just shock, your inner voice screamed. You hadn't. You //hadn't//. It wasn't real. For a moment you glanced at the other figures in the room, caught between pleading for help and professing your innocence. None moved, or even so much as acknowledged you. And neither did Constantine stir, nor you while the flames of the bonfire licked at $chis edges hungrily, desperate to consume and destroy. Part of you craved its devourment of the evidence of your wickedness. What was the point? How did this help you? It needed to go away. A kind of claustrophobia you'd never known crawled up your throat; the cavern suddenly seemed much smaller than you'd thought- perhaps it was the light, eating at the once mysterious voids? The figures were no closer, but the lines of their unspoken ward grew tighter, vicelike. Or maybe the walls really were closing in. A cavern, then a hall, then a room, then nothing more than a passage. The robed figures were long gone, lost to the reduction of space. [[Just you, the body, and the fire.|6.r.div.sac.1]]

Two, three turns later, the light reinforcing itself with every step, you passed through a doorway that spilled into something far larger. It was almost jarring, to go from the cramped passages to this great expanse. Your hopes of bursting on to the surface were crushed, and quickly replaced with trepidation. The glow was a bonfire, burning bright and inexplicable in the center of the yawning cavern. There was no fuel or source that you could see, it simply burned. Distantly, it struck you as a miracle, but you were far more concerned with the figures dotting the room. Robed, hooded, masked, all in white and gray. Maybe a dozen, probably more. Some held runes - you could feel the perfect balance of their distribution, lacing the air with a powerful song - others were empty-handed. They all simply stood, waiting like chorus in the wings of a theatre. "What the hell?" you breathed, turning to Klaus. He regarded the scene evenly, with no surprise or concern. "Klaus, what is this?" "The way out." His response was brief, factual, and before you could question it, he moved foward, towards the raging fire. You met him at its edge, just close enough within the ring of heat to feel your cheeks burn, but not close enough to sweat. Klaus looked at you, and smiled. It made you uneasy. "I don't understand," you said. "I don't know what to do." "It's better not to." You felt his gentle hand laid over your own, something hard and cold underneath. Sharp, pressed against his skin, slid between two ribs. Scarlet heat blossomed across your hand. "Klaus?" "You're doing so well," he said, with a voice that was not his own. The runes were growing loud, so damn deafening that you strained to hear. "Just be strong a little longer, okay?" The last word was a choke, frothy and wet, but accompanied by an encouraging smile. You only stared dumbly as all his limbs gave out like a discarded doll, and he collapsed at the edge of the bonfire. Golden firelight reflected merrily off the blade half-buried in his chest. It wouldn't //click// in your brain. Klaus had simply passed out, and your body refused to move and help them. It was just shock, your inner voice screamed. You hadn't. You //hadn't//. It wasn't real. For a moment you glanced at the other figures in the room, caught between pleading for help and professing your innocence. None moved, or even so much as acknowledged you. And neither did Klaus stir, nor you while the flames of the bonfire licked at his edges hungrily, desperate to consume and destroy. Part of you craved its devourment of the evidence of your wickedness. What was the point? How did this help you? It needed to go away. A kind of claustrophobia you'd never known crawled up your throat; the cavern suddenly seemed much smaller than you'd thought- perhaps it was the light, eating at the once mysterious voids? The figures were no closer, but the lines of their unspoken ward grew tighter, vicelike. Or maybe the walls really were closing in. A cavern, then a hall, then a room, then nothing more than a passage. The robed figures were long gone, lost to the reduction of space. [[Just you, the body, and the fire.|6.r.div.sac.1]]

"Yeah," you say with a groan. "It says you should kill yourself." //"Do not mock,"// the Saint replies with an eerie calm. //"One day that may be the truth, and you will regret the wasted words."// You cough, every inch of you still reeling from the phantom pains. "Shut //up//. I don't want to hear any of your goddamn //wise words// or melodramatic //bullshit//. I swear on your fucking God Beneath I am going to end your life." //"You need rest, Io. I will ask no more of you today, or even tomorrow."// "Don't act like such a..." you stumble. "Well, like such a fucking Saint." The anger in you has not dulled; if you can foster it, draw on it, maybe you can survive this. //"You do not know Sainthood,"// they said. //"But I am also not your enemy. We both serve the same God."// You turn your gaze on them once more, finally pausing to take in the details. Still a wraith, still a manifestation of shadow and silence. But for a moment, you see the weave of their veil, the stitch marks in the long-destroyed embroidery, and you wonder by what hand those threads were placed. That veil was made for Guinefort, crafted over dozens if not hundreds of hours, just to rest against their masked face. And even through whatever led them down this path, they have clung to it. They are just as exhausted as you. "So let me rest." [[End of demo.]]