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| The Adventure of the Unsinkable Sky Vessel; Introduction Case | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Apr 25 2016, 12:11 PM (519 Views) | |
| WhiteLycan | Jun 22 2016, 10:46 PM Post #11 |
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Can you feel it, Mr. Krabs?
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It was time to leave. Staying in one corner would certainly attract attention more than moving around and looking like you had business to go about. Though for Claire, the only business she had was averting suspicion. The small, curly haired woman turned heel and found herself face to, well... chest, with a rather intimidatingly statured man. One with a deathly vibe, and a penchant for blood. The Baron himself, and she was impeding his walk! Caught up in the moment, Claire couldn't shake herself from the momentary enthrallment of his presence, let alone realize that her glasses were bumped askew. Rather, as she was now, she was a turkey, oblivious to reason as she just... fixated. |
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| Sun Tzu | Jun 23 2016, 03:14 PM Post #12 |
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Pay no attention to the handsome and ageless rock star hiding behind the couch!
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Catherine A hodgepodge of other nobles, neerdowells and of course, a surprising number of orphans crewing the titanic vessel boarded in short order. If Catherine's mathematics was correct, and it was always correct, something like half the orphan population of London and about thirty percent of the wealth was on board this ship in the shape of its various patrons, not to mention the revolutionary technologies that were obviously responsible for keeping the behemoth afloat. And certainly not the object of a monomaniacal obsession on her part. How and why the Count had arranged these particular conditions was beyond her, especially since nothing she had seen or heard about this vessel from the construction team suggested it wouldn't burst into flames if submerged in water. In fact, while the Count might have been an oddball, and never had there been a more understated use of the term, even he was unlikely to be this irresponsible. ... A niggling doubt began to make itself known at the back of her head. And when she had a niggling doubt, well... Sulvain Sulvain's assumptions are in fact quite correct. The assassin order does dress exactly like him, is composed mostly of Avians, and they are on the lookout for someone exactly like him. So it shouldn't have been a great surprise, given the great vantage range of the eyes of a falcon, that Rekhyt caught him in a sweeping gaze, narrowed his glare, and is now making a swift advance upon his position. You could easily take comfort in the fact that your untimely demise will be the sole talking point on the voyage across. You'll be the talk of high society, because it's not every day that a prototype cruiser has someone violently murdered in the middle of the day upon its inaugural launch. No, I wouldn't be particularly reassured either. Whatever brief preparations you want to make are entirely too late as well, it would appear that in the course of these narrative deliberations he has grabbed you by the arm in a talon, and pulled you deeper into the shadows. He opens his beak, and you brace yourself for what will undoubtedly be an interminably pretentious monologue about something or another before he grants the release of death. If such were your thoughts on the matter however, they couldn't be more wrong. 'It reassures me to see another brother of the dark paths here on this vessel. You stood in the open to allow me to find you, and it was a wise course of action.' The falcon man speaks perfect English, although with an accent originating somewhere in the Upper Nile. 'It pains me brother... that an impostor should infiltrate our noble ranks, killing those whom our shadowy destiny promised to our blades!' He looks at you like a comrade in arms, grins, if such a thing is possible with a beak, and claps you heartily on the back. 'True followers of the faith such as we will find the infiltrator, and make him regret his birth!' It would appear that somehow, someway, he has managed to put two and two together to come up with a number that cannot be expressed with conventional mathematics. For the moment, he believes you one of his order, perhaps sent to aid him in hunting down the dangerous criminal lunatic that you clearly are in the eyes of everyone except ironically, your own assassin. Not-Naira Mikhailovna Mihailovich Walking face first into vampires is something that is usually included at the end of a mission report, preceded by disclaimers that events within have not been fabricated, and concluded with a recommendation for stricter hiring policies. Fortunately for you, you have ran into Baron Gunderbald Ashcroft, Vampire Lord and Liege Lord of the Magical County Nottavillaine, Seventh Archmagus of the Council of Vagaries, and paying member of the British Museum. The Baron is barely ruffled by the impact of you running into him. You could attribute that to magical powers, or the fact that he is seven foot tall, built like a champion boxer, and possessor of a remarkably firm centre of gravity. Your impact serves only to slightly displace his cravat, his first reaction being to readjust it, and to draw his attention to you. The man reaches out his hand, and from the serving platter of some urchin or another, a glass of Chianti soon finds it's way into his grasp to be swirled. 'I think, Fraulein, that you would be better served observing your movements than the contents of that grimoire.' A thick Germanic accent is no barrier to understanding him. He looks down upon you with crimson eyes, which is both the product of his nobility, and his tremendous height. 'You eye me with wariness. Fear not. Among my subjects, the savage act of draining the blood of the living is in the past. Not that my... comtemporary... over there would agree.' It sounded as if it almost physically pained him to refer to Catherine in any sense at all. Perhaps this is a good moment to make conversation with the Baron. Ruffling a man's cravat is amongst the foulest of crimes after all. Rudolf As an Engineer, despite your manifest work on the ship being of the highest quality and to the most exacting standards of your profession, one thing should be tremendously abundant. This vessel shouldn't be able to fly. All the rules that you meticulously learned over the course of your apprenticeship say that the chances of this vessel taking off into the air are, to quote the official technical term, a steaming pile of utter bollocks. Except it has flown. You've seen it fly. Granted, it wasn't far, and it wasn't for long, but come on. A quick review of the principles, of which you are obviously aware and follow like your personal creed handed down by the blazing hand of God, the singular and the almighty. 1. Airships are powered by proven Zeppelin technology, a combination of lighter than air gases trapped within a large balloon, powered by propellers. 2. Airships are enhanced by a tremendous device known as the Van Graff relay, created by Charlotte Loiselle, which drains a low level background level of aether in the air to create a level of acceleration and lift which turns airships from slow moving balls of gas waiting for a spark to kill everyone, into moderately swift moving balls of aether, targets for anything that seeks magic out for a source of sustenance. The price we pay for progress. 3. The square cube law means that as a thing gets bigger, the amount of energy required to make it move anywhere increases exponentially. You reckon, and when you reckon on mechanical matters, it's usually right, that if there was a Van Graff relay big enough to move this thing, which is roughly the size of a cathedral, every magic using being within at least fifteen miles should be dead. In the first ten seconds of its operation. Yet they're not. Quite perplexing. |
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| WhiteLycan | Jun 23 2016, 04:47 PM Post #13 |
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Can you feel it, Mr. Krabs?
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To this, "Claire" just simply blinked. The expression amplified by her exaggerated oculars. Gotta keep up the bluff! "Grandma?" She suddenly blurted. All too quickly, she decided to press this false persona upon him, mustering up the best facsimile of a Scott's accent she could muster. "Ye swivin' blind? Ah'll 'ave ye kneh Ah'm ownleh twenny tew." This is followed by an upturn of the nose and a 'harrumph'. Perhaps the greatest atrocity this day would be that feign of her adopted persona. Claire's arms folded her book close to her chest, obscuring the battered brown cover, made of stretched out skin. Whether it was animal, human, or something else... one couldn't quite say. But the count certainly pegged it as a book that purveys occult rites in great detail. A sidelong glance trained on him. "...Lady Claire o' clan MacBennet iffin' it pleases ye." Edited by WhiteLycan, Jun 24 2016, 01:02 PM.
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| Mezeryn | Jun 24 2016, 10:21 AM Post #14 |
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From the shadows... DOOM
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Sulvain, his emerald gaze a mere inches away from the avian addressing him from the hallway, is expressionless as he computes newfound knowledge. "Arianna Delores Elizabeth Arsteaux wasn't sick. I wasn't attempting to cure an illness, and... that's why I couldn't. My mother was poisoned." His eyes slowly narrow, but the wide-eyed visage of his crow mask remains looking as deathly as regular, as a pit forms in his stomach - a gnawing bud that would culminate into a hatred fierce indeed - that he knew would inspire killing. Killing, which came so easy to the order he impersonates. Apparently he'd adopt more of their mannerisms than he expected. Getting away from his bounty, and to the great Americas was no longer his number one goal on this vessel, he decided in this moment. His voice comes out guttural through the filter his mask gave it. "Yes, my brother -" he raises a gloved hand to the grate, and if only visible in that it blocked the green glow, and forms the obscure, but not-too-obscure open handsign indicative of the order, thumb jutting out with his small and pointer fingers bent as far inward as could be. "- Salutations to you as well, a fine eye you boast to enshrine me with such pertinent attention. I beg, though, I dwell in this wall not without purpose. Pray not for you to draw attention upon me, and cast in the plebeian dirt the reputation of our established guild that only one of is needed for a mark. This ingrate, posing as us would derive only satisfaction from the knowledge of drawing two of us to ensure the missions' success..." As he rambles on to enrapture the avian's attention, his eyes behind the mask continue surveying, noting the unpracticed accentuation of a smallish woman who'd disrupted Ashcroft's stroll. Three or so passerby have noted the avian who seems to be completely obsessed with whatever air circulation might be traveling through the grate, and all the better for it. Nobody would miss a fool. "... hereto we shall discuss further, upon our timely rendezvous on the hand one and one half hours past the grand ship's final ascension. Look for my shadow on thine own in the bowels of this vessel and we shall usurp the shame rife in our target's heart." Even behind the wall, he flashes once again the handsign of the avian's familiarity, before turning and vanishing behind the pipes and gauges of the wall, moving like a flickering wisp of shadow. Edited by Mezeryn, Jun 24 2016, 10:22 AM.
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Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana! DLC Vyrrin Combat Rolls Siegmund 'Fighter' - Lv 2 Character Tekteks that one weird character dress-up thing Jak showed everybody (has anybody else gotten the image files working?)
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| Adonan | Jun 25 2016, 01:57 AM Post #15 |
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OH MY GOSH A FLYING SHOPPING LIST
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The time afforded by Rudolf to ponder the feasibility of our mechano-magical monstrosity deepens his concern. If the Van Graff relay truly is big enough to hoist this ship into the air, then its operation should indeed have caused the deaths of all of these magical creatures and more. But if they still live, what does that say about the relay meant to make this journey possible? He scratches his chin, standing with the door to the passenger wing shut behind him. He lowers his head and treks a few paces into the corridor, catching the handle of a mostly-blank steel door and slinking into the darker corridor within. When he was young(er), Rudolf adored the glitter of the luxury crafts that his parents could afford to take him on, but as he grew older and became more familiar with the school of engineering, his fondness instead lent itself to what lay behind the curtain, the dark and filthy (and, in this day and age, whirring and metallic) underbellies of great innovative beasts that made beauty on the surface possible. Today, he found himself in such an underbelly, a grated pathway with pipes and machinery on either side, hardly wide enough for two people to walk side-by-side. The vents by the passenger wing are found to his right; the Van Graff relay should be found after a considerable plunge toward the left, not quite in the turbine chambers but rather between them and a little closer to the center. He starts his trek, shutting the door tightly behind him. It's possible that the device experienced complications at some point in the activation process, and it certainly wouldn't be a bad idea to check it out. * * * In our familiar starboard turbine room, the fresh team of engineers briefed to make the journey to the New World have all familiarized themselves with the situation. One or two bring up hearsay about the Van Graff relay necessitating the deaths of all magical creatures within a fifteen mile radius but who can really say for sure, etc. A handsome, inappropriately well-dressed man who's made the concerted effort to conceal his face, stands up from where he has been seated for, just, the longest time. He leaves everything as is - tools strewn about, interface panels thrown open - and casually strolls for the door. Hermann has now devoted effort half to his job and half to monitoring this strange specimen. He swears that he has heard him count rhythms, hum melodies, and even mutter catchphrases to himself. This time, when he walks by, he hears the man say, lowly and chillingly: "This is my cue." Strange. Kind of concerning. It occurs to Hermann, that it really wouldn't surprise him that much if he wasn't just an uncomfortable oddball, but also some kind of sick deviant - well, unfailingly, his accent indicates that he's American. He assures himself that catching a ride back to the Old World is the right decision. |
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| Sun Tzu | Jul 4 2016, 07:02 AM Post #16 |
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Pay no attention to the handsome and ageless rock star hiding behind the couch!
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Sulvain Some might argue that Sulvain made a critical error at this point, because while Rekhyt is a member of the assassin's order, no one else in the order actually talks like him. Due to the same levels of complete self-delusion that prompt him to talk like a prat however, he doesn't pick up on this glaring disparity. Rudolf Rudolf's progress towards where the Van Graff relay should theoretically be with regards to this very large airship is barred by the most sinister device known to man - A veritable bastion of a door, several feet thick, constructed of reinforced steel. If Rudolf had planned ahead and brought a quality piece of artillery down here with him, and managed to negate the laws of time and space such that he could set it up, perhaps he could cause enough damage to sufficiently take a chip off of it's reinforced hinge. This is in effect, a very anti-social door, a door that's informing you in no subtle terms that, why no, you aren't supposed to be down here, and you're not getting to see what's past it. Further compounding this very unwelcoming atmosphere is a man standing in front of the doorway. You could mistake him for a member of the kitchen staff, for he is dressed in a bespoke suit and does have the unmistakable air of the servant class about him. A young man roughly in his twenties, with a pair of glasses and a generally demure atmosphere about him. He appears to be talking to thin air, although closer inspection would reveal a small device in his hand pressed against his ear. 'Ma'am, for the last time, eager though you are to discuss matters, I find it imprudent to vocalize such things out loud. No, everything is prepared. Yes, I shall be up in a moment.' The man clasps the device shut, and it seems to vanish from his hand in a swift movement. 'As soon as we figure out what to do with you my dear fellow. Does the Count not pay you enough to encourage you to keep your mind out of his affairs?' Such a polite man. Naira The Baron appears to reassure himself that Scotland is a land of numerous accents, and just because he hasn't heard this particular specimen before is no reason to get annoyed. Indeed, he samples a piece of the hors d'oeuvres brought over at that particular moment, and just to be boss, specifically selects out the one containing garlic and partakes of it with no visible discomfort. In fact, he even seems to have an air of minty freshness afterwards. We are busting some myths here today, if only pertaining to Baron Ashcroft at this particular moment. 'You will excuse me if I have not heard of the Clan Bennet. I am no often called to Scottish climes. I am intrigued however. You are, with some exceptions, one of the few magical signatures I can detect on this ship.' His gaze appears to narrow, and he makes a pointed glare in Catherine's direction. 'If I catch wind of some sort of bias against my people...' 'Oh here we go, always oppression isn't it? My God, don't you turn off for one second, you undead hack?' Catherine appears to be interjecting herself into the conversation for some mysterious reason, which I'm sure is rational. 'Your 'Ministry' is a blight against our common purpose. Though this is a cruise Huntsworth, if I catch wind of any impropriety on your part, I will not hesitate to use the full scope of my powers to...' You may catch the gist that he believes you to be part of the Ministry like Catherine. Catherine rolls her eyes. 'Oh please, what power do you have over me?' 'The fact that I have the ear of Victoria, and that she utterly despises you, even more than Gladstone.' 'For the last time, His Majesty coming back as the shambling undead and rampaging through Canary Wharf was not my fault!' Utterly unrelated to this fascinating conversation, the kid from before is serving various nobles. Quite quickly actually. You seem to catch her out of the corner of your eye at various points in the tirade, and each time dealing with a different nobleman. How efficient the service on this ship is. |
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| WhiteLycan | Jul 4 2016, 04:49 PM Post #17 |
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Can you feel it, Mr. Krabs?
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Magical, he described? 'Yerunda!' But "Claire" couldn't let her cover be so easily subdued... Aha! The 'clanswoman' decided to relinquish one guise for another, a hand rising up to slap upon her cheek. Therein, she did her best to put on a girlish expression of flattery. "Magical, ye say? Well, by me papa's plaided kilt, don' ye kneh 'ow t' lay down th' charm! 'Fraid we o' Clan MacBennet are made o' sterner ore in'nat, though, so ye'll 'ave te esscuse meh when I say-" Then came the interloper, cutting in with her own piece! Rude! Though... not unwelcome. "Claire" would use this distraction to further stow the occult tome. Out of sight, out of mind. But now that he mentioned it... there was one intuition the woman beneath the guise couldn't ignore. Just a tingling sense- One that only grew more acute over the years of her 'extracurricular' study. For see, starting at a tender age, her tutor may have been many things. A raving drunk, a beguiling conman, paranoid of cats, but most central to his character, and where the young lass found herself now, was that he too, practiced an art that most of the modern world took as a profane slap in the face of religious ethic. During the time of her study beneath him, the girl found that religion had very little to do with it. Rather, her magic fielded more into the territory of archaic math and science- the most esoteric workings in the bygone age of flourishing alchemy. The science of deducing and dissecting the trasmundane, and analyzing it's myriad of variables. The ability to harness and utilize things of a paranormal persuasion, much to precise effect. Or if you were to ask any old inquisitor of God's faith... witchcraft. Regardless, "Claire's" time dabbling with such arts afforded her a certain refinery when it came to the sense of what's normal, and what rates more into the variable outliers. The Count, who was now engaged with his banter duel against the woman certainly presented an anomaly amongst the many passengers. In fact, "Claire" up until this point supposed it was the nature of the machinistry that would see the Titanberg take it's flight; it's engines beginning to power on and such. But no- now that she stood back, and really brought her attention to the fore, his was the source of this energy she could feel. The fact that his verbal sparring partner had mentioned his state of being 'undead' also explained things, she supposed. In fact, the aura he generated almost stifled other presences when the two were in close contact. With a wider picture now present however, other senses didn't escape notice. There were, of course, the passengers, but they were but dim flickers in comparison to herself and the count. There was one candle that shone brighter than the rest though. Oddly enough, it was the orphan servant, efficiently providing refreshments for the passengers aboard. An oddity for certain. Usually, when one's own magical presence grew, it was with age, and tempering. No doubt, that was why hers could be sensed by Ashcroft above others. She'd been honing it for a while, to the point where it could effect the material. But even then, amongst those who's auras remained feint and dull, there were the sorts with a latent potential. Regardless of this, "Claire" felt the need to make herself scarce, and quickly. The vessel hadn't even taken flight, and this had become a turbulent ride. She couldn't risk any more of her identity being inadvertently called into question. A final glance lingering upon the two, before "Claire MacBennet" silently excused herself. Edited by WhiteLycan, Jul 4 2016, 05:03 PM.
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| Sun Tzu | Jul 22 2016, 05:08 PM Post #18 |
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Pay no attention to the handsome and ageless rock star hiding behind the couch!
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Naira While debate rages on in the background, you make your excuses, however they fall on deaf ears. As you turn to leave however, as a result of specifically focusing on the girl running about, your keenly attuned powers of perception become aware of a slight discrepancy in her actions. There are two reasons to suspect her. Firstly, no child is that happy to be doing manual labour, even on a sky ship with the promise of a pet in the balance. Privately I would resolve to keep one hand on your personal possessions at all times. The second is that as you turn your attention away from her to make your leave, you receive what is almost the magical equivalent of a slap across the face. Neither Ashcroft nor Catherine seem to have noticed anything. That could mean that you're more perceptive and on the ball than these two, or it could just be that their seething loathing for one another dulls their perception score right now. I'd take the more flattering interpretation myself, but maybe you're more modest than I am. Regardless, a tap on your arm announces that the girl is now standing right next to you, a winning and endearing smile on her face, drinks tray proffered in your direction. You'll be fine. The Russian Nobility have always had a winning way with the working classes. |
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| Adonan | Aug 12 2016, 01:25 PM Post #19 |
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OH MY GOSH A FLYING SHOPPING LIST
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Rudolf manages to remain lodged in his conviction. "I'll have you know that the vocation for which the Count is paying me makes explicit mention of sticking my nose into his affairs. Engineers who don't go below the deck, we refer to as passengers." It has just occurred to Rudolf that he has no way of getting past the door, making his appeal to vocation quite rickety. He would contend that a little intellectual curiosity never hurt anyone, except for maybe a few cats, and considers his options to make his way inside. In a rather unambiguous fashion, he casts his eyes up and down the robe of his keeper. "Though you're clearly no engineer. In fact, you're remarkably far from your post. And you haven't even prepared any hors d'oeuvres for me. If you'd be so kind as to show me into the Relay chamber, we can overlook this little transgression." That'll get him. * * * When once there was a soft, eerie hum, there were now clicks and clangs of rhythmically varying fashion. The sight of a swanky figure skulking down a lowly-lit catwalk would have been enough to take him back to his days as a stagehand, but lately he has found himself on the stage itself, and in the interest of truth, he has come to prefer the performer's life. A series of spinning clicks resounds before a final snap, and the magazine locks itself into the receiver. He holds the contraption, a goofy looking thing, up to the light, and cannot help but grin as the ivory and brass shimmer in his hand. Edited by Adonan, Aug 13 2016, 12:08 PM.
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| WhiteLycan | Aug 23 2016, 12:04 AM Post #20 |
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Can you feel it, Mr. Krabs?
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"Ah-" For once, "Claire" found herself lacking in appropriate response. Usually quick-witted when in her 'zone', this whole subterfuge game was a whole different playing field, and some elements simply had her out beat. Like the girl alarming her with a tap on her arm. The so-called 'student with an interest in American-Indian folklore' shifted her eyes about, and subtly procured one of the offered drinks. She looked down upon the little urchin waitress' face, wondering if that self-same urchin had any idea of the otherworldly aura she was generating. "Claire" herself saw fit to offer a polite smile, turning her head away to take a lady-like swig. If it were at all lady-like to nearly empty a glass in one go. Or to follow up with another that would definitely see the glass drained. It was briskly placed back onto the tray the urchin carried. "Ignore it, 'Claire' told herself. "crossing the Atlantic without a hitch, that's the focus here." She turned her gaze back towards the two who were amidst their duel of tongues. Curiosity. That had always been her crutch. Ever since she were a babe. Arms folded tight against her chest, finger drumming rhythmically into the cloth of her sleeve. "And yet, this...sirota..." "Claire" pulled her lips inward, eyes narrowed behind her specs. She didn't like leaving well enough alone. Nor did she like taking unnecessary risks. Yet, this anomaly demanded it. Certainly, the child could be blissfully ignorant of the aura she were giving off. Then again, trickster spirits, like in the old tales, took many forms. Sometimes even the likeness of children. "Claire" rationed the real risk then, would be leaving well enough alone. For the second time, she cursed under her breath. "Yerunda." She was swift to give pursuit, though trying her best to be discreet as she tailed the curious 'orphan'. |
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