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>>2335608
There’s a throbbing headache when you wake up. Throwing the sheets off your bed, you get up and find yourself having broken into a cold sweat, but it’s not because of what you dreamt; the nightmares weren’t anything new—although one could call them visions from their frightening clarity. No, your real worry comes from the clock on the wall. Without a doubt, you are going to be late.

Forgoing breakfast, you change clothes as fast as you can, grabbing your satchel before you shut the front door and lock it. You hurry down the stone stairs and into the cobblestone roads, wondering what kind of scolding you’ll be receiving today. In the residential district, the buildings are all crowded together, forming awkward, twisting streets that seem to loop and curve all around without reason. No doubt a true testament to the thoughtful architecture of Ristella.

In a pace that’s not quite a walk but not quite a run, your legs take you into the marketplace, past a corner, and right into someone else.

You don’t have any time to react before the man awkwardly tries to sidestep out of the way, resulting in him slamming into your shoulder and sending you spinning. Not quite able to regain your balance, you end up staggering in a daze. You almost fall before a stranger catches you, and you mumble a quiet apology as you get back on your feet.

The other person in that short physical exchange was not so lucky. Your attention directed by the shouts of surprise, you notice that the man, in a desperate attempt to not meet the ground with his face, had crashed into a shop filled with fruits, breaking a shelf and sending countless apples tumbling down and spilling out onto the street.

“Oops,” you mumble, feeling a bit of pity for him. The pain in your shoulder tries to convince you otherwise.

You notice he’s wearing strange clothing, something that’s much less loose and comfortable than what the locals normally wear. Instead, it’s sharper and more rigid, preferring form over function. It’s ceremonial, almost.

You stare at the scene, unsure whether that was your fault or his. With the way that collision happened, you’re sure he was in a hurry as much as you were. Surely, half of the blame lies on him!

...Right?
>Get out of there already!
>You should at least make sure if he’s alright.
>Offer to help pay for the damages.
>Write-in.

>>2335610
>>Get out of there already!

>>2335610
>Get out of there already!

>>2335610
>You should at least make sure if he’s alright.
Glad to see you're back Hopless

>>2335614
>>2335636
Leave

>>2335652
Leave. I wasn't gone for that long, was I?

Writing!

>>2335669
No you were back much sooner than I thought you were gonna be this was a nice surprise

You take one more good look at him before you turn and slide out of growing commotion. As much as you’d like to, you don’t have the time for this. Rubbing your shoulder, you try to work out the pain. There’s a thought that you might have broken something, but then you quickly forget it, as even you’re not that fragile.

Before long, you find yourself outside of the shop. It’s an old, humble building with a sign hanging atop the door. In flaking gold paint, the word “Kaleidoscope” is written neatly. As you push the door open, the bell rings to announce your entrance. Inside, a myriad of trinkets can be seen, spread across the glass counters and shelves on the walls. It’s empty as ever, save for the owner of the place, Professor Mog.

He is, as one might succinctly describe, a giant crow wearing a cloak. Standing a height that’s well over your head, the professor looks at you with his beady eyes. He ruffles his black feathers and says, “Circe, what time is it?!”

You say, quickly walking over, “I know, I’m sorry! I, uh, came across an accident earlier.” Not exactly a lie, so you could say it as earnestly as you can. “Did I miss anything?”

“Yes, I’ve been waiting forever for you!” Every time he moves his head, it’s in sudden and unnerving jerks. You’ve been with him long enough that it’s stopped bothering you, for the most part. He’s behind counter, but he’s fiddling with some sort of wooden cube. Each side is marked differently with the occasional hole or button, and it seems as esoteric as everything else in the shop. “I’ve figured out the puzzle box, but I can’t solve it. Come, lend me your hands for a second.”

“What’s this?” you say, joining him.

“It’s a gift from an old friend. Just do as I say, will you?” Following his instructions, he has you holding the box at it’s side, pressing onto specific points while he looks around. After a moment, the professor, with his beak, pecks at the top, and the box suddenly opens up. Lifting it out of your hands with his mouth, he places it on the counter and pulls out a thin rolled up piece of paper instead. “Ah, there we go! Circe, have you prepared for the expedition tomorrow?”

“I...” you begin to say, thinking deeply, “...believe I have everything. Where are we going, anyways?”

“We?” Professor Mog inquisitively stares at you, “Oh, I’m not going with you.”

You reply, “What?! This was your plan, wasn’t it? What do you mean you’re not going?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll have someone accompanying you in my stead. A recommendation from a friend, the same one who sent me this box, in fact!”

You can’t believe what you’re hearing.
>There’s no way you can go with a total stranger.
>If the professor trusts them, then you guess you have no reason to object.
>Recommendation or not, the professor has to come. It’s his idea.
>Write-in.

>>2335711
>There’s no way you can go with a total stranger.

>>2335741
This

Writing.

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“I don’t think I’m brave enough go with a total stranger,” you say.

Professor Mog shakes his head. “You can’t expect me to keep accompanying you, do you? I’ve grown far too old for travelling by now.” He motions to the puzzle box, “Besides, I don’t exactly have two hands to help you with.”

“Then I’d rather go alone,” you reply, “Who is this ‘recommendation’ anyways?”

“Oh, don’t be so stubborn. He’s someone who can hold his own, I was told. Strangely enough, he was supposed to arrive much earlier. Perhaps he has gotten lost,” the professor muses. “I’ve heard he came all the way from Aldrose—that’s quite the journey.”

The professor’s underselling it; he must have traversed across the entire continent. “He came all the way just for this?” you ask, baffled. “What is he here for really?”

“Why don’t you ask him that yourself?” he says, “Get to know him a little. Perhaps you might even change your mind.”

“I doubt it,” you reply, walking to the backroom.

Putting your stuff down in the makeshift workshop that you share with him, you wonder where you left off yesterday. Although your general job is to help with running the shop, you also have the duty of picking up after the professor’s work and finishing projects. Thankfully, there’s never any real pressure. Even though you work here, you’ve never felt the need to be formal or professional. It’s not surprising considering how the Professor was the one who brought you out of the orphanage. You had bright eyes, or so he said.

As it turns out, you did have a talent for something. You’re...
>an arcanist, proficient with spell circles and old languages.
>a witch, proficient with faeries and evocation.
>an enchanter, proficient with potions and runes.

>>2335799
>a witch, proficient with faeries and evocation.
I don't have a really firm grasp on what some of this stuff entails but she seems like a girl who likes faeries

>>2335799
>a witch, proficient with faeries and evocation.

>>2335813
>>2335815
A witch.

Writing.

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You seemed to excel at being a witch. A bit of a slanderous title, but you can shrug that much off. The aether is the space that fills the heavens, both a medium in which one can communicate with the eidolons above and also a swirling vortex of energies. Familiar with all things born from it, faeries and the evocations of eidolons fall underneath your expertise.

Your latest project, the one you’re working right now, is a familiar, a faerie not made from nature, but from man. It is no easy task to create life, as even the most unversed observer might imagine. You’ve lost track of how many failed attempts you’ve made so far, as they’ve all been recycled to save materials. To find the number in the hundreds would not be surprising.

The smell of smoke drifts into the air, and you yelp before quickly breaking apart the crude mashup of pieces that form the shape of a butterfly. Something’s not clicking with your brain, but you can’t seem to get what. You wonder if you should give up and try to tame something instead.

The bell on the shop door rings, and you pull yourself away from your work for a second.

You hear Professor Mog say, “Welcome—oh why, it’s you!”

A second voice says, “Apologies for my lateness. I was... incredibly disoriented trying to find my way here.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about a thing. My assistant wasn’t too punctual today either.”

That must be your cue. Sighing, you stand up, wondering if you should bother with an excuse at all. Crossing the doorway, you look and find an unexpected sight.

The one with the strange clothing from earlier. You say, “It’s—”

“It’s you!” he says, beating you to it. “You’re the assistant?”

“You’re the recommendation?” you say, not the least bit elated.

He says, “What were you even doing, running around like that?”

“I was not running, I was walking with haste,” you reply, “You were the one who was running. My shoulder is still stinging, you know?!”

“So you fled? At least have the courtesy to see if I was okay,” he shoots back.

“That was your fault,” you reply, “Don’t try to blame me for any of that.”

The professor curiously looks at him, then at you. “Ah, the two of you have already been acquainted, I see. If you don’t mind me asking, where have you met?”

Before you can answer, the man replies, “A couple minutes’ walk from here. We ran into each other, that’s all.”

The professor says, “I see.” His mind wanders for a moment, his thoughts unreadable on his avian face. “Oh, I forgot all about introductions.” Turning to the man, he says, “I’m Professor Mog, but you can call me simply Mog. This is Circe, my assistant.”

“Touryn Cygnus,” he replies, “At your service.”

“Nice to meet you,” you say, out of politeness more than anything. Turning around to grab your things, you begin to walk out of the shop. “Professor, I’m getting a few things. I’ll be right back.”

[1/2]

>>2335893
When you pass Touryn, he turns around to follow you. He says, “I’ll come with you.”

You look at him. “I think I can handle it myself.”

The professor looks at you almost disappointingly, pressuring you almost.

Touryn replies, “I need to make sure you don’t run into anyone else.”

You give him a sharp stare, and he only smirks in return. Oh, you don’t like him already. And from the looks of it, he doesn’t like you either.

What should you do?
>He’s staying.
>You’ll let him come along.
>Write-in.

>>2335906
>He's staying.
Fuck this smug motherfucker

>>2335906
>You’ll let him come along.
If we have to work together we should at least take the high road and try to get along with him

Rolling dice in 5 if tie isn't broken by then.

Rolled 2 (1d2)

>>2335915
Staying = 1

>>2335924
Coming = 2

Writing

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You say, “Hurry up or I’ll leave you behind.”

“Sure will,” he replies.

The marketplace, despite it being found closer to the center of the city, is more open that one would expect after seeing the residential district. The buildings are low and the sky is open.

You take a look around before spotting what you were looking for. Touryn says, “It’s so close.”

“I did say I would be right back,” you reply, “Why did you want to follow me again?”

“I want to know who I’m working for... and with,” he replies offhandedly, looking around.

You step into a shop you’ve rarely been in. It’s cramped, and the shelves are packed with various materials and mixtures. It’s an enchanter’s shop, but you need some of the things here to do any witch work.

Touryn grimaces as he passes a bubbling green potion with a beetle in it. “Is this the type of work you do?”

“Maybe,” you reply, “Sometimes. Why, does it gross you out?”

“I’ve seen worse,” he says. “And I don’t judge. I don’t mess with things I don’t know.”

Almost ignoring him, you opt to recall what you know about faeries instead. Neither limited to the size of a sprite nor to a behemoth like a dragon, the only prerequisite for something to be called a faerie is whether or not patterns emerge naturally on its body, specifically spell circles or runes. Faeries can naturally speak to the eidola using them, which naturally tends to limit how intelligent they can be. A butterfly is the animal you choose to go for. Even if it weren’t for how pleasant they look, their wings are perfect surfaces for circles to take shape.

Nodding to yourself, you purchase a batch of eggs and various mixtures and leave the shop. As you walk out, you recall the conversation you had with the professor.

You say, “You came from Aldrose, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did,” he replies curtly. “You don’t have anything against us, do you?”

“No,” you quickly shake your head, “But, isn’t that far away?”

“It’s not in a soldier’s place to complain,” he replies.

That’s not a real answer.
>”You’re here on duty?”
>”You don’t look like one.”
>”...What are you really here for?”
>”If that’s what you say.”
>Write-in.

>>2336066
>”...What are you really here for?”

>>2336066
>"...What are you really here for?"

>>2336088
>>2336101
This

Writing

He has no markings, badges, emblems, seals, or anything could identify him as a member of any Aldrosian military force, except maybe the style of his clothes.

You can’t help but say, ”...What are you really here for? You’re not in uniform.”

“No, but I have an obligation to uphold,” he replies, “My mentor, Mitra, asked me to come, so here I am.”

You say, looking at him with disbelief, “Someone asked you to cross the continent, and you just do it?”

“Not just someone,” Touryn says, “And if she asked me to climb a mountain, I would do that too.”

“What if she told you to jump off a cliff?”

“I didn’t say I’d do everything,” he replies, giving you an annoyed look.

“So much for being a good soldier,” you say jokingly, savoring his annoyance. “Wait, what does this have to do with being a soldier?”

He frowns. Just as he’s about to speak, loud shouting comes from ahead.

“Thief, thief! Stop him” a low, gravelly voice shouts. After a second, you catch the sight of a small boy with a tail slipping through the crowd. In his hands is a large brown bag with bread visibly sticking out of it. When someone reaches for him, he jumps away with surprising strength and lands on a cloth awning of a store. Not even breaking his stride, he hops back down and continues his escape. Far behind him is a burly man chasing after. You don’t believe for a second that he could catch up.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Touryn with a hand on his scabbard that he’d brought with him. Afraid that he’ll cut someone down, you hiss, “Don’t!”

He frowns, “Relax, trust me.”

You want to stop him, but at the same time, you feel like you shouldn’t. Getting into other people’s business was never your sort of thing anyways.

Keeping his eye on the tailed thief, he casually walks to where the boy is headed. A second passes, and the boy tries to dash around him. Touryn reaches out, and in return, the thief stops and jinks to the other side. With his other hand, Touryn detaches his scabbard from his belt and swings it low, catching his target by the leg. The bread, along with the boy, falls to the ground, and Touryn pins his shirt to the ground with the sheathed sword.

The man who was chasing him finally comes to a halt, saying, “Thanks for that. Damn it, this runt got all the bread dirty.”

[1/2]

>>2336154
You only stand by the side, watching. Some city guards are coming over, almost completely unworried seeing the pace they are arriving at.

The boy is kicking, but there’s no way he’s getting up like that. “Let go of me you bastard! Let go!” He’s wearing rags for clothes, and despite his strength, he clearly looks like he hasn’t been well-fed.

Touryn, talking to the man, says, “What will you do with him?”

He replies, “Hand him over to the state, that’s what. Guess I’ll toss out the bread since I can’t sell it anymore.”

Touryn frowns. As the guards approach, the tailed thief starts struggling harder. He swings his foot at Touryn’s shin, and to his surprise, the pressure on his shirt from the scabbard is relieved just for a moment. Taking that as his chance, the boy grabs what bread is still in the bag, and leaps away from them before anyone can give pursuit.

“Ouch, that hurt,” the swordsman says, making a pained face. You furrow your brow, wishing his acting skills were only a little better.

While the storeowner was cussing out his lungs to the guards, Touryn walks over to you. You say, “What was that?”

“He was one slippery kid,” he replies.

Ignoring that, you say, “Not that. Why did you jump in? If you were going to do... that, then why didn’t you just ignore it in the first place?”

“Someone asked for help, so I followed through,” he says as if it was completely natural.

Without a doubt, you are sure that he’s the type of person who would meddle in the affairs of the eidola just because he thought it would be interesting. You lead the way as you walk back into the professor’s shop, thankful that nothing else happened.

[2/3]

>>2336232
A few hours later, you find yourself being pulled away from your work. The professor and Touryn had been talking about the latter’s travels and about the professor’s friend, or Touryn’s mentor depending on who you’re asking. You approach the, and Professor Mog waves you over with a tremendously large wing.

He says, “Come, we need to talk about the expedition.” He says all of this behind the glass counter, as if no one was going to walk inside the store. It’s probably the correct assumption, but you feel like it’s a poor one to make anyways.

“We’re heading to Blackwell, right?” you say.

Touryn says, “I’m afraid I have no idea where that is.”

The professor replies, “I would be surprised if you do. It’s a small village that’s a small distance away from Ristella.” He glances away for a moment, thinking. “We’ve been hearing reports of a strange faerie bothering the town. From its description, I believe it’s have a rare displaced species!”

“What is it?” Touryn asks.

You reply, “A roc. A bird that can control wind. Personally, I don’t want anything to do with it.”

Professor Mog says, “It’ll be a good experience. Besides, you’re interested in this sort of thing, aren’t you?”

“I’m not interested in getting hurt, no.”

“Oh,” Touryn says, “I guess that’s where I come in.”

You say, “So he’s here to kill it?”

The professor shakes his head. “I’ll leave that up to you. I’m just hoping we’d get one of its feathers. They’re prized, I hear. Actually, I wanted to talk to you about budget.”

“Ah...” you mumble, “Budget.”

Seeing this, Touryn leans forward, confused. “...Huh? What’s wrong?”

Professor Mog replies, “We’ve been on a tight budget lately...”

“I don’t think I’ve seen anyone walking in here all day,” he replies. “Circe, weren’t you buying something a moment ago?”

You reply, “That was my money for lunch.”

“We get by with commissions!” the professor replies, half-cawing, “Anyways, we need to discuss transportation.”

You frown.
>No transportation. Walking will have to do.
>Rent a horse. Just a singular horse.
>You’ll have to go hungry for a while. Find a ride on a wagon.
>Write-in.

>>2336239
>No transportation. Walking will have to do.


Howdy Hopeless, wasn't expecting a new quest from you so soon. I'm looking forward to this!

>>2336239
Is there a fairy/eidolon that can be used as transportation? If not then >>2336248 will do

>>2336248
Hi! I have no self-control.

>>2336259
There are many faeries fit for the job, but tamed ones are more than you can afford. You can try to tame one yourself, but that might take a while. Still, it is a viable option.

>>2336248
Walking!

>>2336259
I'll also count this as walking.

Writing.

>>2336239
>No transportation. Walking will have to do.
FRUGAL
R
U
G
A
L

Your stomach growls, and you grow a little red in embarrassment. “We’ll be walking,” you say. You look at the swordsman, hoping to see some kind of reaction out of him. Maybe one of surprise, or regret for signing up.

He says, “No problem.” Instead, he looks perfectly natural, as if it was a given that you would be walking.

The professor says, “That’s settled. It’s a shame that I wouldn’t be joining the two of you—”

You nod, “What a shame.”

“—But I actually do have pressing matters to attend to. Touryn, I’m entrusting Circe’s safety to you.”

You try to stop yourself from frowning. Maybe he has a point, but you don’t like it at all.

“I can use a sword, but...” Touryn says, “Sorry, I’m not exactly experienced with fighting faeries. What’s the deal with this rock thing?”

“A roc,” you correct.

He looks at you, confused. “That’s what I said.”

“Never mind,” you shake your head, “Rocs are normally hard to find, even if you look in the mountains where they normally live. You would never expect to see one in Ristella, where it’s mostly flatland with the occasional forest.” After saying that, you turn to the professor. “But... why a feather? Don’t you have your own feathers?”

“I don’t want it for myself,” Professor Mog looks at you indignified. Well, as indignified as a crow can look, anyways. “Although, my feathers are lacking in color...” He lifts open his cloak with a wing and peers at his body. Pitch black feathers.

- - -

It has been a day.

Waving to you with a large black wing, Professor Mog says his goodbyes as the guards close the southern gate. Wearing a rather large backpack along with your satchel, you stand outside in the grassy plains beside Touryn. You don’t want to put up with him, but you’ll take the high road and deal with it instead of throwing some childish tantrum.

Touryn is also wearing a small backpack, not even half the size of yours.

You say, walking, “You do know we’ll need to go camping, right?”

“I can sleep on the ground just fine. Solaria’s shined on it, after all,” he says.

“Solaria’s also shines on the things that can eat your face at night,” you retort, “What did you even bring?”

“Food. That’s about it.” He looks at your bag. “What did you bring?”

“...Food, a change of clothes—”

“Why don’t you just wear the same thing?”

You look at him, a bit horrified. “...No?”

He looks at you. Then he shakes his head. “I don’t get you.”

The conversation stops to a still not even that far from the gate. With the wind softly blowing the grassy plains, it truly feels quiet.

You feel like you should say something.
>You want to know more about this soldier thing.
>Inquire about Mitra.
>Tell him something about yourself.
>Say nothing. Bask in the silence.
>Write-in.

>>2336355
>Inquire about Mitra.

>>2336355
>You want to know more about this soldier thing.

>>2336375
Mentor?

>>2336385
Soldier?

Guess I'll do both but only skimmingly. Writing

“You said you had a mentor, right?” you say. A rhetorical question.

“Yes, Mitra,” he replies, “She taught me how to use a sword.”

“I wonder how she and the Professor met,” you wonder out loud.

“She is a drifter,” he says quietly, “I wouldn’t be surprised if they just met in passing.”

You ask, “Was that how you met? In passing?

“She was a former member of the Royal Guard, just like me.”

“...Former?” you say, letting the word roll around your mouth. You weren’t specifically asking about Mitra or him.

“Yes, former. I’ve done my service, even if there was nothing to do. Funny how you shouldn’t wish for war, but what is a soldier good for when there is nothing to fight for?”

You grimace, “Don’t say that. It might actually happen.”

“Are you talking about the Queen?” he says, “I have faith. Solaria will protect her.”

You don’t reply. The King had passed away due to illness, and it seems that the Queen will follow. With no true successor, no one is sure what might happen next. While you grow deeper and deeper in thought, Touryn’s voice brings you out.

“Have you ever been to there?” he says, “To Blankwell.”

“It’s Blackwell,” you say, “I’ve been there a couple times, but I’ve never walked.”

“Me neither,” he says, “This will be fun.”

It is not fun. In fact, it is tremendously boring.

Having walked on the road for couple of hours, your legs have begun to feel the punishment for unparalleled exertion. You’re not exactly in tip top condition, are you regret that the effort that it requires to be in tip top condition is far too much. Your shoulders are also killing you.

You groan, “I’m going to have my own familiar, and it’s going to be big, and it’s going to carry me to Blackwell whenever I want.”

He sighs, “Give me that bag.”

You hiss, “I can carry it myself.” You can’t stand the idea of him touching your belongings like that. You’re sure he won’t run away with it out of the blue, but you just don’t like it. Maybe it’s out of principle.

Touryn only looks at you incredulously as you walk on.

Before you know it, it’s nighttime. No, actually, you anxiously waited for Solaria to start descending so that you could call for a break as fast as early as you can.

Walking away from the road, you drop onto the grass like a rock and lie there for a couple minutes. This was a terrible mistake. Walking is sinful, and you curse Gaia for deciding to give you legs instead of wheels. You also take it back immediately because Gaia is wonderful and should be appreciated, and you would not know what to do if the eidolon decided to send wolves your way at night.

“Are you cold?” you say to Touryn, who’s sitting a distance away from you.

“I’m fine.”

You say, “I guess we won’t be setting up a fire tonight.”

He rubs the bridge of his nose as he mumbles, “Somehow, it feels like I’m babysitting.”

“What did you say?” You crane your neck to look at him.

“Nothing.”

[1/2]

>>2336480
You wake up to something licking your face.

Sitting up straight, you let the straps of your backpack fall of your shoulders and to the ground as you search for what is violating your personal space. You scan around, horrified at how you’ve accidentally fallen asleep. Your entire body hurts, but that doesn’t matter much right now.

Touryn’s gone.

Luna is high in the sky right now, gracing you and the lands around with a soft, pale light. In the mostly flat plains, the grass doesn’t even reach all the way to your knees. Yet, no matter how hard you search, you can’t see him anywhere. Not even a hint of his snow-white hair. Stumbling to a somewhat higher point, you find the road that you were walking on earlier. There is nothing.

“T-Touryn?” you say. You repeat yourself even louder when you hear no reply.

You consider the possibility of him abandoning you in the middle of nowhere. When you turn around, you see that your backpack is gone. Clutching your satchel, you can’t help but take a step back, away from the empty spot where the backpack should be.

“H-hey, this isn’t funny,” you say.

You do your best not to panic.
>Keep calling out for Touryn.
>Investigate where your backpack last was.
>Quietly head for the road, away from the grass.
>Write-in.

>>2336503
>investigate where your backpack last was.
Surely nothing will go wrong.

>>2336503
>Keep calling out for Touryn.
>What was that licking our face? Some sort of animal?

>>2336503
>Keep calling out for Touryn

>>2336518
Investigate.

>>2336524
>>2336546
Where are you?

>>2336524
Something licked you and that is not okay.

Writing

“Touryn, where did you go?” you say.

You were right to be skeptical about the swordsman. Maybe you were right. You don’t know. You don’t know anything right now!

“Touryn!” you shout, hoping for a reply.

You almost throw your hands in the air, but you stop yourself.

Wait, something licked your face. You want to let out some strange sound of anguish, but you opt otherwise. Could it have been an animal?

You believe that this is half your fault. The first half is for not setting up a tent properly and making a fire to ward off wildlife. The second half is the professor not joining you for this trip. But more importantly, perhaps you should be making a fire right now.

No, that’s not it. If you were to believe for a moment that it was an animal that caused the disappearance of both your precious belongings and your incredibly helpful hired help Touryn, then scaring them off would be the opposite of what you want.

They’ve disappeared somewhere, and you can’t simply leave without them. Taking a deep breath, you resolve to act like a proper witch. Recalling every form of faerie you can remember. A snake that could fly? Not here. A rabbit that had poison fangs? That doesn’t make things disappear. A large mole that could swim through the earth as if it was water?

You stop right there. Tunnellers. They can’t physically reform themselves or anyone else from the aether while something is physically overlapping, so they tend to make use of caves underneath the ground.

“Touryn,” you say, “Where are you?” When you say that, it was much less loud than before. You can’t afford to intimidate them, but you can still announce yourself. The eyesight of tunnellers is notoriously poor, so they rely on vibrations to snatch their prey. That being said, they’re also half the size of your leg standing up. Assuredly, they did not eat the swordsman.

Taking a deep breath, you try again. “Tou—” A shadow flies out of the ground, lunging for you. No, not you, but your satchel!

You cry out as you step to the side, adrenaline rushing. The details of the figure couldn’t be made out with just Luna’s light, but you can, for sure, tell that it disappears into the grass after it misses its mark.

“There you are...” you say to no one in particular. A thought gives you pause. There could be more than one of them.

That is not okay.
>Grab one the next time a tunneller comes out.
>Let them take you underground.
>Use your satchel as bait.
>Write-in.

>>2336606
>>2336596
>Grab one the next time a tunneller comes out.

>>2336606
>Grab one the next time a tunneller comes out.

>>2336612
>>2336618
>Grab the tunneller.

Taking a step back, you prepare yourself. Your hand reaches into your satchel, digging around until you find your dip pen. You don’t have a brand on you, not that you can ever afford one, but this will have to do—you are going to grab a tunneller, and you’re going to tame it.

That sounds dumber the more you say it.

It’ll be foolish to put yourself in harm’s way, and although this is risky, it’s also least likely to get you buried alive. You scan the area, wary for even the slightest change. The wind is still, and your heart is racing. A minute passes like an eternity, and you can only stand there.

Until it jumps out again. It leaps at you, and despite its size, you attempt to grab it. Surprisingly, it bites at your satchel while you wrap both your arms around its torso. Falling back from the momentum, you try to stop yourself from falling and letting it touch the ground.

It wildly thrashing around isn’t doing you any favors either.

>To a witch, nothing is more important than precision.

>The dice used are up to three separate rolls of 1d30, where the average of the rolls is compared to a DC range. It’s like threading a needle.

>Example: The DC is 12-18, and you rolled a 10, 15, and 25. The average of these rolls are 16.66, which falls within the range, meaning it is a success.

>There are degrees of success; the closer you are to the center of the range, the more successful you are.

Range: 10-20 (Easy)
Please roll 1d30.

File: 1383326202254.png (216 KB, 500x500)

216 KB PNG

Going to stop here for today. Thanks for playing! I'll be back tomorrow, the same time as this session.

Rolled 9 (1d30)

>>2336656
>>2336664
Good night.

Rolled 23 (1d30)

>>2336656
Thank goodness we’re not Katusya anymore. Check it:

Rolled 17 (1d30)

>>2336656
>>2336664
Fugg I just got here

16.33, looks like we made the dc

>>2336668
>>2336671
>>2336686
16.33. Great Success! Well, Circe's version of great success anyways.

Update in an hour or so.

Let it be known that nothing in this world that is worth reaching for will come without struggle.

If there is a single lesson you have learned, it would be that. Twirling the pen around so that it falls in your grip pointing earthwards, you drive it into the back of the tunneller, splitting apart fur and flesh. The pen nip’s side had been sharpened to an edge, doubling as a knife. Pinned to your body with one hand, the tunneller starts clawing at whatever it can reach. The cuts that appear across your arm begin to sting, and you can only hold your breath in nervousness.

Upon the faerie’s back, you carve out runes. Their blood carries aether, otherwise they would not be able to make use of their markings. The ease in which they cast spells is a double-edge however, as one can forcibly inscribe another’s will on their very bodies. It is standard to apply anesthesia beforehand, but that isn’t an option now—you are forced to work like this. Taming is an ugly thing.

Your drawing hand is tremoring, but you try to draw each line and curve as carefully as possible. The tunneller, twisting around, bites into the hand that was holding it, and you cry out in pain as you let it go in reflex. The pen that was in midst of completing a rune drags across its skin before it leaps to the ground. Your heart sinks.

The tunneller touches the earth, and falls into a roll. It freezes, baffled. You, too, are surprised. It tries to dig into the earth again, but you leap at it.

Pinning it down, you finish your work.

After an eternity, you sit there, trying to steady your breathing. The tunneller is writhing on the ground in pain. It won’t last long. You’ve gotten its blood on you, have cuts all over yourself, and are very grateful that you packed a change of clothes. Your penmanship is also a disgusting mess. It’s partially due to your lack of knowledge with runes, and partially to how difficult it was to do anything with it moving.

You say, “Return them. Return Touryn and my things, do you understand?” It takes a look at you, and then it dives into the ground.

It was surprising you even finished it in the first place. You had been repeating to yourself that although the most you’ve ever worked on was a frog, a tunneller could maybe be considered as a bigger frog. Except with fur. And with claws. But they have four legs, so they’re basically a giant frog.

Without warning, something large appears and falls onto the ground. It grunts, and you know who it is.

[1/2]

>>2339100
Running over to him, you say, “Touryn! Are you okay?”

His eyes widen as he instantly moves a hand to his sword. Spotting you, he relaxes only a little as he gets up. “Where did that thing go?!” He checks his left, then his right, only for your backpack to reappear right behind him. Touryn begins to draw his sword as soon as he sees the tunneller walk through the grass besides the two of you, but you stop him.

“It’s okay,” you said, “It won’t do anything now.”

He takes a look at its bloodied fur, and then he visibly untenses. “The hell did you do?”

You say...
>”I tamed it, that’s all.”
>”Let’s not talk about it.”
>”Are you okay? What happened?”
>”Practicing my penmanship.”
>Write-in.

>>2339104
>>”Are you okay? What happened?”

>>2339104
>>”Practicing my penmanship.”
> Did you see anything while you were down there?

>>2339104
>”Practicing my penmanship.”
>”Are you okay? What happened?”

>>2339119
>>2339194
Ask what happened.

>>2339149
>>2339194
Penmanship.

Writing

>>2339202
“Practicing my penmanship,” you say.

Before you can change the topic, he cuts in. “You’re a witch, huh?” For a second, you thought you see him frowning at what you’ve done. You don’t blame him, but you don’t like it either. “Well, as long as you don’t take it too far.”

“...And what is ‘too far’?” you ask.

He looks away, mulling for a second. “I know when I see it,” he replies. “And I’ll walk away.”

Letting that hang in the air for a moment, you reply, “It’s not normally like this.”

“I know,” he mutters. Pulling out his sword, he gives the tunneller mercy.

“Anyways,” you say, trying to change the subject, “Are you okay? What happened?”

He wipes the bloodied steel on some grass. “One second I was sitting here, and another, I was somewhere dark. I’m fine, though. What the hell was that?” You explain to him the faerie, and he says, “Are you okay?”

You take a look down, and you say, “Oh, that’s not my blood.” Then you look at your arm. “I mean, that’s not all my blood.”

He takes a second put his doubts to the side. “I don’t feel too comfortable sleeping around here after that. We should keep moving.”

“I’m not a machine,” you reply, “If I keep walking like this, I’ll die.” When he gives you an unconvinced look, you add, “We’ll set up a fire, okay? It usually scares everything away.”

“Usually?”

You say, “I mean, what are we going to run into here? The roc?”

“I wouldn’t even be surprised,” he says as he hands you your backpack.

You properly set up camp.

You’re probably going to be hurting tomorrow.
>Power through it and keep the pace.
>Slow down a bit, but try to keep going.
>Take it slow and steady.

>>2339273
>>Slow down a bit, but try to keep going.

>>2339273
>>Power through it and keep the pace.

Rolled 1 (1d2)

>>2339285
1

>>2339291
2

Writing!

>>2339273
>Slow down a bit, but try to keep going.

File: bastien-chagnon-place-ren(...).jpg (860 KB, 1920x1358)

860 KB JPG

As much as you’d like to, you can’t afford to relax too much. Slowing down a little, you ignore the soreness in your limbs as you continue in the morning. While you had slept in your sleeping bag, Touryn enjoyed laying on the grass. You actually had a feeling he didn’t want to at all, but he sure didn’t show it.

After one more day and one more night of you mumbling curses underneath your breath, the two of you make it. You almost drop to your knees in relief.

The first thing you saw was a great big banner that hung between two wooden posts, marking the front entrance to Blackwell. Beside it and encircling the village is a small fence. It’s small that it seems as if it was more decorative than anything. Neither menacing enough to discourage things from attempting to jump into it or high enough to stop anything in the first place, you wonder why it’s there. It certainly wouldn’t hold back a roc.

The houses are made of lumber and the foundations are laid with bricks. A small stream runs down the center of the village, separating the northern half from the southern one, the latter of which sharing its border with a forest. It’s quiet and peaceful, and there are no signs of a devastating attack.

When the lone guard that makes for the entrance watch comes up to you, you tell him about how you’re here for the roc. He then looks incredibly relieved, and he brings you to the village head, Flint.

On sight, anyone can tell he is old. No, not just old, but ancient. He has wrinkled, paper-like skin and a white beard that drapes down, stopping just before it reaches the ground. His clothes are kept in a fine condition, and you would be led to believe they were new, if not for the dyes that have long faded.

He speaks in a voice that seems like it could break any moment. “Ah... Circe, was it?” You nod as he continues, “Where is the good professor? I recall that you seemed to never leave his side...”

Not quite sure how to reply and not wanting to, you introduce Touryn instead. The swordsman gives a reserved greeting, and Flint says, “You’re not here for the sights, are you?” You can safely assume that was in jest, as there is literally nothing but grass for acres on end.

“I’m not, no,” you say, smiling. “We heard there was a roc around here?”

“Ah yes, our newest chicken thief,” he nods, “As much as I and everyone else would want it gone, there’s nothing we can do.”

Touryn says, “It came here for your chickens? They must be amazing.” You briefly recall how the tunneller dove for your satchel, probably drawn to the rations that you tucked in there.

“If only.” The village head waves his hand, motioning otherwise. “No, it seems to find harassing us amusing. It never hurt any of us, but it certainly destroyed more property than could be acceptable.” He faces you and says, “Are you here to deal with it? No offense, but I don’t think you’re up to the task exactly. I wouldn’t want you getting hurt.”

[1/2]

>>2339409
Rocs are pretty menacing.
>”We’ll handle it, so you can leave it to us. Touryn’s here, after all.”
>”With a little help, I think we can manage it.”
>”Actually, we’re here just for its feathers.”
>”Of course I’m up for it. I’m going to tame it.”
>Write-in.

>>2339413
>>”With a little help, I think we can manage it.”

>>2339413
>”Of course I’m up for it. I’m going to tame it.”

Rolled 2 (1d2)

>>2339419
A little help = 1

>>2339426
Tame = 2

Dice gods, guide us.

”Of course I’m up for it. I’m going to tame it,” you reply.

“A bit confident, huh?” Touryn says.

The village head frowns. “Tame it? Is that a wise idea?”

“How bad can it be?” you reply.

Flint lets out a laugh. “If you’re eager, why don’t I offer a little help?”

“Sorry, but I don’t think it’ll be necessary. I wouldn’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

Touryn says, “But if it’s you, it’s okay?”

“I didn’t say that,” you reply, leaving it at that.

“The roc,” the village head says, clearing his throat and catching your attentions, “Usually comes from the farms from the southwest, but you would never know when it wants to show up.”

After a bit of small talk, the village head says, “Be careful.” Then, in a much lower voice, he adds, “Though I doubt you’ll listen.” slowly walking back to his house and shutting the door behind him.

Blackwell is named after the black well that sits in the center of the village. It’s also submerged in the stream that happens to flow right atop it, the well having collapsed and blocked off a long, long time ago. No one knows why a well is there in the first place, but no one is eager to do anything about it.

While walking toward the farms, Touryn says to you, “This was not what Mog sent here us to do.”

You say, “Weren’t you the one who said you had to help whoever asked for it?”

“I meant the taming. Killing it, I understand, but don’t you think you’re overestimating yourself?”

You shoot back, “I’ll never know until I try. Besides, I think I handled myself well last time.”

“From what I can gather, a giant bird is not the same as some dirt rat. Not even close.”

“A faerie is a faerie—”

“I’m going to kill it if I see anything is going to happen. Fair?”

You look at him. “Fair.”

Upon arrival of the farm, you found that the fence had proved no match for the oversized bird. Large sections are flattened to the ground, and the grass around have been torn apart. The crops are also visibly ravaged, and no animals are seen wandering around in their pens. There’s also a rather large pile of wood and brick, which leads you to believe that used to be a building. A couple of villagers look uneasily in your direction, even after you explain to them you’re here to help.

There’s no roc anywhere.
>It has to come from somewhere. Look around.
>Ask the farmers if they know anything.
>Hide yourselves. Maybe it comes only when no one’s around.
>Write-in.

>>2339577
>>Ask the farmers if they know anything.
They can probably point in the general direction of where it went if nothing else.

>>2339577
>Ask the farmers if they know anything.

>>2339577
>>Ask the farmers if they know anything.
> Maybe there are some chickens we could use as bait? Sick or dying ones, so that the villagers won't be losing anything of much value.

>>2339615
I'll change to this

>>2339600
>>2339613
>>2339615
Farmers?

>>2339615
>>2339623
Chicken bait.

Writing

You decide to go up to farmers and ask if they know anything.

One of them replies, “It came from over there,” and he points to the forest. “Giant thing, just came out of the trees”

The other says, “Aye, I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was huge!”

Touryn says to you, “Didn’t you say they lived in the mountains?”

You think out loud, “The professor did say it was misplaced. Maybe... it made a nest in a tree or something? But, I’ve never heard of anything like that before.”

A farmer says, “Sure looked like it lived in there though. Covered in leaves and everything every time it comes out.”

“What happened over there?” the swordsman asks, pointing to the wreckage.

He replies “Used to be a barn.”

The first farmer adds, “Not after the tornado. It’s a real roc. I only heard about them, but after I saw that, I knew it was the real thing.” You’re not sure why, but it bothers me that a roc just conjured a tornado. Maybe they just don’t know that many words for a great wind.

You say, “The tornado destroyed that? I hope no one was hurt.”

“Thank Gaia no one was in there, and thank her again that it’s only used that wind thing once.”

You say, “That’s good to hear. So, what does it do exactly?”

The other one replies, “Acts like it’s got a stick up its rear. It stomps around and shouts a whole lot. It used to get our chickens too, but after we hid them the damn thing stopped bothering.”

“Chickens...” you say, “I don’t think... you have one we can borrow? Maybe a sick or a dying one?”

Touryn says, “For bait, I get it.”

The two farmers glance at each other, unsure. Then, one of them says, “Oh, why the hell not? If you’re here to help, I’m sure losing one more won’t kill us.”

As the two of them walk off to get that chicken, Touryn says to you, “Alright, hold on, I need to ask.” When you look at him curiously, he continues. “How big is this thing? What am I fighting exactly?”

You reply, “I’ve never seen one in person, but an adult should be about twice your height. There are spell circles in the feathers of the wing—the patterns’ formed by different colors. It can normally call upon the eidolon Gale to create winds out of nothing. If it grows old, it can become strong enough to blow down an entire church with a single flap of its wings.” You finish that with a smile, satisified by your own pool knowledge.

He replies, “I’m going to tell you in advance that I’m not sturdier than an entire church.”

You say, “I think if something that powerful showed up, this entire village would have been levelled.”

Touryn purses his lips. “That’s not very comforting, you know.”

[1/2]

>>2339748
Soon enough, the farmers come back, lowering a chicken to the ground in front of you. You’re no expert on hens, but you can tell it’s old. Looking around without much vigor, it walks around carelessly, the feathers far from glossy. One of the farmer says, “She’s getting old. Treat her well, ehn?”

“Uhh...” you say. You wonder if he forgot what he just brought the chicken for. “I’ll try.”

You awkwardly look at it.
>Use it as bait in the farm.
>Bring it to the woods.
>Leave the chicken behind for later. Check out the woods without it.
>Write-in.

>>2339756
>>Use it as bait in the farm.
Chicken has already been brought out, and I don't like the sound of leaving behind bait while we explore. Visibility will probably be better if we're outside of the forest. Farm is already destroyed, so what's the harm of a little more damage if we have to fight? Just make sure the any farmers or villagers are far away.

>>2339756
>Use it as bait in the farm.
Make sure everything that's important is moved and find a good hiding place. Set up traps if we can

>>2339756
>>Use it as bait in the farm.

>>2339779
>>2339794
>>2339820
Chicken bait

Writing

>>2339748
>>Leave the chicken behind for later. Check out the woods without it.

With that, your plan has been set in stone. Except not really.

“You know I’m a swordsman, right? Not an archer?” Touryn says to you.

“And I can’t tame it without touching it,” you say, “So we’re going to need to ambush it.”

“Fantastic.”

Rebuilding the fence and moving hay to where the destruction used to be, you now have plenty of inconspicuous piles of hay that might be blown away by the roc’s haphazard winds if not for the perfectly placed carts in front of them. With a bit of help, everything in the designated destruction zone is expendable—save for the two of you, of course—and everything worth saving is moved out of the way.

Looking at the hour’s work, Touryn says to you, “There has to be something better.”

“We don’t have day, do we?” you say, petting the hen. “Hey, does she have a name? I don’t think they ever told us.”

“Let’s just hide already,” he says. The farmers, along with any curious villagers, have been driven away save for a farmhand, who volunteered to make the trap more authentic. Young and brash, he seemed to be able to run quickly, so it should be fine.

Laying down in the hay, you wonder how questionable this all is. Your body isn’t feeling too up for the task, but there’s not much you can do now. You brood over some things before sure enough, the overly eager farmer starts shouting.

“Roc! The bird’s back!”

You tense up. You can’t see Touryn or anything much at all, but you’re still tense. A piercing cry rips through the sky as the thunderous flapping of wings approaches. The ground shudders as something lands haughtily on the fence, and you watch as the large shadow the bird cast begins to extend toward the chicken.

You want to jump out before it gets eaten. You want to do something, but you can’t. You need to wait for the signal. You see the roc’s beak descend, and then you hear the sound of it taking a step toward the hen.

The air explodes. A series of ripples, and the roc shrieks as it’s struck in its side. The intense wind blows you out of your cover, and you get up. That attack wasn’t from the roc.

Drawing the bird’s full attention, Touryn holds his sword with both his hands. The runes carved on length of the blade glow with a calm blue, matching that of the gemstone that is set on the pommel.

Scrambling up, you take a look at your insurmountable goal: the long stretch of feathers, starting from the long, orange feathers of its tail and going all the way up to its bright red back.

That’s a long way to climb.

Range: 13-17 (Medium)
Range is reduced by 1 from fatigue.

Please roll 1d30.

Rolled 17 (1d30)

>>2339944

Rolled 16 (1d30)

>>2339944
Hope we don't pull a Katsuya

Rolled 6 (1d30)

>>2339944

13, which means we just made it I think

>>2339985
Wait I'm retarded. Disregard this post.

>>2339985
Isn't it 17 + 16 + 6 = 39
39/3 = 13?

>>2339969
>>2339976
>>2339978
13. Minimal Success.

Writing!

reminder that we have UP TO 3 rolls, so if we get in range during the first or second roll and don't roll again, we would be better off

>>2339998
I only said that in the case there aren't enough players

I keep having to solve a ridiculous amount of sign captcha.

>>2340004
Aye. I miss captcha v1

>>2340004
I don't think I've had a single captcha that was not signs, cars, or storefronts in the past half a year.

File: 54810463_p4 edit.png (158 KB, 542x633)

158 KB PNG

Touryn, trying his best not to hurt the roc, takes a step back. The bird stretches its wings wide and sticks out its chest, and in Solaria’s light, you see the countless interweaving spell circles on the wings begin to light up.

He swings first, and a blast of pressure is released. Instead of slicing through the wing, it pushes it back with a blunt force; it fails to stop the attack. Flapping its wings, the roc returns a blow that is triple the power. You don’t wait to see what happens. Instead, you leap off of the cart and onto its tail. Catching it an incline, you find yourself barely able to hang on.

You manage to halfway up its back before it starts twisting around, trying to throw you off. Your hands grip its feathers tightly while you hang on desperately. Feelings of regret instantly start to well up, but you push them back down.

You hear Touryn shout, “Come on you oversized chicken!” Another blast of pressure, and the roc takes a step back. His voice sounds distant, as if he was thrown a great distance back.

Finding yourself hanging vertically, you grit your teeth as you hang on.

You want to tame it.
>Carve the runes right here, on its back.
>It doesn’t matter if it’s missing a wing. Let Touryn cut it.
>Climb higher. You’re not in a position to draw.
>Write-in.

>>2340030
>>Climb higher. You’re not in a position to draw.

>>2340030
>Climb higher. You’re not in a position to draw
Can we draw anywhere on the body? And how long does it take to draw

>>2340030
>Climb higher. You’re not in a position to draw.

>>2340047
>>2340058
>>2340063
Climb higher.

>This requires a Strength roll.
>Circe is not good at this.

Range: 18-24 (Hard)
Range has been reduced by 1 from fatigue.

Please roll 1d30.

>>2340058
What Circe's drawing now would take her under a minute. I'll elaborate on this later.

Rolled 5 (1d30)

>>2340080
Come on, dice!

Rolled 11 (1d30)

>>2340080

File: Fuu despair.png (100 KB, 334x299)

100 KB PNG

>>2340084
Ah, fuck.

Rolled 5 (1d30)

>>2340080

Well, we're falling off the birdie.

>>2340084
>>2340086
>>2340089
...Writing!

File: aide.jpg (629 KB, 1465x1993)

629 KB JPG

You need to climb up. You can’t draw anything on its back right now; it’s simply impossible. Ignoring the fact that you would be hanging on with a single arm, you would hard to pierce through its coat of feathers first. If you want to stand a chance, then you have to climb higher.

Mustering all of the strength inside you, you try to pull yourself upwards, your feet scrambling for any kind of purchase. The roc does not take this kindly. It swats the ground beneath itself, and you feel yourself being lifted into the air by the gust of wind. You hold your breath. The roc twists its body again, throwing you to the side. Your hands, beginning to grow slick with your sweat, lose its grip and the feathers underneath slip free.

Reaching out with both hands, you manage to grab onto its right wing before you fall completely. The spell circles light up, and you immediately regret it.

You cry out as your vision swims. A second of weightlessness, and then the ground. Your body rolls an uncomfortably far distance before you stop, and even then, it takes you a minute to get up. An incredible pain shoots through your left arm, so much so that you can’t put the least bit pressure on it. In fact, you have to almost lift up the arm yourself.

Touryn is far away from the roc, and the spell that his sword is casting doesn’t seem to reach. You find yourself separated by both of them.

“Are you okay?” a voice asks. Still in a daze, you turn to see someone besides you. A girl, much younger than you, stands there, goggles atop her head while wearing an oversized coat. She looks nothing like the villagers. “...Do you hear me?”

“What... are you doing here?” you start to say, your mind working again. “It’s dangerous—”

Without a word, she grabs your left upper arm with one hand and steadies your body with the other. She then jerks upward with a single motion, and you almost scream.

No, you do scream, but it’s just a little since there wasn’t much air in your lungs anyways.

“Okay,” she says. “You should be okay.” Her expression is flat as if nothing was happening the entire time. “Are you going to fight?”

You touch your arm and are thankful that something seems to be fixed. It still hurts, but not as much. “Y-yes...” you say, “Thank you.”

“Mmm...” She affirms with a grunt, and you start walking to Touryn again.

[1/2]

>>2340152
The two seem to be at a deadlock. Touryn can’t go close enough to land a hit, and the roc’s winds lost strength with distance, allowing them to be met with blows of equal power.

Seeing this, the faerie stops. It stretches its wings wide and undulates. A flap of its arms, and you realize—

“It’s summoning something,” you mumble.

Touryn still doesn’t move, unsure of what exactly to do.

A blizzard? A wraith? It could be anything. The length in which it’s casting leads you to believe it’s something big. It takes time to realign its spell circles.

You need to act.
>Warn Touryn to flee.
>Don’t say anything. You need to sneak behind it again.
>Distract the roc and try to create an opening.
>Write-in.

>>2340158
>>Warn Touryn to flee.

>>2340158
>Distract the roc and try to create an opening.
>Ask the girl if she can help in some way
I assume casting a spell takes concentration so if we damage it we could stop the spell

>>2340191
this

>>2340171
Warn

>>2340191
>>2340196
Distract and ask for help.

Writing!

This may have been your fault.

You had intended to inscribe just five runes. That was all you needed to knock out the faerie, even though removing those runes later would have been a tremendously difficult task.

Instead, you find that you have not only lost the surprise attack advantage, but also unfavorably distant.

You turn to the girl and say, “Do you... have any ideas?”

“I thought you didn’t need help,” she says.

You can’t help but frown. “Sorry, I was wrong. Please—”

“I have one...” she says, slowly closing her eyes. “But I’m weak.”

Seeing a hope of light, you say, “What is the idea?”

Opening her coat, she reveals countless thin boxes and books on the inner pockets. On her belt is a slew of containers and mixtures. “I’m an herbalist, so I don’t like to get too close,” she says, pulling out a box. It contains a single vial that’s well protected by a soft lining. Red liquid sits inside. “Peloperone extract. This should be enough.”

“Is this... a poison?” you ask.

She nods. She begins to hand it over to you, but then you gently push your hand back. You say, “You should give this to him,” and you point to Touryn. The girl looks at you sternly until you add, “I’m going to distract it.”

She nods again, and you start to run off. She advises, “Look yummy.”

You really want to say something back, but you put all of your energy running closer to the roc. You shout, “Hey, I’m right here! You better watch it, I’m going to climb right back on you and tame you if it’s the last thing I do!”

Although you’re not quite sure it understood you, it certainly is looking your way now. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the herbalist reaching Touryn.

You find that you couldn’t pull your attention away for too long. The faerie stops moving, and you stop in your tracks. There was nothing at first. Then, clouds began to form out of nowhere. Dark and black, they descend closer to the earth, twisting and twirling as the wind picks up. Grass and dirt begin to tear out from beneath, and a shape begins to form, slowly advancing toward you.

Oh, fuck Gale.

You run in the opposite direction, away from the faerie and away from the village. Your legs burn as you put unwarranted strain on them. Everything hurts, but there’s no way you’re slowing down. You hear the sky howling as the tornado begins to pick up speed. You start cursing everything.

Desperate, you turn your head to look at Touryn. He closes in with large strides, his sword now glimmering with a reddish hue. The roc, seeing this, turns to create another blast of wind. Reacting to this, Touryn does the last thing you expect him to do.

[1/2]

>>2340321
Thanks for running, as always!

>>2340321
Thanks for running

>>2340314
Twirling his sword around, he holds the sword in a backward grip. He then chucks his envenomed blade at the roc like a spear, putting the momentum of his entire body behind it. The faerie begins to move its wings, but it pierces it straight in the chest. It shrieks, wildly attacking everything around it. Stumbling around, it takes a few steps before falling onto a small, nearby storehouse.

Thankful, you start to slow down. When you look behind you, you realize that the tornado did not get the memo and is still chasing after you faster than ever. Your pace picking up, you dearly wish that you had not gone through with this expedition after all.

You also wished that Touryn had picked up his sword faster and broke apart the tornado a lot quicker rather than hacking at it from afar like a sharpened pebble cutting down a tree.

- - -

You lie in a spare bed kindly offered by one of the villagers. The house is surprisingly cozy and warm, and the bed, although lumpy, is still comforting. You were told that nothing was broken, but it sure doesn’t feel that way. Every single joint hurts and every single muscle burns. No doubt you would lay here for an entire week before feeling like you’re up for any kind of exertion again.

Touryn enters the room after a quick knock, and he pulls up a chair to sit beside your bed. His clothes have gotten a bit dirtied after the whole affair. “How are you feeling?”

“How do I look like I feel?” you say, raising your head to give him a tired frown.

“Like you just died.”

You snort. “Okay then. How did things go?”

“The village head said he was thankful, but he doesn’t have much of a way to repay us.”

“Oh... that’s fine, I guess. It wasn’t like we agreed for money,” you say, then adding, “Okay, that sounded sarcastic, but I was serious.”

“I know, I know,” he replies, “I didn’t care either way, but I thought you did.”

You mumble, “It does sting a little. Well, what about the roc?”

“That—”

A voice interrupts him. “It’s mine.” Walking in, the girl from before, the herbalist, flatly claims it.

Touryn says, “Hey, half of it is ours, at least.”

She shakes her head. “My poison killed it, so it’s mine.”

Visibly unhappy, Touryn tries his best not to show it by not scowling at her. “And my sword got it in it.”

She flatly replies, “I didn’t have to help.” Pointing to you, she says, “She asked me to help, so you owe me. So, I’ll take the roc.”

Sighing, Touryn says to you, “Really? Are we walking back empty handed?” No way. Absolutely not. Not after what you just went through.

The girl shakes her head. “A whole bird might be too much for me, so I don’t mind sharing with...” she trails off, searching for the right word to use. “...with companions.”

You repeat, “Companions?”

“Yes,” she says. “Travelling is lonely, so... I’ll be following you, if you’re okay with it.” She says to you, taking off her hat, “My name is Syrup.”

Jesus Christ I did not just leave paragraphs out.

>>2340328
Meanwhile...

Professor Mog awkwardly splays the rolled-up note on the ground with a foot. He’s read it many times now, but even now he can’t seem to find the address written on it. Hunching over, he reads it out loud, hoping for a lightbulb to go off.

Of course, nothing happens, and he can only sigh. He rolls it back up again and stashes in his cloak, wandering the confusing streets once more.

“Perhaps it’s somewhere high up,” he mutters.

Although he draws stares from people passing by, he makes nothing of it. He is one of Gaia’s beloved, and there is nothing anyone can say that can change that. It’s only on his fifth lap around the circle that he realizes he had been going nowhere.

He thinks out loud, “What a time for my mind to be failing me now.”

“What a time, indeed,” someone else replies, “What are you walking around for? Come already.” From an alleyway, a cloaked figure speaks out. As much as she tries to hide it, her tail and snout stands out in the crowd, betraying her blood. She says, “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Mog, pleasantly surprised, follows her into the shadows. “How long has it been, Mitra?”

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That'll be it for today. Thanks for playing! I'll be back tomorrow, same time.
That was an incredibly embarrassing blunder. I'm so sorry. I even messed up the backlink.

Thanks for running, Hopeless!

>>2340336
Thanks again for running!

>>2340336
I’m pleased that even across quests we are maintaining our obligation to end up in a hospital of some kind after making poor choices.

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>>2340444
Heh. You're right. Here's to another year of hospital visits!

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Sorry to anyone looking forward to today's run. I feel physically sick and can't seem to put down anything right now. It'll probably better after a few days, but I need to call it quits for the thread. I think it's a pretty good spot to pause at anyways.

Thanks again for playing.

>>2342740
Don't die to the flu.

>>2342740
Safe waddles

>>2342740
Feel better Hopeless!

>>2342740
Don't end up like that penguin ;_;

...I forgot to link my twitter.
https://twitter.com/hopelessQM

New thread on Saturday, 1;00 AM UTC

>>2354018
New thread!