>>3473857
>You know, maybe a glade’s worth of dryads is a little more than you can handle unaugmented. Bring out the sparkly stuff.
I faintly recall we aren't playing as the MC in this segment. Am I right?

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IT'S BACK

>>3473857
>You know, maybe a glade’s worth of dryads is a little more than you can handle unaugmented. Bring out the sparkly stuff.

>>3473857
break out the big guns.

>Maybe keep it in check for a while. Still a few dryads left and you don’t know if that asshole druid might have another bag of party tricks stashed away. (TN 65+)

Save the big guns

>>3473881
Nope, different dude for this little sojourn. Hoping to bring it to a close and back to the main story before this thread is done.

Almost forgot links.

Twitter: https://twitter.com/FrostyZippo
Archive: http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=Paranormal%20Agent%20Quest
First thread: http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive/2907129/

Forgot to call the vote. Almost finished the update.

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>>3473857
You know, that druid’s still on his way out, so with that in mind it’s probably best if you don’t waste time on the blood hungry treekin. The faster you can break through, the quicker you can get on with the business of planting your boot in a jaw.

“Slow,” you incant, and with that simple word and a surge of power, the eternal march of time is forced to slam on the brakes. Swaying in almost leisurely fashion, you pick yourself out of the hairy predicament you’d found yourself in scant moments before, marvelling briefly at the teamwork--unintentional though it may have been--of the two creatures. Anyone else might have found themselves cut to ribbons without your special breed of power, and while you feel pretty confident you’d have ducked away in time it would have been a close run thing.

The dryads twist their heads like they’ve been dropped in a tank full of ice water, their movements pitifully slow. You take in their forms for a quick moment--Lord above knows you’ve got plenty of time, noting with curiosity how, despite their unique component parts; thin branches, gnarled and twisting bark, roping and sinuous vines, there’s a curious aura of femininity to them. Old legends state they used to lure lost souls by taking the appearance of unearthly beautiful women. In truth, there’s little hard evidence of this, or at least none that you’re aware of. Quite honestly, though, you find yourself more comfortable with the idea of shooting these rampaging spirits in their present form than pretty ladies.

Unable to think of any reason to continue putting it off, you raise your shotgun at the dryad that would have carved a set of savage scars into your open back and, at point blank range, unload on the thing. The balefire shot surges forth and ignites immediately on contact with the thing’s slimy, wooden skin, and you watch with quiet fascination at the way the hellish blue flames wrap around the luckless tree spirit like a predator latches onto its prey.

Belatedly you remember there was another dryad half-paused in mid-flight in need of your ministrations. You give it the same treatment as it’s buddy and, noting the fresh swarm not a dozen paces behind the front runners, send some more balefire shot their way, nodding in satisfaction at the way the front ranks of the incoming mob of dryads lights up at even the faintest scratch.

Yeah. You’re pretty glad you brought along the balefire.

(Cont.)

>>3474024
Time begins to speed back up, and with it you feel the familiar draining fatigue as your power swiftly runs its course. Time magic is a powerful, powerful thing, and slowing flow of events for even a few seconds’ worth of realtime is costly and (somewhat ironically in your own opinion) time-consuming to master. Thankfully, you were provided a shortcut of sorts, which is just as well, considering the places your boss likes to send you.

You jog away from the mob to put some more breathing room in between you and reload your gun once more. Down to your last handful of balefire reloads. Looking at the remaining dryads, you feel pretty confident that you’ll have enough to remove the threat, though you’ll almost certainly have nothing left to tackle the druid with.

>The dryads are a simple but still hellishly lethal threat and regular slugs and buckshot might not put them down fast enough. Keep the hellfire coming. (TN: 50+)
>Save those last few shells and make use of some of your more traditional shot. The treekin will be harder to kill, but at least you’ll have an ace up your sleeve if the druid has any more surprises for you (TN: 70+)
>Try to alternate between the two types of ammunition. Just have to keep aware of which pocket you reach into for which shell… (TN 80+)

Rolled 82 (1d100)

>>3474029
>Save those last few shells and make use of some of your more traditional shot. The treekin will be harder to kill, but at least you’ll have an ace up your sleeve if the druid has any more surprises for you (TN: 70+)
Should we roll here? I forget.

>>3474029
>Save those last few shells and make use of some of your more traditional shot. The treekin will be harder to kill, but at least you’ll have an ace up your sleeve if the druid has any more surprises for you (TN: 70+)

>>3474029
>Save those last few shells and make use of some of your more traditional shot. The treekin will be harder to kill, but at least you’ll have an ace up your sleeve if the druid has any more surprises for you (TN: 70+)
Conserve the special rounds, and make a internal reminder to have a extra pouch dedicated towards nothing but them once you get out of this one alive.

>>3474029
>The dryads are a simple but still hellishly lethal threat and regular slugs and buckshot might not put them down fast enough. Keep the hellfire coming. (TN: 50+)

>>3474332
I said a few threads back that it might save a bit of time if you did, but then one of you mentioned that it might affect voting if it did and I've come to realise that they are more than likely correct in that regard, so we'll do it the way everyone else does. Sorry for being so wishy-washy.

>>3474029
Taking into account the way things went swiftly pear-shaped on what was meant to be a simple search and destroy operation, you decide to keep your few balefire reloads back in case the druid dredges up more nasty plant-based horrors. Feeding a few slug rounds in, you hop back another few paces, sloshing through the dirty water of the swamp, and line up the wailing face of the closest dryad, which bounds forward like an animal on all four of its limbs with a pack of its fellows hot on its heels.

>1d20, TN70+

Rolled 32 (1d100)

>>3475272
You sure we can roll 70+ on a d20?

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Rolled 86 (1d100)

>>3475272
>1d20 on a TN of 70
Frost go to sleep you are drunk.

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>>3475285
>>3475287
Er, yeah. That was my bad. Sorry, 1d100 I meant.

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>>3475272
The dryad’s face disintegrates into splinters as the slug round blows straight through it. The projectile carries on, momentum dulled but not stopped and all but severs the arm of one of the creatures behind it. Not what you’d planned, but you’ll take it quite happily. Your next solid round blasts a gaping hole through the chest of the next one, which slows it down but, predictably, isn’t enough to finish it.

Frowning and, wishing you’d had the foresight to bring a few more handfuls of balefire shot, you realign your sights onto the dryad’s head and give it the same treatment as its erstwhile friend. As before, the thing drops, falling face-first into the shallow waters. Its fellows leap over the now lifeless husk and charge on. A wall of buckshot staggers the front ranks, one even stumbling over as the pellet struck it mid-stride and altering the course of its step. Another well-placed slug round puts another one down.

All told, you’ve kept up a good, murderous pace. The mob that assailed you and your team beforehand is now just a little gang, much to your satisfaction. A few more well-placed rounds here and there and you should be free to pursue to druid, provided of course that you don’t tarry--even the trauma of being so forcibly evicted from their bodies will only keep the maliciously bloodthirsty tree spirits away for so long.

Clack.

Oh. Yeah.

You really need to stop thinking so much on the job. Gets you distracted and that can get you dead. No matter. You pivot to the side and avoid a downward swipe aimed to cleave through flesh and bone in equal measure even as you reach for a fresh reload, ducking in the same instant to avoid its buddy with the follow up. Feeding the first slug round in, you slide yourself around the back of the first dryad and drive the butt of the shotgun into its spine, forcing it forwards and away from you in an awkward stagger even as you plant the barrel underneath the moss-ridden chin of the next closest tree spirit. The creature’s head is ripped in two and you use the recoil to power yourself into a hop backwards that lands you back-to-back with the dryad you’d knocked forward a heartbeat beforehand.

Screeching in fury, and maybe a little frustration, the dryad attempts to wheel around for a decapitating strike. You remain glued to its back, feeding more rounds into your weapon as you continue the curious little dance. Finally finished, you bump the dryad with a roll of your hips and whirl around before blowing it into its fellows with a point-blank blast of buckshot. The creature lands in a sprawl and its frenzied flailing brings down two others in a tangle of creaking bark and threshing, thorny vines, leaving only one standing and much, much too far to make a difference.

(Cont.)

>>3475441
Perhaps the thing senses this, as its shriek rises in pitch the instant before you remove its head from its body with another piercing slug. By this time the final three have disentangled themselves from each other and are already rising to their feet. Had they an extra few seconds, you’d probably have found yourself hard-pressed. As it is, dispatching them is almost pitifully easy, leaving you standing alone in the swamp, flushed and breathing hard, but alive.

Victorious.

Checking your remaining ammunition supply, you find that you’ve burned through almost all of it, save for the few balefire reloads you kept aside. Spending a scant moment to ponder, you eventually decide to go half-and-half, with the conventional ammunition to be expended first, and the balefire to put down anything that soaks up your first few shots. With that little decision made, you turn to back to the eerily silent swamp, and start to make your way through.

>1d100, no TN

Rolled 2 (1d100)

>>3475444
TIME TO TRIP!

>>3475452
Dice this is the second time you've cockblocked me with not getting a natural 1.

Rolled 63 (1d100)

>>3475444

Rolled 42 (1d100)

>>3475444

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>>3475444
You reorient yourself and set off in the direction of the ley line you’d identified (read: guessed) as being the one your slippery little friend might be high-tailing it to even now. So far, you’ve felt no sudden burst of power from either site, meaning he’s either exceptionally talented or he’s not quite made it yet. Given the way he squawked at you and the others like a parrot, all goggly-eyed and slack-jawed, you don’t think the former is especially likely…

Sloshing through the water makes for slow going, though, and you can’t help but feel a twinge of frustration at all the noise you’re making. Add that to the sweltering heat causing you to sweat like a pig in an oven, in turn resulting in your clothes clinging to you like your needy ex-girlfriend and the buzzing insects and the gradually returning hiss and chirp and caw of the local wildlife is conspiring to drive you goddamned crazy.

In fact, you almost miss the ripple in the water a stone’s throw because of your rapidly souring mood. Freezing in place, you bring your weapon to bear on the site. You can’t tell what made it. It could have been something plopping into the water from the canopy above, it could have been a gator--or is it crocodile? You honestly aren’t sure--or it could even have been a dryad or another unpleasant surprise conjured up by your quarry. What is certain, though, is that it’s between you and the target, and a decision needs to be made.

>No time to waste. Power on through and hope you can handle whatever it is if it turns out to be hungry.
>Try to disturb the area with a pebble or some loose object to get whatever it is to reveal itself.
>You’ve taken enough chances with the dryads, maybe leave it be and give it a wide berth?

>>3476368
>Try to disturb the area with a pebble or some loose object to get whatever it is to reveal itself.

>>3476368
>Try to disturb the area with a pebble or some loose object to get whatever it is to reveal itself.

>>3476368
>>Try to disturb the area with a pebble or some loose object to get whatever it is to reveal itself.

>>3476368
Charging forward into whatever it might be doesn’t strike you as the best of ideas, but then, neither does trying to skirt around whatever might be lying in wait and giving the druid more time to effect his escape. No, this seems like a problem you might have to tackle directly, even if only to ensure your back will remain unchewed.

You search around for something you might throw in order to disturb the water around the area you saw the ripple. Chances are good that, if there is something there, it’ll be some fresh horror, whether natural or somewhat beyond, though to be quite honest you’d almost take facing down a hissing gator--or croc? Seriously, this is actually starting to bug you now--as a refreshing change of pace. You find a snapped, sodden branch floating within easy grasping distance, possibly a piece of one of the dryads you fought, and a little islet formed from clumps of mud and other random detritus formed over who knows how much time yields a dirty pebble and another few twigs you could use.

With the materials gathered, all that’s left to do is wind up, pitch and pray…

>1d3 and then 1d100 (TN 65+)

Rolled 1 + 1 (1d3 + 1)

>>3477411

Rolled 88 (1d100)

>>3477411
>>3477414
ignore that +1, i messed up the macro

Rolled 44 (1d100)

>>3477411
Do we need more rolls?

>>3477418
I keep forgetting that 4chan doesn't let you roll different dice in the same post. I have no idea why, but I do.

Sorry, it's complicated and I think I'll do away with variable d(x) rolls (at least, those without a post separating the two) but for this one instance, it's 1d3 followed by one 1d100 roll at TN65+.

Sorry again for any potential confusion caused.

Rolled 3 (1d3)

>>3477411
Rolling

Rolled 94 (1d100)

>>3477411
>>3477521
Rolling again

Rolled 2 (1d2)

Right, instead of putting up a 1d3 and potentially creating a 3-way, Imma just roll a 1d2 where 1 is, well, 1 and the two is the 3 result.

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>>3477411
You’re not sure if the thing is just that hungry or that aggressive, but no sooner does the first stone cast from your hand break the surface of the water than there’s an almighty whoosh as the creature lifts itself from the water, jaws open wide enough to swallow a man whole.

And what a creature it is. You have to fight to keep a hand from reaching for the little silver crucifix around your neck and muttering a prayer, so hideous a monster is the thing.

It looks vaguely related to the almost assuredly more natural swamplife, specifically the gators--or crocs? Not a good time to restart this train of thought, brain--with its deep, green scales and long snout and thick, barrel chest.

What is definitely not native to the local fauna are the four fucking insect legs that pushes it out of concealment and into view, nor the pitted, quilled hump on its hind-quarters that looks sickeningly like some kind of… hive? Perhaps even more chilling though, are its onyx-black eyes; darker than even the deepest pit that must surely have spawned such an abomination and unfathomably alien. There’s no pupil or anything that you can make out, but even so you feel certain that its awful gaze is locked onto you.

The beast is gargantuan, at least three times your size at a rough guess. How on earth it managed to get so close with only that little hint of its presence speaks to its skill as a predator. And it is barreling towards you, chittering insect legs spearing through the water and the mud to close with alarming speed, its jaws open and a loud, booming bellow of fury and ravenous hunger, its breath positively reeking of rotten meat.

>Boss man doesn’t pay you quite well enough to tackle things like this on your own. Get out of there lickety split! (TN60+)
>You’re not sure you’d be able to evade something this ugly and this mad. Kill it with fire (TN?)

>>3478393
>>Boss man doesn’t pay you quite well enough to tackle things like this on your own. Get out of there lickety split! (TN60+)

>>3478393
>Boss man doesn’t pay you quite well enough to tackle things like this on your own. Get out of there lickety split! (TN60+)
Three layered nope spotted, time to leave.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5FjWe31S_0g

>>3478393
>Boss man doesn’t pay you quite well enough to tackle things like this on your own. Get out of there lickety split! (TN60+)
NOPE MODE ENGAGED

>>3478393
>You’re not sure you’d be able to evade something this ugly and this mad. Kill it with fire

>>3478393
“Mmmnope,” you mutter, before turning on your heel and making a break for it. If you’d had a full team of other specialists with you, you’d probably have felt fairly sanguine about taking… whatever this thing is. On your own? You may be the best there is to offer in Division Six, but you’re aware that there are some things you just don’t do on your own.

Something about this massive, warped gator--croc? Stop it!--is telling you in no uncertain terms that to fight is to either die, or get so tied up that that asshole druid gets to make his escape. Neither of those are particularly good options for you so, as your dear old dad used to say whenever he wasn’t smacking you or your siblings with that tatty belt of his; you take a third.

Unfortunately running doesn’t even seem that it will yield much in the way of a result, as it becomes quickly apparent that your puny human legs are much more ill-suited to wading through the muck of the swamp than the beast’s much larger and definitely more powerful insect legs will. Looks like another dose of time-manipulation is very much required here.

>1d100, TN 60+

Rolled 12 (1d100)

>>3479352

Rolled 77 (1d100)

>>3479352

Rolled 29 (1d100)

>>3479352
Time to NWF our way out of this mess!

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>>3479352
You stop just short of diving beneath the filthy water as your power finally takes hold, all but halting the slavering jaws of the skittering behemoth at your back. You waste no time in putting as much distance between it and yourself as you feasibly can, scraping over what little landmass there is, brushing through undergrowth so thick you can hardly see further than the length of your arm.

After what feels like a half-panicked aeon of running and crawling though, the weariness takes hold and time once again resumes its regular pace. The monster has long since ceased to be visible, though you’re certain that you can hear a faint roar through the buzz and croak of the local wildlife. Shuddering, you take stock of your position and, to your delight, find that even in your hasty escape, your subconscious must have kept its mind on the mission, for you are drawing close to the ley line.

A sudden wave of energy rips through the treeline like a gust of wind, blowing a branch in your face and drawing a line of scratches across your cheek. You grimace, brushing it away and rubbing at your face. Your fingers come away bloody, but not so much that it’s in any way debilitating, just irritating. Scowling, you push on, trying to tune out the idle wonderings of whether or not the faint rumbling you feel is because of the druid’s ritual or if that unearthly abomination is in pursuit. You’ve no idea whether or not it hunts by scent or sight or some other, far more unnatural sense and no great desire to find out.

Hopefully, though, with any luck you’ll be gone from here within the next five minutes.

The ley line lies on what is, by all accounts, a rather nondescript location. A little glade in the middle of what must be miles and miles of Southern swampland bayou area or whatever. Crouching behind a particularly gnarled tree with vines snaking across its body like some slithering green parasite, you spy your target through a brief opening granted by a wavering tree branch, unhealthily pale with a scraggly beard and scrawny enough to suggest he’s not had so much as a decent steak in forever. He sits cross-legged, his back to you, no doubt mumbling whatever strange druidic chant will get him away from this place and into another green hidey hole.

Standing sentinel over him are eight sizeable dryads--or at least, that’s what they look like at first glance. A more detailed inspection reveals that they’ve a good head or two on even the tallest dryad, and are much more solidly built. Golems, you realise, made of, well, trees. Smarter than dryads to be sure, who are probably about as likely to turn on him as they are to keep him safe from harm, but it leaves you with a bit of a conundrum.

(Cont.)

>>3480602
>No telling how much time you have until either the big beast runs you down or the skinny bastard high tails it. This is what you spared the balefire shells for. (TN70+)
>Going in guns a-firing will draw all the tree golems down on you and might make the druid panic and hasten whatever transportation spell he’s working on, which never ends well for anyone nearby, namely you. Try and close in and be sure of a shot. (TN?)

>>3480606
>Going in guns a-firing will draw all the tree golems down on you and might make the druid panic and hasten whatever transportation spell he’s working on, which never ends well for anyone nearby, namely you. Try and close in and be sure of a shot. (TN?)
Sneak kill go! Preferably in stopped time for further reliability.

>>3480606
>>Going in guns a-firing will draw all the tree golems down on you and might make the druid panic and hasten whatever transportation spell he’s working on, which never ends well for anyone nearby, namely you. Try and close in and be sure of a shot. (TN?)

>>3480606
>>Going in guns a-firing will draw all the tree golems down on you and might make the druid panic and hasten whatever transportation spell he’s working on, which never ends well for anyone nearby, namely you. Try and close in and be sure of a shot. (TN?)

>>3480602
>Going in guns a-firing will draw all the tree golems down on you and might make the druid panic and hasten whatever transportation spell he’s working on, which never ends well for anyone nearby, namely you. Try and close in and be sure of a shot. (TN?)
Sneak mode engaged.

>>3480606
A not insignificant part of you wants to get this over and done with. Another considers. The power that stick-thin little bastard is drawing upon is pretty potent stuff, and the fact that he’s not already gone and done a vanishing act is proof that the ritual he’s employing is of some complexity. That kind of power can go wildly out of control if, say for example, the man enacting it was forced into either a rush or panic or both by someone out for his blood.

Needless to say you don’t think you like the sound of that too much. Instead, you resolve to creep forward as quietly as you can, making use of the foliage, trees, hell even the water if needs must--you’re already caked in muck, why not go all the way? You resolve to keep as much out of sight of the golems as is feasibly possible--you’ve no idea what kind of sensory output they may have and this close to the objective there’s no sense in taking any more risk than proves necessary.

With that in mind, you wait until the closest golem--a looming, moss-gilded colossi that looks like it was pulled together from wholly submerged, waterlogged trees--disappears through a shroud of leaves and branches before making your play…

>1d100 TN?

Rolled 10 (1d100)

>>3482502
IGNORE ME GIANT TREE MONSTERS!

Rolled 16 (1d100)

>>3482502
Don't eat me I'm not tasty!

Rolled 52 (1d100)

>>3482502
DICE GOOOODS

>>3482502
You keep low as you feel your way through the water and towards the embankment leading into the open glade and your quarry. It’s painfully slow going as you don’t want to cause any disruptions or make a splash and alert the unliving sentries keeping vigil. The ungodly reek of the swamp makes your eyes water, but you force them open, ever watchful for any sign of movement. You brush through a thick bed of reeds…

And then a keening howl startles you.

You’re unable to prevent the sudden jerk, so total is your surprise, and the splash that follows, while not especially large, is all but deafening to you. Crouching, you bite the inside of your lip and stifle a curse. Maybe nothing heard you?

A moment passes. Nothing. Half a minute ponders on sluggishly by. Sweat soaks your clothing and it’s got nothing to do with the sweltering humidity of your environment.

A sudden thought occurs. Not long after you arrived here you quickly adjusted to the constant background noise of the wildlife--hissing, chittering, croaking, buzzing, cawing. Now, you cannot hear a thing.

Silence reigns.

The deep, reverberating groan of bending bark is your only warning before the first of the golems crashes down upon you, a gargantuan, club-limb swinging for your skull. Hastily, you duck and only barely avoid having your head pulped by the thing. Beyond it, you think you hear the voice of the druid. It’s definitely raised an octave and in it you can make out the foundations of panicked urgency even as you hear more thunderous crashes--some near as the other sentinels barge their way through the undergrowth towards you. Another, you note with a chill, is not far off, and growing closer.

Damn.

Looks like stealth’s out, then.

>Load the balefire and dispatch the golems quick as. You can’t afford the luxury of avoiding a fight any longer. (TN70+)
>The golems will fall apart when the druid is dispatched. Ignore them and maybe if you’re quick you can pull the raggedy shitbag away from the leyline before he brings a catastrophe down on you. (TN75+)

Also, just a heads up, gents. There'll be no posts going up on Monday at all owing to work. Should resume come the next day, though, unless I end up being told to stay there longer which, honestly, isn't actually all that likely.

>>3483745
>>Load the balefire and dispatch the golems quick as. You can’t afford the luxury of avoiding a fight any longer. (TN70+)

>>3483745
>The golems will fall apart when the druid is dispatched. Ignore them and maybe if you’re quick you can pull the raggedy shitbag away from the leyline before he brings a catastrophe down on you. (TN75+)

Sorry folks, I was drawn away for most of the day by a home emergency. Roll a 1d100 TN70+ and I'll crank the update out ASAP.

Rolled 64 (1d100)

>>3486587

Rolled 75 (1d100)

>>3486587
DICE YOU BETTER DERP ON ME NOW!

>>3483745
The golem is on you faster than its size would suggest. Quick as it is, however, you prove faster still.

Throwing yourself aside and out of the way of an earth-shattering hammerblow, you skirt around the flank of the golem and unload on the thing, burning through the conventional shot in moments even as the thing brings its considerable weight about for a savage backhanded blow that would probably crush every bone in your body if it connects. Swaying backwards, the strike passes not a handspan from your chest, and the instant it passes is when you bring your gun up, and this one is balefire.

The golem all but explodes as the hellishly bright azure fire engulfs it in a heartbeat. Typically, however, it doesn’t flail in agony as a living being would. It is, however, noticeably slower and even now falls apart, chunks of its wooden flesh burning to charcoal before your eyes and even that is swiftly consumed by the balefire.

More crashing alerts you to the fact that another golem has closed in. Whirling around, you manage to loose off another helping of balefire before the sentinel can strike, and while the blow doesn’t connect, the rush of air as it sails past almost pushes you off your feet. More splashing and crashing about informs you that you’re going to be hard-pressed in scant moments and you take the time you’ve afforded yourself to reload. One more set of reloads is all you have for the balefire, and not much more than that for the conventional ammo. Hopefully this is the final ten yards.

You pound forward for the embankment, scampering up and out of the water and onto the grass, sliding in the mud and falling flat on your face. As it turns out, that little blunder saves your miserable hide, as another huge limb, thicker than your torso and bristling with thorny vines, sails over your head. Suppressing the urge to gulp, you roll onto your back and, having thankfully kept a grip on your shotgun, unload straight into the descending golem’s chest. On it barrels, though, and you have to roll aside to prevent yourself from being crushed underneath the thing’s blazing weight.

Scrambling to your feet, you press on. The druid is in sight, hardly more than a handful of paces away at the centre of a growing storm of swirling power. There is… an awful lot of it. His frantic gaze is locked on you and you wince as you hear him quite clearly stumble over a handful of syllables, even though the language he speaks is well and truly unknown to you. At your back, you hear the crashing as the remaining golems work to close the gap, and beyond that something larger and altogether more bloodthirsty approaches. Time, as they say, is running out.

Guess it’s a good thing you’re a time mage then, eh?

(Cont.)

>>3487358
>No time for finesse here. Burn the bastard and hope the fluctuating magical energy doesn’t screw with the doodad they gave you to extract (TN 60+)
>The druid’s gathered even more power about him than you’d feared. No telling what kind of devastation it might wreak if you don’t pull him away from the ley line first. Get him away and shut him up before you put him down (TN65+)

>>3487368
>No time for finesse here. Burn the bastard and hope the fluctuating magical energy doesn’t screw with the doodad they gave you to extract (TN 60+)

>>3487358
>>No time for finesse here. Burn the bastard and hope the fluctuating magical energy doesn’t screw with the doodad they gave you to extract (TN 60+)

>>3487368
>No time for finesse here. Burn the bastard and hope the fluctuating magical energy doesn’t screw with the doodad they gave you to extract (TN 60+)
HEAVEN OR HELL, LET'S ROCK!

>>3487368
>>The druid’s gathered even more power about him than you’d feared. No telling what kind of devastation it might wreak if you don’t pull him away from the ley line first. Get him away and shut him up before you put him down (TN65+)

>>3487368
>No time for finesse here. Burn the bastard and hope the fluctuating magical energy doesn’t screw with the doodad they gave you to extract (TN 60+)

>>3487358
Well, much as you like to say there’s always another option, that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s immediately apparent. In this instance there are two obvious routes you could take, and neither looks especially good. Drawing the skinny shit might stop the transportation ritual; operative keyword here being might. There’s so much power swirling through the air right now that you honestly don’t know.

If that is the case, then there’s really nothing else to do but shoot the bastard and hope that the vortex of energy hasn’t or doesn’t screw with the little doohickey given to you in order to extract. You hope it works as they’ve told you it will--retrieve, squeeze, and transfer just a little fragment of power into the object.

Well, here goes everything…

(1d100 TN60+)

Rolled 7 (1d100)

>>3490933

Rolled 83 (1d100)

>>3490933

Rolled 74 (1d100)

>>3490933

>>3490933
You aren’t quite recovered enough for a full run, but with everything going on at this very moment you can’t afford to hold anything back. It is quite literally do or die, and you’ve got no intention of dying. A rush of power slows time to a crawl, and you make use of the opening provided to skirt away from the wooden golems and towards the centre of the glade. The druid, pallid and stick-thin, has already begun to turn his head towards you, beady brown eyes wide in terror as he realises that there’s no escape. Not from you.

And not from the forces he attempts even now to manipulate either; some vain fantasy of escape no doubt pushing him onward.

You take aim on the grey-haired little shit’s gaunt face and feel a savage thrill pulse through your body as you settle the iron sights on the little space right between his eyes.

“Who’s smirking now, you little bastard?” you spit, curling your lips into a feral grin as you squeeze the trigger.

The balefire vomits forth, and the effect is as instantaneous as it is glorious. Even in time’s dilated state, the projectiles travel at a rapid pace. Four make contact with the druid’s head, shredding chunks of meat before the runes flare to life, sparked by their contact with flesh, and in the next instant, blue fire engulfs his head. You take a morbid satisfaction in watching the way his arms draw up to his head in panic and terror and what is surely indescribable agony as his body instinctively tries to pat the fire out. Such will only set his hands alight, but you suppose he’s not really in any position to think too hard on that. Soon, he won’t be thinking anything at all.

Time resumes its normal speed and you watch the fire consume the pitiful devil. A part of you winces at the grisly fate, the rest remembers how he cackled as he brought the forest spirits down on you. You hawk a glob of phlegm on the indignant funeral pyre and return your attention to the swirling vortex overhead. Purple lightning crackles around it as the forces joined in the transportation ritual begin to rapidly unravel in volatile fashion, and you gulp as you reach into the inner pocket of your jacket and grip the little charm given to you and the others before you arrived here.

Retrieve.

A hole in reality rips itself open and you hear what you can only describe as a howl, deeper and more thunderous than any man, beast or even the very forces of nature herself are capable of. A numbing terror clouds your mind and your body shivers as your control over your functions wane. Desperately, you reach out, searching for the mantra; reminding yourself.

Squeeze.

(Cont.)

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>>3492217
Howling winds pick at the glade. Blades of grass are plucked from the earth and pulled skyward to be sucked into the hole in the sky like a man sucks up spaghetti from his plate and you can hear trees groan in torment as they begin to violently uproot. You hear a more shrill, bestial cry and see the great mutant crocodile-thing from earlier rise above the treeline, its huge, slavering jaws opening and snapping, insectile legs scrabbling for purchase on anything. Then your own feet are lifted from the ground and you too are pulled toward the maelstrom. Panic grips you as, for a terrifying, heart-stopping moment, you almost forget the last part of the mantra.

Power.

It’s only supposed to be a little jump-start, but in your panicked state, you give it what little you’ve got. Something crackles above you and the vortex swirls and changes. Cracks of light bleed from the curiously diminishing hole in the sky, the force plucking you from the earth wanes and finally fails, dropping you to the ground. Then, like someone in some high place just snapped their fingers, everything explodes. Light stabs at your eyes and you cry out, slapping a hand over your face in vain effort to soothe your aching eyes.

This is it, you think. This is how you die. In some kind of firestorm of light drawn about because an asshole druid wanted to be somewhere else. Another howling assaults your ears, this one strangely more familiar, however, and you feel yourself tugged in a wholly different direction.

Then there is silence, and you feel yourself collapse onto a smooth, cold floor, the back of your head slamming against what feels like stone.

Dazed and wholly disoriented, you open your eyes to find the world is a blur around you. Unmistakably, however, two figures stand above you. Blinking, you find that your vision begins to clear and sharpen, and the two figures materialise into two rather more recognisable shapes.

The old man himself, and the Brit aristo.

(Cont.)

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>>3492225
“Welcome back, Mister Dawson,” Nathaniel greets with a friendly grin.

“Indeed,” Grim nods, standing impassively over you, hands resting on his cane. Clarity comes shortly after--it worked. The little negro’s device actually worked! You’re back home! Alive!

“Where are the others, though?” Nathaniel asks, looking back behind you expectantly. Guilt stabs at your heart and tempers your elation. You are alive, but the five others who travelled with you--most of them rooks who had barely been a part of Division Six longer than a few weeks at most--are not. It’s doubtful that you’ll even be able to retrieve their bodies.

“Oh…” Nathaniel’s face falls. No doubt your own expression has told the story eloquently enough. Grim says nothing, though you’ve known him long enough now to notice the slight shift in his posture and the ever so subtle lowering of his head. The loss pains him, not that he’ll ever admit it, and that’s fine. Running a show like this? Well, you imagine you’d feel a good damn deal less than sanguine about it if the boss man broke into a sobbing mess every time someone died.

Probably wouldn’t hurt to at least pretend to be human though, even if only from time to time.

“Report,” Grim commands.

“Mission accomplished,” you say after taking a breath, attempting to climb to your feet.

>Inquire about the druid--why was it so important he go dirt-tasting?
>Mention the thing from the swamp that almost had you for lunch. No way that thing is any kind of natural.
>Actually, you’d much rather have a long soak and collapse in your bed.

>>3492229
>Actually, you’d much rather have a long soak and collapse in your bed.
I want the smell of swamp ass away from my nostrils.

>>3492229
>Mention the thing from the swamp that almost had you for lunch. No way that thing is any kind of natural.

>>3492229
>Mention the thing from the swamp that almost had you for lunch. No way that thing is any kind of natural.

>>3492229
>Inquire about the druid--why was it so important he go dirt-tasting?
>Mention the thing from the swamp that almost had you for lunch. No way that thing is any kind of natural.

>>3492229
A part of you wants to know why exactly that druid had to die. Seemed a bit of a waste, in a sense, given his obvious power. However, you know that the old man has his reasons, even if it’s damned near impossible to pry them from him at times.

“Say boss,” you say, “while I was out there, I came across something unusual.”

“Unusual is rather what we deal in,” Nathaniel remarks, arching an eyebrow. You notice that he’s got his sword bucked to his waist. Guy never seems to go anywhere without it.

“All right, fair enough. I mean way beyond the norm. The swamp dryads and the crocs--”

“I’m fairly certain they’d be alligators in that part of the world,” Nathaniel interjects.

“Thank you--that was driving me nuts! Anyway, as I was saying,” you continue, “the gators and the dryads and maybe a few other things we were ready for--much good as it did those other poor bastards in the end--but as I was in pursuit of the target I came across something else.”

“Go on,” Grim says, inclining his head.

“It was big. Looked like an alligator had some weird, weird kind of baby with a massive bug. Four thin looking insect legs, and a hump with these strange quills like, I don’t know, some kind of hedgehog.”

Grim hums, thoughtful.

“Don’t suppose you know anything about it? Or how it might have come about?”

“Actually, I don’t,” the old man admits, “But this is concerning. Either this is something that’s always been there and we’ve just missed it, or…”

“Or it’s not and someone’s playing creature breeder,” Nathaniel finishes, looking distinctly unhappy at the prospect. Neither are you, now you think on it some.

“We’ll have to send an observation team back there at some point in the future,” Grim decides, “If this is an isolated case, we need to know. The same goes if it isn’t.”

You grimace, feeling decidedly sorry for whoever gets saddled with that particular job.

“Well, boss,” you say, “Unless there’s anything else…?”

“You’re dismissed,” the old man nods, “And good work, Matthew. I’m sorry about your team.”

“Yeah,” you murmur under your breath as you turn and begin the trek back to your room where a hot bath and a warm, soft bed await, “Me too.”

***

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Sorry folks, had a job sprung on me for early tomorrow morning so I'll need to retire early tonight. I'll leave a little vote up and we'll resume tomorrow evening. Sorry for the short notice--the nature of my contract means that I can be asked to take on a job anything from a few weeks to a few hours before it starts.

>Adam passes time with various people in the Infirmary
>A week passes and Adam is discharged from the Infirmary

>>3494575
>Adam passes time with various people in the Infirmary
Social links go

>>3494575
>>Adam passes time with various people in the Infirmary

>>3494575
>>Adam passes time with various people in the Infirmary

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Your name is Adam Bauer, mage, gentleman, part time rogue, and currently extremely bored.

This is not, in itself, a bad thing. Boring is good. Boring means absolutely nothing in the world is attempting to kill you.

Boring is, however, also… well, boring.

Fortunately, over the course of the week you’ve been bedridden, others have arrived to help alleviate this, somewhat. Arnold made a case for visiting nearly every day, usually with a few drinks stowed away on his gargantuan person somewhere. You recall one such visit, in which, as only true gentlemen would, you were discussing the finer aspects of the fairer sex…

***

“Sure’s sure, boss,” Arnold grunts, a wide grin splitting his face as he lowers the bottle from his lips, “She ‘ad an arse on ‘er t’die for.”

“That a fact?” you ask, feeling the corner of your lips tug, fighting not to grin along with him. It’s a losing battle.

“Uh huh,” he nods, “An’ sweeter than Cadbury’s, so she was. Had a crooked smile and this dry, cacklin’ laugh that I could never get enough of and ‘er ‘air was bright red enough that it looked like she’d caught fire on the early morn.”

“Very nice,” you incline your head in appreciation.

“Somethin’ about the red’eads,” he muses, stroking the neck of his beer bottle with his thumb, “An’ gingers too, I s’pose. Turns me legs t’jelley, but I can never get enough of ‘em.” He gives you a look of consideration, “‘Ow ‘bout you, boss man? You got a preference? Or a--a type?”

>Yeah, I’m actually pretty partial to blondes, now you ask.
>Sure I do. Redheads are the way to go.
>Something about the many shades of brown…
>Can’t go better than deep, raven black.
>Hmm. Actually, now that I think on it, I’m not sure that I really do.

>>3497728
>Hmm. Actually, now that I think on it, I’m not sure that I really do.

>>3497728
>Hmm. Actually, now that I think on it, I’m not sure that I really do.
Figure>hair

>>3497728
>Hmm. Actually, now that I think on it, I’m not sure that I really do.
Figure beats hair, personality beats all.

>>3497728
>Hmm. Actually, now that I think on it, I’m not sure that I really do.

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>>3497728
You ponder over the question, mulling it over. Certainly, there are distinct appeals to the various shades of a woman’s hair that can go a long way toward accentuating beauty. At the same time, however, neither one appeals to you, individually, more than the other.

“You know, now that I actually think on it,” you muse, “I don’t think that I actually do.”

“You serious?” Arnold asks, surprised.

“Yeah. I’ve known brunettes, blondes, redheads and gingers and even a few with hair black as night, but I don’t believe I was drawn to either of them particularly because of it,” you shrug, “As far as I was concerned at the time, it was just a part of the package.”

“That a fact?” Arnold murmurs, “Hmm. Then what would you say draws you most?”

“Figure,” you say, with only a moment’s pause for consideration, shrugging again, “I know it sounds shallow, but that’s what tickles my fancy.”

“Nothin’ wrong with a bird ‘avin’ a good shape to ‘er,” Arnold agrees, nodding, before falling into a wistful monologue: “I remember a lovely little thing worked around the pub me’n the lads’d visit after a day’s work. Name was Joan, as I remember…”

You tune him out, softly nodding along as he revisits the memory, carrying on singing this long distant girl’s praises until, finally, he stops. You blink, snapping yourself back to reality and regarding the big man inquisitively. He looks strangely forlorn.

“I…” he begins, “I ‘ope she’s doin’ all right. Her’n ‘er family. I ‘ardly ‘ad much time to go much further than a couple streets beyond the ‘arbour whenever we stop back ‘ome, but…” he sighs, shaking his head, “Jerry’s done a right and proper number on us in Blighty, you can believe. Bombin’s been murder.”

You nod, feeling a pang of sympathy. You wonder how your own friends are doing. Are they slogging it out in the reeking, torturous humidity of the Pacific Islands? Do they slog and toil through the mud and fields of Europe? Or is in Africa that they have been sent to bake and dry in the desert heat? You honestly don’t know. You’ve tried so hard to keep all thoughts of the great conflict embroiling the world out that you honestly know hardly much more beyond who’s fighting it.

(Cont.)

>>3498355
“You’ve been wiv’ a few ladies in yer time, ain’t you?” Arnold asks, surprising you with just how sudden the question is, “D’you ever, y’know… think about ‘em? After? Wonder what they might be doin’? ‘Ow they’re gettin’ on?”

>Sure I do. Maybe I didn’t stay for as long as some might have liked, but even if it was only for a short time, there WAS a connection of some kind and that’s a kind of special, isn’t it? Be pretty selfish not to at least consider them from time to time.
>Some of them. Maybe I wasn’t quite looking for a partner, but there were a few times short flings ended up going on a little longer than I planned. I like to hope that they’re doing all right.
>No, actually. Call it selfish or whatever you like, but once we’re out of each other’s lives, that’s as far as my thoughts go. I wish them all the best when we do, but I’d be lying if I said I spared any of them much thought past our farewells. What good would it do anyone to dwell?

>>3498359
>Some of them. Maybe I wasn’t quite looking for a partner, but there were a few times short flings ended up going on a little longer than I planned. I like to hope that they’re doing all right.

>>3498359
>Some of them. Maybe I wasn’t quite looking for a partner, but there were a few times short flings ended up going on a little longer than I planned. I like to hope that they’re doing all right.

>>3498359
>>Some of them. Maybe I wasn’t quite looking for a partner, but there were a few times short flings ended up going on a little longer than I planned. I like to hope that they’re doing all right.

>>3498359
You tilt your head to the side, considering his question before nodding, “Some of them, yeah.”

“Only some?”

“Arnold, I’ll be the first to admit that my experience with women so far has been more broad then deep. A few of them thought I was planning on sticking around longer than I did and sometimes I had to actually wipe their memories. Others though? Well, they ended up going on for a little more than I’d planned, and even now I like to hope that they’re doing all right.”

“Hm,” Arnold grunts in response, “I think about all’ve ‘em.”

“Really?”

“Every single one,” he nods, “An’ not just the birds, either. I think about me brothers; me old mates; mum; dad… even the rest’ve the family.”

Ah, now you see where this is going.

“Are you feeling homesick?”

He pauses to consider his answer and, after almost a solid minute in thought, slowly shakes his head.

“No,” he stops, “Yes?” he lets out a sigh, a sound you didn’t think you could reasonably equate with the lackadaisical giant of a man, “I don’t know. I signed on with the Merchant Navy for King and Country, yeah? But I also did it cause I was fed up of seein’ the same ol’ brickwork. I wanted t’go places, see other countries.”

“So you learned French?”

“I picked up a few bits’n’bobs ‘ere an’ there,” he nods, “Enough t’do all right in other places.”

You raise an eyebrow, “You can speak more than just French?”

He nods again, “Bit’o Dutch an’ German--weird ‘ow similar them two t’gether are but they got enough diff’rnces to ‘em that they ain’t the same, y’know?”

You shrug. You can speak German quite well, thanks to your father, but Dutch has never been a priority in the slightest so you’ll just take his word for it. If he’s telling you the truth--and you’ve little reason to believe he’d lie about something so trivial as this--then you’re growing steadily more impressed. Big and a little crass at times he may be, but he’s far from stupid.

“Tried Spanish too, but I don’t think I’ve got the ‘ead for it,” he adds, “It’s so… I dunno, fast.”

That’s another thing you’ll just have to take his word for, having no encounters whatsoever with the language.

>Ask why he took up all those languages--surely there must have been a reason beyond chatting up ‘foreign birds’ as he so put it.
>He seems to have a love for languages, even if he’s probably never thought of it as such--offer to teach him German from time to time.
>Prod and see if he’s ever managed to have a wander around any of the places he must have seen with the Merchant Navy.

>>3499627
>Prod and see if he’s ever managed to have a wander around any of the places he must have seen with the Merchant Navy.

>>3499627
>Prod and see if he’s ever managed to have a wander around any of the places he must have seen with the Merchant Navy.

>>3499627
>Prod and see if he’s ever managed to have a wander around any of the places he must have seen with the Merchant Navy.

>>3499627
You decide to change tack and dig a little into Arnold’s recent past, beyond what he’s already told you of his being recruited. It might even prove a happier topic of discussion for him.

“So, you must have gotten around a few places with the Merchant Navy. Did you ever actually get to wander around any of these places at all?”

Arnold leans back in the chair he dragged up next to your bed. You hear the joints squeak and wince in sympathy for what that poor piece of furniture must be undergoing, keeping the hulking Briton’s considerable bulk off the clean tile floor.

“Once or twice. It was in your ‘ome, come t’think.”

Now that gets your attention.

“You made port in New York?”

“Ah,” he blinks, “No, no, sorry. I meant in the States, not yer actual ‘ometown.”

“Oh, right,” you chuckle, “Well, whereabouts did you end up stopping long enough to have a look about shore?”

“Can’t remember the name of the place for the life’o me,” he says, rubbing at his chin with a meaty paw, “but I think someone said somethin’ about it bein’ Southaways. Folks were friendly, though. Yer’d think they never saw an Englishman in their bleedin’ lives the way some of ‘em gawped,” he says with a chuckle. You knew enough about your home to know that, for some of those people he met, this was probably the case.

“It was nice enough, I s’pose,” Arnold continues, “Bloody ‘ot, though I guess it was summertime or thereabouts. Me, Chalkie an’ the rest of the lads managed to stop at a pub and ‘ave a few rounds before we ‘ad to make our way back t’cast off. Owner was a gaunt little ghost of an old boy, but ‘e was good fun. Made us feel welcome. So did the other folks too, come to think. Asked us all about the goings-on back ‘ome, our lives an’ what we’d done…” he adopts a wistful expression, “Made us forget there was a war goin’ on it was so nice and quiet there.”

Yeah, you imagine a little dose of normality would do that to a person. You wonder if you might perhaps feel the same if you were able to just stop for a few moments in a little town in the middle of nowhere--just take a seat in a nice little cafe or restaurant, order a coffee; maybe a slice of cake and just… sit and enjoy the peace and quiet.

You blink, realising that you can’t really recall a time even before you got shanghaied where you just took a pause to enjoy life as it was. Each time you stopped off somewhere, you’d had at least one ulterior motive for being there, whether it was to try and filch a little cash or to try and indulge in some of the more explicit activities a grown man and woman could get up to with one another.

Blinking again to relieve yourself of the sudden realisation, you return your attention to Arnold, who has continued speaking of the second time he was fortunate enough to actually tread the soil of Uncle Sam’s domain.

(Cont.)

>>3500948
“It was stormy,” he recalls, “No way we or anyone’d be able to get through until at least t’morrow when it’d ‘opefully blow over. So, Captain gave us shore leave for the day,” he snorts, “Pretty crummy it was, though, considerin’ the storm’n all. No one was out except the daft bastards what needed somethin’ doin’. Most of the decent waterin’ ‘oles were closed, except one. Nasty little dive if ever there was, but we was parched and weren’t honestly fussed by that point, so in we went.”

You can’t help but find it typical that the foreign sailors’ first instincts upon having a bit of time to themselves is to find the nearest open bar.

>Motion for him to continue. Hearing a foreign perspective on your homeland is curiously amusing.
>Wait, was that movement you just saw by the entrance?

>>3500949
>Motion for him to continue. Hearing a foreign perspective on your homeland is curiously amusing.

>>3500949
>>Motion for him to continue. Hearing a foreign perspective on your homeland is curiously amusing.

>>3500949
You think you catch a flicker of movement by the entrance to the infirmary, but quickly dismiss it. Probably just one of the staff poking their head in. Curiously enough, you were still the only one admitted to this particular ward. You aren’t sure how you’re supposed to feel about that.

“So, what happened?” you ask, returning your attention to Arnold. You assume something must have occurred there, else this would be a pretty boring tale.

“Well, we went in, and there was this little gaggle of folks ‘angin’ about. Big, menacin’ types all jostlin’ about and makin’ the poor bloke be’ind the bar look real uncomfortable-like. I dunno what ‘appened t’start ‘em off and I don’t think I ‘eard why, but these were spoilin’ for a fight, and when they ‘eard we was foreign? I dunno, maybe they thought that was as good a reason as any fer a scrap.”

“You’re kidding. Just like that they decided to attack you?”

“Yup,” he nods, “Jus’ like that,” he snaps his fingers, “O’course, none’ve ‘em ‘ad clearly been as scrappy as we was,” he adds with a smug grin, “Not a one’ve ‘um could fight worth a bum t’save ‘is life. Heh, I remember Chalkie put two’ve ‘em through a table. Felt pretty bad about it, too. Said ‘sorry’ to the bloke runnin’ the place about umpteen times.

“Anyhow, we sorted the pikers out good’n proper. Roughed up the place a bit, but the barkeep was jus’ grateful that ‘e weren’t going to get ‘is ‘ead stuffed so he gave us all a round on the ‘ouse, which was right good of ‘im t’do, sure as sure.”

“Can’t have been all bad, then,” you say, thinking back to his earlier disparaging remark on the place.

“The beer was a lot better than we thought it’d come to,” he concedes, “Bit cold for most’ve our tastes but it did the job.”

“Cold? What’s wrong with a cool beer?” you ask, then raise the bottle in your hand, “You drank this perfectly fine and that was a little chilled.”

“Sure, cause it ain’t like I’m exactly given options. It just ain’t the same,” he shakes his head, to your growing bafflement, “‘s gotta be served warm.”

>No. This will not stand. Everyone with even half a brain knows the worst beer is made at least drinkable when served chilled.
>...you know what? Fine. And the Brits call YOU savages...

>>3502741
>...you know what? Fine. And the Brits call YOU savages...

>>3502741
>...you know what? Fine. And the Brits call YOU savages...

>>3502741
>...you know what? Fine. And the Brits call YOU savages...

>>3502741
>>...you know what? Fine. And the Brits call YOU savages...

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I'm going to be aiming to wrap this particular thread up in either the next post this evening or, if needs be, a final post tomorrow morning. I'll aim to throw a new thread up next Monday instead of Friday as I've got a job going on all next weekend and we start early.

>>3502741
There is something deeply wrong with what you are hearing.

And yet, you don’t really want to make much of an argument of it either. So, with as much effort as you’re able to muster, you affect a shrug and allow the savage his opinion.

Weirdo.

“So, aside from my internment here,” you motion with a hand to your surroundings, deciding to switch topics, “Have I missed much?”

Arnold gulps down the last few drops of his drink and sets the bottle down by the base of his chair before answering.

“Nah. They’ve made a few extensions ‘ere an’ there, I think. Pretty sure the swimmin’ pool’s gotten bigger fer those ‘oo want t’make good use of it. S’posedly they’ve placed a few wards in the area that folks can adjust t’make the place look a little more to their own liking or some such. Don’t ask me ‘ow it works, though, I ain’t no sightspinner like you are.”

That seems like a weird kind of thing to do, but you won’t deny that it’s piqued your curiosity--if it is indeed true. You wonder how they managed to achieve such a thing; first instinct is that it’s all illusioncraft, though you’ll acknowledge that the world is vast and there could well be some discipline or blend of such that might make a feat like the one Arnold describes possible.

“Oh, an’ the little ‘un always ‘angin’ about that skinny red ‘aired bird popped on down ‘ere a few times.”

It takes you a moment to parse who he’s referring to.

“What, JJ?”

“Izzat ‘is name? Yeah, ‘im. Caught ‘im snoopin’ a few times that I’ve been down.”

“Why?”

“I dunno, I never stopped t’ask and he weren’t ‘urtin’ anyone. Thought at first maybe ‘e was checkin’ in on someone else but it’s always ‘ere that ‘e loiters about.”

“Is he there now?”

“Maybe,” Arnold shrugs, “Not like I’ve been checkin’.”

>Ask if he can go see if the kid’s there and bring him in if he is indeed scoping out your ward in particular--you’re a little curious as to what he might want.
>Ah, leave it be. As Arnold said; it’s not like he’s hurting anyone with a bit of of observation and you can probably find out what’s up once you’re discharged in a few days.

>>3504780
>Ask if he can go see if the kid’s there and bring him in if he is indeed scoping out your ward in particular--you’re a little curious as to what he might want.

>>3504780
>Ask if he can go see if the kid’s there and bring him in if he is indeed scoping out your ward in particular--you’re a little curious as to what he might want.

Rolled 2 (1d2)

Sorry for the silence last night, the wifi decided it was temporarily tired of life.

>>3504780
“Well, can I ask you to go look? See if maybe you could bring him in?”

Arnold blinks at you, “Uh, yeah I can, but why? If yer don’t mind me askin’?”

“‘Why’ is what I’d like to ask the little guy himself.”

“Hm,” your companion grunts, “Fair ‘nuff I s’pose,” and with that, he hefts his considerable mass off the chair and plods on over to the entrance to the ward. He glances about through the open door before catching sight of something and reaching out with a hand.

“C’mon, lad, I ain’t gonna ‘urt’cha,” he says as you hear a muffled scuffling noise. No doubt the big guy took the boy by surprise, “Jus’ shift yeself inside, the bloke only wants a word.”

Tactless wording aside, he’s not incorrect. You’re struggling to think of any reason why the kid would be hanging about. There’s the possibility that it’s not just you he’s here for, of course, but then why else would he visit an almost empty ward?

...Des hasn’t been taken ill, or gotten herself injured, has she?

Though you can’t honestly say you know her very well at all, the idea that such a bright, bubbly spirit might have gotten herself hospitalised in some fashion doesn’t sit particularly well with you. On the other hand, if that was indeed the case, surely he’d be spending as much time in the ward with his guardian as possible instead of hanging about outside, right? Guess you can discount that theory.

“Yer there, boss?”

You start, realising that in your private musings, Arnold has brought the poor kid right to your bedside, who is doing a very good impression of a startled deer.

“I brought ‘im, as requested.”

“So I can see,” you observe, “So, JJ. What brings you to this part of the world?”

You feel stupid even as the words leave your mouth. He can’t answer you, and a quick once-over would suggest that he doesn’t have his notepad even if he perchance does have something to write with. He seems to guess your thoughts, because his expression morphs into one you’d almost regard as cheeky, fishing what looks like a little plastic ball, like that used in table tennis. Comprehension dawns swiftly, though, as you register the unmistakable scrawlings of a summoning circle.

“Clever boy,” you say with a nod of appreciation and a slow grin.

The kid makes an effort to return the grin, and with a pop of displaced air, his notepad appears right in his hand. Arnold sets him down as JJ scrawls out his message before turning it around for you to read it. It isn’t a long missive, but the content grinds the little cogs in your head to a screeching halt for a moment, and you actually feel yourself going over it a few times before it finally registers.

“...you need my help?”

And I guess that's where we'll lay this thread to rest. Thanks to everyone who stopped by, even if only to lurk. I know it was slow going towards the end.

We'll pick on up with a thread this coming Monday evening. Have a nice week anons and hopefully I'll see you all again for the run next week.