...For the next life

[Dylan Willis]
Whatever the Marauder had tried to do to the blood witch had been staved off by the force of her will, leaving her bruised but no worse for wear, but what he had been attempting to do went against the very rules that the Consensus had put in place; it would have resulted in grievous, obvious injury if the young woman had not defended herself, and Paradox chambers a round that is not going to be fired at the man responsible for its being called into existence in the first place.

It aims at Alice as she saunters forward and crouches in front of the distraught man. His sobs are, like the heat of the air and the stench of the homeless man's clothing and the wrongness surrounding Alice, ignored. To pay too much attention to him could do absolutely no good, and so people simply divert around them, heels clicking and gums flapping as they talk on cell phones or to their companions.

The young woman attempts to soothe the being that used to be Dylan Willis, even as he ducks his head and covers his eyes with his hand and continues to cough out sobs. She's sweating, she's feeling the immense heat as it bears down on them, and yet she presses on.

Until the chambered round discharges, and causes searing pain to shoot straight up through the core of Alice's being. It's a pain that is almost sublime, so pure and piercing that it takes away her breath and bleaches out her vision, that it knocks her into a state of stunned stillness that she has known before.

The Marauder is so wracked with sorrow, that sorrow sublimating into what could be easily recognized as grief by even the most callous of souls, that he can do little more than weep.

[Gregor]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 7, 8, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6) Re-rolls: 1
(Perception 4 (disturbances) + Awareness 3. Diff 6)

[Nathan Spriggs]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 7, 7, 8, 9 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Ashley McGowen]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 3, 3, 4, 8, 8, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Perception + Awareness]

[S. Ashton Winters]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 4, 5, 7, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[per+aware]

[Rene Vitalli]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 5, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Per/aware ]

[Dylan Willis]
to Ashley McGowen, Nathan Spriggs, Rene Vitalli, S. Ashton Winters
[A lot of Paradox just went off near the middle of North Michigan Avenue. It was caused by an accumulation of Life and Prime magic. As you get closer, you can sense some dissipating Mind magic.]

[Gregor]
Gregor's movements have been...sporadic. His attention has been otherworldly. He drifts in and around crowds, height dominating many of the 'unseeing' who drift out of his path with subconscious or reflexive distaste. The Mile was a popular place for their kind. Beggars, that is. Up until a moment ago he'd been like a sniffing dog, head bobbing and face squinting into the glare of the afternoon light.

Up until a moment ago. Gregor's head snaps around hard, body following a split second later as the flare of Effects surges into the aether. Those following him are given no word or measure. The towering Dreamspeaker simply turns down the sidewalk and begins a long legged march. Jaw clenched. Eyes set.

[Ashley McGowen]
Ashley lives near the store where this fight is taking place: ordinarily it wouldn't be difficult for her to find her way to Dylan and Alice anyway. Fate works strangely, though, a fact she has noticed and occasionally bemoaned as of late. She recognizes that warm heat that blasts across her skin, and on its tail, something dark, predatory - and yet vaguely familiar. Now, Ashley has been advised to stay away, keep her head down, stay out of the process of returning Dylan to the earth, his soul to the Wheel, and she respects that. She took it under advisement.

But fear has to be faced, and the moment the resonance sears her skin she can't deny that she's afraid. So the Hermetic drops a bag of groceries that was sitting on her hip, and she runs. Yolk and egg white and milk spill out across the pavement, and people wonder. But she goes to North Michigan Avenue as fast as an (unfortunately short) set of legs will carry her.

[Nathan Spriggs]
Nathan had been walking through the streets that evening looking for a decent bookstore; he'd been warned by Wharil that nasty things were on the loose, and to never drop his guard. It was because of this that he felt it as a sudden wave of energy was release, he couldn't quite place what it was as he'd never felt anything as powerful as it before but he knew it could be no good. Whatever it was, it was only a few streets down, so he considered the situation twice, he could investigate and risk himself or he could wait it out a bit. It took a moment but his decision was made, the man had broken into a run towards the street, checking his pockets for his fake credentials in case it was needed and the gun he always carried, careful not to draw it on an open street just yet.

He'd check the situation out and pull back, keep a safe distance, whatever had happened wasn't something he could do much about. His mind was processing the possibilities while he tried to get a sense of what the energy was.

[Alice MacIntyre]
The scene seemed impossible to ignore, really. People should at the very least be staring down as they glide by uncaring, lips curled into sneers of disgust at the homeless man bawling into his untrimmed beard and the sloppy looking girl half-sprawled on the sidewalk with him, probably sharing a bad high with him. And yet no one seemed to bat an eyelash, seemed to notice there was heat akin to a fire burning stove with the door flung open licking about their knees and hips from the wailing man. They may as well be invisible.

Alice was attempting to make the man quail, to break him with sorrow, to entrance his mind and ensnare his trust when he was in his state of vulnerability. She had managed, she felt the magic click, felt the tingle in the blood trailed in a twisting, spiraling design down her forearm to inform her it had worked. But she wasn't quick enough, it seemed. There had been that uncomfortable tension, like something building, something warning her to be wary of this path. An ache, at worst. Then that tension snapped and her insides spasmed and burst (or that's what it felt like, at least). Her eyes went out of focus, her jaw went slack, and her balance gave way. She tipped backwards, dropping out of the crouch on the balls of her feet and onto her ass, from there back to catch herself on her elbow in a half-sprawled half-supported position.

She was too dazed to do anything for a few moments, but when thing sharpened she hissed out a snarl of pain and wrapped her arm firmly around her midsection, turned her head to the side and hacked a cough that had a spray of red pushing from between her teeth.

"Aw Willis," she half-crooned half-croaked, "You daft sunnivabitch..."

[Rene Vitalli]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 2, 3, 4 (Success x 1 at target 4)
*Rene has come prepared, gun cleaned oiled ready to go. Blades at the ready. Will worked on herself and the other two euthanatos that are at her side. Luck. Threaded through their life lines for today, for this encounter. Luck. She knows what's to happen to day, and fate willing, she's not destined for her next life just yet. Chin raised as she approaches the debacle sure to happen wherever the Nameless Crow pops up.*

[luck effect -1 dif = thread foci -1/4 quint to lower dif)

[S. Ashton Winters]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 2, 4, 5 (Success x 3 at target 3) [WP]
Ashton Winters could be described as militant in some regards, she could be described as a lot of things. Cold was one of them, and well-armed as another. That might have been the definition of militant for some, and it was working well enough for her for the time being. She was going to end up on America's Most Wanted for this. Hell, for all she knew, the Technocracy might pin a medal on her before carting her away to be re-educated. Whatever it was, she was doing a service, and she was doing what creation asked of her. She bit her lower lip, hard enough that it hurt, but not hard enoughto draw blood. She followed with her traditionmates, ad for now, the longest standing traditionalist in their city is silent.

She is focused

[same rote: luck effect: diff 6 - 1 (February) - 1 (focus!) - 1 quint (because quint is yummy) = diff 3]

[Wharil Choc]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 2, 7, 8 (Success x 3 at target 4) [WP]
They had their map. They had their meeting. They had their tools. The euthanatoi were prepared for this, and in general, though perhaps still somewhat grudging, agreement. The Hotel was just at the end of the red line. The hotel was not their sanctum or marabout. It was only a temporary meeting ground.

Once they had their location, and once Wharil had called the Dreamspeaker to share the information, he and the other two Euthanatoi gathered again for one last time, each fastening their tools to them. Wharil worrying the bones with his fingers, doing what he did so infrequently and truly putting his all, and a little more, into the effect. The room felt frigid. The room felt like crawling frost up a window pane. The room felt like a snowglobe, shaken, and shattering at its destruction.

This was, perhaps, what euthanatos prayer looked like.

He'd suggested they come from seperate directions. He'd emphasized the need for them to cut off all routes of escape save for one. And when they scattered, they at least knew that either fate or instinct would have them converging on the same spot. Wharil wasn't surprised by the heat. These three were rarely surprised by coincidence.

[Lets call it 'Fates Blessing', Base diff 6, -1 for focus, 1/3 quint = diff 4]

[Dylan Willis]
The sidewalks are more crowded than they would be on any other day of the workweek because it's a Friday, because it's a payday; people have money burning holes in their pockets, have places they want to go and things they want to buy, and even in the dead of winter Magnificent Mile presents itself as a major tourist draw. Concrete walkways are congested with bodies, and more than one person finds him- or herself pushed out of the way as Ashley tears down the street, her abandoned groceries weeping in the slush behind her.

They're crowded, and not a single Sleeper soul is concerning itself with the immense heat that is taking up an entire block, or with the fact that for a good quarter mile of walking or driving, it's bleakly dark before some vestiges of sunlight return to the air. They're sidestepping the sobbing homeless man and his fucked-up friend, ignoring the fact that something is blatantly Not Right because Not Right doesn't fit in with shopping and dinner plans.

Gregor gets there first. He comes upon a department store window that is fogged to the point of opaqueness, a streak forming a trail in the steam to end up with a tall, sniffing Marauder crouching down on the sidewalk.

Alice's effect wears off, its spark not hot enough to catch a bigger fire, and he sniffs again, clearing his sinuses and staring at her as if she has appeared from out of nowhere. This is Gregor's first time seeing the Marauder in person, and this is what he sees as he shoots to his feet and takes several pointed steps backwards away from Alice: he's 6'1", leanly yet powerfully built underneath a dirty Army jacket and clothing torn and blood-stained from multiple trips through the Avatar Storm. He might have been attractive once, but his hair is grown-out and his face is covered in scraggly, unkempt beard and his eyes are wild with fever.

He nearly slams right into Gregor before he wheels around to face him, breathing heavily, reaching for something behind his back.

"I should have known there were more of you," he gasps, his words tumbling out in an awfully big hurry.

[Rene Vitalli]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 8 (Failure at target 6)
*They know the location they will encounter him. They're forewarned. It has its advantages in that the Death dealers can plan their attack. It was decided Rene would take the alley route, her reflection not so much an issue when passing dumpsters, as when streaking past mirrored skyscrapers. Stealth was best so early in the game. The Euthie's feet falling fast and quiet on the alley floor as she approaches, sweat slowly beading on chocolate skin.*

[dex/stealth]

[Gregor]
"...More of who?"

Gregor and Dylan look alike. Not in features but in presence. He stares at the man before him with...sudden clarity. The broken appearance. The tired expression. The wild eyes. The scruff and roughness. Days of weariness to shatter worlds. Something akin. Something alike. It makes him hesitate (Damnit!/GREGOR!)

"...I'm..." Head shaking, eyes not falling away from Dylan's own, though a hand rises to point at the man's own, reaching for something. "...I..." Several quick breaths.

"...need to understand why you're doing this..." Something there. Fear.

Fear with no Qualms. Staring Dylan in the eye. Beggar to Beggar. Fear to Fear.

[Ashley McGowen]
The scene that greets her eyes is unexpected. Dylan, sobbing on the ground and the blood witch she met last week standing over him (the cause of this?) and the Marauder isn't on his feet, she nearly has him finished as promised. The Hermetic quickens her pace then, spurred onward by a sudden pang (I'll make it painless if I can) because sometimes honor is found in the strangest places, and people you don't expect to keep their promises are the ones that try the hardest.

She doesn't call out to Alice, because she doesn't want to startle her. She just appears next to the other mage with her hand clenched around the metal links beneath the collar of her shirt, trying to ignore the vertigo that wheels the world around her when she stops. Alice doesn't appear to need her help at all, but there it is. And Gregor.

She catches the very last of what Gregor says. "...Don't try to understand it," she wheezes, all in one breath, sucking in lungfuls of air as she tries to regain her bearings before action. Alice seems to have this under control anyway.

[S. Ashton Winters]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 5, 6 (Failure at target 8)
She is familiar with this. She knows how this works. She's done this before, but at that moment she wants to hesitate. This was a friend, this was a man, this was.... they were all someone's friends, once. they were all men and women, all of them. All of them important to someone, and all of them equally important. She is not shut off, she is not isolated. Instead, she is making her way down the street.

Dylan should have known there would be more of them.

She approaches, and she is distant, and she wants to be more distant than she is. (I want you in my life, I don't care in what capacity. She had said something similar once. She had insisted once, after avoiding him. Regrets, regrets all. Was that pain in her eyes? Was that hesitation in her gait? Her traditionmates wouldn't understand...)

[Oh god, Dot, Tell me what to do: Past lives roll!]

[Nathan Spriggs]
Nathan was panicking, bad situation after bad situation had struck in the few days he'd been in this city, and something was terribly, horribly wrong here. And yet no one noticed, the crowds grew thicker the deeper he went in towards the area in fact, rather than thinner as he'd expected. Whatever it was that he'd felt, it had not been visible to the Sleepers, or if it had something had covered it up. It was a sinking feeling of despair that momentarily overtook him, he had no cellphone or way of contacting the others, no one to count on, but he couldn't turn away. Whatever was capable of unleashing such a nightmarish display of power would undoubtedly be a danger to everything and everyone around him. Fear lingered but he tried his best to push it back, as bad a person as most people would consider Nathan if they knew him, he hadn’t fallen far enough to stand idly while dozens if not hundreds of innocent bystanders were in danger.

He could feel the terrible sensation crawling on him, as though under his skin, he was getting closer and closer to the source, a voice in his head telling him to turn back with every step he took. Nathan silently cocked the Five-SeveN in his pocket as he ran, careful not to undo the safety just yet so as to not shoot himself in the leg. Luckily his coat’s pockets were deep enough to simply appear as though he had his hand deep inside it, and his appearance dirty and scruffy enough that no one paid the sprinting man much mind. To them he was just some poor loser hooked up on drugs and running around like mad, nothing new in this city.

The scene that awaited him when he finally did arrive was ghastly, and yet slightly comforting, he recognized Ashley but not the weeping man. Though every nerve in his body reacted to him, telling him to run for his life.

[Wharil Choc]
Ashton approaches. From the opposite direction, a man in black wool coat sifts through the crowd of evening shoppers. On the other side of the mile he needed the coat. It was chilly. No, it was cold. Bitingly cold. But here, among the fogged storefront windows, he tugs at the collars. He loosens the buttons. He lets it fall open.

There was something wonderfully mundane about Wharil Choc. Something that let people think the man with the charming smile was hardly anything special. Hardly worth looking at. Hardly worth taking in the details of his face, his hair, his clothes. Hardly worth noticing the sheathed knife that hung on his left hip as he sidles pass a woman with half a dozen shopping bags. Hardly worth glancing at the handgun, illegal to carry in this city, sitting at his right hip as he gently pushes between two independent pedestrians.

The sweat on his brow said he was getting closer. But then, his eyes fall on a familiar form. Two familiar forms. Ashley. Gregor. What were they doing here?

And the third Euthanatos...hesitates.

[Alice MacIntyre]
Well, that was all for nothing...

Alice watched through pain-squinched eyes as Dylan's tears stopped trickling down into his beard and as he seemed to return to focus (or what little he had left to call that). Her nose wrinkled and she let her head fall back as he stood up and backed away, and with a low groan of pain she began to slowly push herself up to her feet. One arm remained curled around her midsection, the other hand lifted to wipe blood away from her lower lip, and with what looked like pained effort she lifted her head to look over at the man that Dylan had run into, and the fact that said man was staring at him not unlike a deer in the headlights (or in the scope).

She squinted at him, then hacked out a rough laugh that had more blood dribbling onto her chin.

"What, y'just gonna stand there gawkin' at him? Do somethin', huh?"

[Dylan Willis]
It would be foolish, even stupid, for him to give him back to a woman who has proven more than once to be capable of if not mentally controlling him then at least swaying his emotions or even his consciousness until he is just about useless. He does not give her his back. The Marauder slams his back into the storefront window so that he can get Alice in his sights more easily, and not all of his attention is on the gaunt stranger in front of him.

He's breathing heavily, quickly, the breaths of a man whose sympathetic nervous system is powered on and dictating his every move, his every tic. He looks as though sleep is a distant memory for him, moves as though he has fire under his boots, stares at Gregor as though he doesn't quite trust him to not surge forward and attempt to end him as he's told Kage more than once they would end her if they got too much of an indication that she was with him.

... More of who?

"Youuu're not--" He coughs out a harsh laugh, looking back over his shoulder at Alice, at the alleyway where Rene isn't as quiet as she thinks she is. "--fooling me. I know what you are. You're with them, or you wouldn't be down here to begin with."

He needs to understand why he's doing this.

A twitch seizes the Marauder's shoulder, shudders down his arm, which he brings up to drag a hand down his sweat-dappled face to clear salt water from his eyes.

"It isn't... it isn't a matter of choice, it isn't... I mean, in a way it is, it's... I know what I'm doing down here and I know why you're trying to keep me down here but you can't..."

His gaze turns suddenly sharp, and he slides away from Gregor a half step as Alice asks if he's just going to stand here gawkin'. He seems to realize that's bringing him closer to Alice, though, for he takes a larger step back towards Gregor, and then another, until they're within arm's reach of each other.

[Gregor]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 7, 7, 7, 8, 10 (Success x 6 at target 6) [WP]
(Charisma 2 + Awareness 3 + WP: Level your tone, calm your voice, Gregor)

[Nathan Spriggs]
Nathan laid in wait, bidding his time in the crowd, he was forceful enough not to be swept away but still enough to keep a view on the situation, never losing sight of the man who unknown to him was the

[Gregor]
"...What are you..."

He levels his tone. Evens his voice out. Dylan and Gregor had something in common. Height. For once he was not the towering creature overshadowing others. For once he did not have to hunker or sink low to seem harmless. For once he could look a man in the eye and breathe. Long deep breaths, as if he could infect Dylan with their soothing quality. Slow, steady-

"...Always a choice..." A beat. "...Just need a reason..."

He remains still. Calm. Poised. The Fear under his heart was beginning to make sense. A reflection before him, like some baited mirror. A spirit of unrest. A Creature of Lost Thoughts. Like a siphon of the panic the Others could instill.

Is this how Kage sees it?

"What are you doing here?" A beat. "...And I'm not sure what it is-" Confusion. Purposeful. Questioning. Affliction of the lost, demanding answers of clarity "-I'm doing here exactly, but...if you know then please-" A beggar's tone though, perfected "-what is it exactly?"

[Wharil Choc]
Alright. This was an unexpected coincidence. Well, in truth, it was completely expected. He'd been the one to call Gregor, of course. And a little part of him knew Ashley wasn't going to stay away. But he'd fooled himself, you see. Fooled himself into thinking that the two of them would do what they had to do from a distance.

We fool ourselves all the time, Wharil realized. And he continued to fool himself even as he continue his approach. Telling himself 'Everything is going according to plan' and 'nothing's gonna go wrong.' and 'I will not hurt my friends' as he sank himself into the moving crowd once again, keeping his head down as he approached. Just a little closer. Just a few steps closer, perhaps. Just a draw of the gun away.

[Ashley McGowen]
Alice, on the ground, urges them to finish Dylan off. Gregor is asking for reasons, for what Dylan is doing here, and Ashley looks sidelong at this potential cabal-mate of hers. For a moment her jaw tightens, her eyes glint with barely suppressed fury, and she reaches into her pockets as though searching for a weapon. She has none.

"Marla and Jackson did this to him, Gregor. He's beyond helping. I tried. We should finish this now while we have a chance."

And then her head turns to look at the sobbing man. "We're not with Marla and Jackson, Dylan. I know what they did to you. They're dead now." Ashley is not sure why she tells him this. Perhaps, if there's anything of Dylan Willis' Mind or Will left, she intends for it to reach him, to let him know that the people who caused his suffering are gone. A brief message: It's over. Rest.

She doesn't have a weapon, and if this is left up to her it will have to be magic. Ashley begins to steel herself in silence.

[Nathan Spriggs]
Nathan laid in wait, bidding his time in the crowd, he was forceful enough not to be swept away but still enough to keep a view on the situation, never losing sight of the man who unknown to him was the Marauder. His hand trembling slightly on the grip of the gun hidden in his pocket as he drew a deep breath to calm himself. He observed the situation carefully, another man, an Awakened probably, approached the man who felt terrifying and dangerous. It was then that he noticed Gregor attempting to speak to the man, he wagered on his attention being divided enough to miss Nathan a while longer.

He was cautious enough not to act and draw attention but it'd be stupid of him to not be ready. He let go of the gun momentarily, closing his eyes in pain as he made a fist and put enough pressure into it to bleed. Droplets of blood smearing on his gun as he gripped it again, which was prepped with countless runes and strange symbols carved into the grip, he closed his eyes for a moment, focusing carefully on the gun. He was attempting to make Quintessence flow into it, whatever that man was, he didn't feel human so he couldn't risk normal bullets being useless. But not yet, it'd take a while longer, he wouldn't do it yet, too much was at risk. He'd wait and see what happened from here.

[Rene Vitalli]
*Wharil will be coming from one side. Ashton from another. Rene closing in, bisecting from the alley. Not as silent as she'd like to be. Broken glass crushing underfoot, damn alleyway littered with the cast offs of a throwaway culture. Her gun is brought to bear, silencer a dull grey in the unnatural darkness. But damn it if people weren't crowding the target...*

[Dylan Willis]
It's dark, here. Darker than it was several blocks away, darker than it ought to be at this time of day. The sun is beginning to think about setting, but this is the sort of dark that hovers over the sky in the hour before daylight. Street lamps are providing a sallow sort of luminescence to the sidewalk, and people who are rudely jostling past the two homeless men have to be wondering if it's going to snow, if there's a storm coming, have to be irritated that these three are taking up the damn sidewalk and why isn't the mayor doing anything about the vagrants in this city, anyway?

Gregor speaks with a calm that is god-like in its assuredness, in its ability to conceal what is hammering beneath his breastbone and threatening to clog his throat, and it has an affect on the Marauder. The literature that some of them have been scouring says that things like this happen, that spending time around those that aren't completely insane or having to supply some semblance of reason to their madness can draw them away from the sharp edge of Quiet, and as Gregor speaks, as he implores the Marauder to explain...

... the darkness begins to ebb.

The Marauder swallows, thickly, attempting to lubricate a throat that has gone dry from panting, and then Ashley appears from behind Gregor and he startles, though not as violently as he would have had Gregor not been lulling him a moment ago.

Dark, glazed eyes flit between Gregor and Ashley, and he turns his head to look back at Alice. He runs his hand down his face again, holding his hand over his mouth for several seconds as he processes what's been said. It has to go through a filter, you see, his Avatar has to decipher the words and feed them back to him in a language he'll understand. It takes time. Sometimes things get lost.

"You're not with them?" he asks, dropping his hand from his mouth. For a moment, he looks as though he's going to drop. He doesn't drop.

[Gregor]
"...I don't even know what they are to be honest. I-"

His head can't seem to stop shaking at various speeds. Slow when he's listening, heightening when he speaks. At the moment it just looks like the way it normally would. Resigned. Vaguely deflated. The Dreamspeaker remains with Dylan though. Maintaining those eyes. Fear is there. Easily read but then...that was acceptable. Accepted. In his face and stance. Fear was Ok. Kept you rooted.

He does move one of those gloved hands, the mirror missing from the top of the palm (and as it flicks at Ashley to keep her distance at Dylan's brief start, she may notice the glove has been turned backward, the mirror shard on the inside of a fist that can't fully close).

"-I'm trying to understand what you're doing. Why you're doing it but-...but..." A slight hitch, scanning his mind. New territory, you understand. New thoughts.

"...If you can explain...I can help..." It wasn't exactly a lie but Gregor was no were near certain he could. "...I mean...I-I can try...and give you another choice..."

He holds out that gloved hand. Tentively. Mirror up, reflecting the sky above, tilted away from Dylan's own features that if the Marauder glanced down at it...even briefly, he might spy Gregor's own features (in part), regarding Him.

[Ashley McGowen]
"No," Ashley tells Dylan. Firm, watching how he hesitates, how he drops back. That might make this easier, even if it doesn't change the outcome. Even if it doesn't change what has to happen. It makes it easier to keep a promise.

And then, she is seized by other words she wants to say. Because no matter how a person tries to isolate themselves, tries to stay out of what is going on and trusts that a lack of involvement will be its own protection, things happen anyway. Suffering finds you. "Thanks for the lesson," she tells Dylan, before looking sidelong at Gregor. Who seems to have his own plans.

And, in lieu of her lack of a knife or gun or...anything, anything that could put an end to this, she nods to the tall man next to her. But she still watches, unsure of what exactly he has in mind.

[Nathan Spriggs]
Nathan continued watching through it all, his hand still gripping the gun tightly as he hid in the crowd. Still not the right moment, he wouldn't be the guy who messed everything up by acting out of place, not today. He could feel the blood coagulating on the gun, his hand felt a bit sticky but still he waited. His other hand was now also in the other pocket, grasping his open-faced watch tightly just in case.

[Rene Vitalli]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 5, 6, 9 (Success x 1 at target 9) [WP]
*Aiming. Aiming. There was the hobo. The Dreamspeaker. Gregor. His name was Gregor. Ashley. Someone else she doesn't know. Two of them. Hostile? Friendly? She'd find out soon enough as the shooting starts. People ignore Rene, much to their collective fortune. Gunshots however, even silenced, would not go ignored for long. Make it count. Make it hurt. Dark eyes narrow, trained on Dylan as she moves into position and squeezes the trigger*

[dex/fire arms + 2 dif - called shot]

[Rene Vitalli]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 5, 8, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[damage = 4]

[Dylan Willis]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 6, 10, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Better Body, you're the one!]

[Wharil Choc]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 2, 5, 8, 9 (Success x 3 at target 8) [WP]
The darkness ebbed. Perhaps, on the edge of this sweltering aura, the heat wavered as well. This was a good thing. This was a hopeful sign.

But the Nameless Crow was still a mad thing. A sick thing. Suffering.

His hands weren't gloved. He'd worried about that when he started out on the trip here. But now that it was warm, the trick of stiffness that the cold would play on his joints wasn't as much of a concern. So, one naked hand; the right, reached for the gun at his hip, drawing it to the ready. The other reached for a collar, but who's? Gregor's? Ashley's? They needed the Dreamspeaker for this. But they needed the hermetic for everything else.

There's the sudden pop from across the way. No more time for thinking. This was it.

Wharil pushed his way to a side into one of the shoppers, and brought the gun level to his sight, to the Nameless Crow between so many bodies, and his finger squeezed.

[Dex+Firearms, +2 diff]

[Wharil Choc]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 3, 5, 5, 7, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[.45 damage[6] +3 suxx -1]

[Dylan Willis]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 3, 7 (Failure at target 6)
[Soak!]

[Dylan Willis]
[Mindy, you have 3 minutes to post and then we're going to inits.]

[S. Ashton Winters]
She was armed and dangerous, courtesy of a philosopher.

The mage took a few steps forward, the woman was armed, and she knew that this was going to be difficult. She heard nothing in her mind, nothing that would say that she needed to shoot a certain way or even the blow out. Ashton knew what she was doing. She knew how to fire a gun; she'd been doing it for lifetimes.

Shotguns, while obvious, are nothing special.

[S. Ashton Winters]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 3, 6, 9, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 5 at target 8) [WP]
[dex+firearms, diff 8]

[S. Ashton Winters]
Dice Rolled:[ 12 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 2, 3, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 9, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Damage: 4+ 8 (because shotguns are horrific things)]

[S. Ashton Winters]
Dice Rolled:[ 12 d10 ] 1, 2, 4, 5, 5, 6, 6, 7, 8, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 6 at target 6)
[Again again?]

[Dylan Willis]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 2, 7 (Failure at target 6)
[Pffft...]

[Dylan Willis]
The first shot is a warning. Despite the thick Friday afternoon crowds, despite the dim light, despite the hesitation that she's feeling in her Tradition mates, Rene Vitalli raises her silenced weapon and shoots straight through a cluster of Sleepers to hurl a projectile at the back of the Marauder's head. It grazes his skull before burying itself in the granite base of the building, and the Sleepers are none the wiser, those closet hearing the barest spit of the weapon without paying it any mind.

The second shot is a promise. Despite his questioning, his brief pause, Wharil Choc levels his .45 and fires off a shot from a distance that could have ended disastrously. There is a break in foot traffic, though, a red light bookending either end of the street, and his shot hits the Marauder in the arm, drawing blood and his attention as clearly and as sharply as if he had called his name.

He turns around in time to catch a chestful of shot from the barrel of a shotgun wielded by the woman whose child he promised to help raise, by a woman whom he had courted this summer before having an attack of uncertainty. They'd talked about it over spaghetti one night at the end of the summer, how he had gotten a girl pregnant and lost both of them in an attack in the park. He'd blamed himself for it. He'd thought he should have been there instead of where he was, and even three months after the fact, when the never-to-be child was the size of an apple, he still blamed himself.

It's entirely possible that he continued to blame himself up until the moment Marla and Jackson overtook him. Wharil had felt soul-crushing guilt when he's read his surface thoughts on New Year's Day. That guilt had colored his world, and that guilt is why what they're doing is an act of mercy, an act of compassion, and not an act of senseless, depraved violence.

Try telling that to the hundreds of witnesses who just watched a plain, well-dressed woman take several steps out of an alleyway to open up a gaping hole where her former lover's heart and lungs used to be.

The Marauder drops like a dead weight, the window of the department store behind him cracking and then shattering in a rain of crystalline shards that sets a security alarm wailing from within the store. Blood is absolutely everywhere, splattered on Gregor and Ashton like a confession, and it's pumping from the madman's abdomen at a pace that would be alarming if this weren't meant to happen.

Alice might be trying to get to her feet, now. She might be trying to stand. Maybe she has an itch on her forearm from where she cut herself to cast that veil of sorrow over the Marauder's being. In either case, starting tonight, all of the small injuries that we take for granted every day become huge messes for the young blood witch: a scratch opens up a laceration, a careless bump of a knee against a coffee table fractures bone. She will be carrying the punishment for the Marauder's crime against reality for the next six days.

And the rest of them have four minutes before the police arrive.

[Gregor]
"-Just take the hand. I'll try-"

It's the only thing Gregor has time to get out before his senses are assailed. The memory would blur and he wouldn't recall the space between that word

Try

-And the sudden flash of hot red across his features and chest. There isn't a flinch. Shock erupts like a slap to the face and realization of what happened takes a back seat to the sudden plummet of the body infront of him. His face widens (Fear turned to Terror) and his body suddenly numbs, pins and needles flashing into his knees and limbs.

He falls forward slightly, bowing as he goes, the wild flood of Dylan Willis' gaze suddenly mirrored in the Dreamspeaker's own as the newborn 'reassurance' of so similar a soul is torn away and replaced with a Fear undefinable. A terror unwashed or diluted. He is on his knees without realizing, just beside Dylan's blood splashed face.

His hands are shaking, fingers moving to cheeks and brow, one gloved hand mirror on the inside, the other on the out. Deep breaths have become shark bites. Gulps and swallows and low. Quiet. Barely a rasp from a constricted throat.

No

Over and over. No space between each syllable. Blood paints the reflection of the mirror on the glove. Worlds separate and again-

You should have listened

[S. Ashton Winters]
She kills him.

She kills him as she has done to others before, does not offer words of wisdom, does not offer any sort of comfort or solace, but instead of being numb she looks at Dylan Willis, watches him fall and feels absolute pain. She feels sorrow, and she knows that she has to go back and talk to his father.

She needs to pick Marcelle up.

She knows that this was mercy, she knows that this was Right in its own sense, and she is not concerned with those matters, and for a second she mourns her own loss. A man whom she had wanted in her child's life, who had looked at him and smiled, and revelled in the fact tht he was warm. Always warm. Ashton Winters, a woman whose career might be on the rocks now. Chalk this one up to terrorism instead of mercy.

They have four minutes before the cops get there, and she knows she still has work to do.

She turns and walks away; she doesn't realize she's crying. The air is cold, she doesn't feel it.

Walking, however, turns to sprinting to an alleyway.

[Rene Vitalli]
Don't walk. Run.

*Commands the stunning black woman in the alley, looking to Ashton and the young mother's shotgun wielding, blood splattered self. Walking turns to sprinting, and satisfied, Rene's black eyes dart to Ashley, murderous and cold. Ah. The hermetic. Manas was her specialty.*

Scramble what you can.

*A gun holstered as she sprints towards the dead marauder. Arcane flaring, obscuring. Even as she picks through his remains for his identification. Don't make it easy for them.*

[Nathan Spriggs]
A moment of disbelief, shot after shot rang out, he saw specks of fly in what seemed to be slow motion, he saw bits of flesh going everywhere as the first shot impacted. The second was just so much more devastating to watch, a disgusting sound of flesh being torn was muffled by the shotgun blast, but Nathan felt like he could hear, he imagined it as a massive hole appeared in the man's body and chunks of flesh, blood and cuts flew everywhere. He actually felt [i]sorry[i] for the poor, wretched soul, but the back of his mind reminded him that whatever that man was, whatever he had been, he was some kind of monster now. He was not normal, and what they'd done was justified, it had to be done.

And then the crowd broke, it rushed everywhere, pushing Nathan in every way as they panicked to leave. People were like that, panicky creatures that stampeded when horrifying things took place, taken by their instinct to escape, instinct to survive. But he knew better, he had to help Ashley and Gregor escape, the two who'd been closest and who'd received a blast of blood and flesh on their face as the horrifying scene had taken place. Nathan pushed and fought and made his way through the crowd, he rushed towards them or so he tried, but his feet felt heavy, he willed himself not to look the poor man who was on the floor bleeding and dying a painful death in the eye as he stepped forward with heavy steps, hands out of his pockets as he stumbled towards them, still lost in the memory of what had occurred. Horrified by the sight and yet unable to look away, unable to think about anything else but it.

"...We need to get out of here," Nathan spoke, a cold desperate voice he couldn't believe had come from him, he wanted to escape, to leave the scene. His willpower was failing him even though he knew he had to get closer, he had to approach. He never lost control of himself, he was always on top, or so it should have been. But not this time, this was different, he'd been prepared to shoot too but he hadn't imagined it. He'd been caught up in the moment and not thinking about the future. What would be, what would have been.

[Ashley McGowen]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 6, 9 (Success x 2 at target 5)
There are three gunshots, crescendoing into the shotgun blast, and then the Hermetic and the Dreamspeaker beside her are hosed down with blood. Blood that crawls its way across the sidewalk in front of her and pools around her shoes, deepening the red of her sneakers and staining the white toes.

Ashley watches Dylan's guts open up and amidst the crimson slick on her face, her blue eyes pop open, wide and staring. She can taste copper in her mouth and her hands are damp, and unlike that evening on the first of last month she is not too exhausted to let out a gutteral cry and stumble backwards, nearly into Gregor. This was done to him and there might be a way to help him out, Kage said last night, and she'd almost started to believe it - but she'll tell herself later that this was the only way they had to help Dylan now.

She nearly loses the chance to act, but fortunately for her pride, Will spurs her onward toward what she -should- do in order to get them all out of here. It isn't much, but it's what she can do: she can Will these people to forget what they looked like, that in the heat of the moment they can't remember anything about the magi here or where they disappeared to. That in the terror of the moment they forgot everything, they were too paralyzed to seek help and won't find the words to express what happened when they are asked.

She finds metal links beneath her fingertips, solid and steadying. The Words she speaks are unintelligible, sounds that most human mouths would not be able to reproduce.

[Mind 3 + Correspondence 2. Using a focus, chanting in Enochian. Spending WP.]

[S. Ashton Winters]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 6, 6 (Success x 3 at target 6) [WP]
[Life3- This is no the middle-eastern doctor you are looking for! Vulgar with witnesses. diff 6 + 2= 8 - 1 (february) - 1 (using a focus, there's watery substance involved!)= diff 6.]

[Alice MacIntyre]
Alice didn't startle very easily. Nothing truly surprised her anymore, not after everywhere she's been and all that she's seen. She was pushing herself up onto her feet, trying to straighten her back so that she could stand proud, make play like nothing was wrong anymore, play off her injuries like they were nothing at all.

The man with the drawn face was trying to reason with Dylan, and Alice was grinding her teeth, grumbling quietly under her breath and pausing with one arm clinched against her ribs, her other hand at her knee to brace her weight with. She spit a little more blood onto the ground (precious, driving waste), and then the gunshots sounded.

Blat! Crack! BLAM!

Alice lifted pale, colorless eyes in time to see Dylan with a hole in his chest, slapping back against shattered glass and sliding to the ground. She was sprayed with blood, Gregor was as well, and the man looked shocked, stunned, slowly wiped the blood away from his face. Alice did not. She let the Marauder's blood drip as it pleased, let it paint her like war.

"Well, ain't that a--- shit!"

She cut herself off with a curse and dropped down closer to the ground, from her bent-over stand into a crouch, slapping a hand over the cut along the inside of her left wrist. It had begun to spurt blood as though an artery had burst, pushed and seeped with each thump of her heart. She bared her teeth, red with her own blood as it was, and ducked her head, hissing and growling with pain and weakness.

Bloodwitch in her element, but not on her terms.

[Wharil Choc]
We fool ourselves all the time. I will not hurt my friends. Everything is going according to plan.

The marauder falls away, ripped open by the blast of buckshot. Torn apart by the path his own guilt and a pair of Nephandi have chased him down. He falls into glass, shattering, tearing at him even further. The shoppers must be fleeing now. They bust be screaming. He can't hear them. He pushes past them. Pushes past the other magi who weren't supposed to be here--You weren't supposed to see this!

A shadow looms before Gregor's grief. A shadow that smells slightly of gun smoke and kicks glass the way shadows aught not to. That soaked up blood like wool.

Wharil does not loom like a shadow. He descends like one. The blade that he draws doesn't gleam. Bone, yellowed by time and honed into a blade, does not gleam.

"Remember this." He whispers. To Gregor? No. "Dylan Willis, whatever part of you is still present, remember this. You've been lost. You've been trapped. You're now released. Remember, and don't walk down this path again."

The sharpened tip finds an erratically beating heart in the mess that was his chest, and bury's deep.

"Remember...for the next life."

[Gregor]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 6, 8, 8, 9 (Success x 4 at target 6)
(Willpower: Not yet...)

[Gregor]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 8, 8 (Success x 3 at target 3) [WP]
(Arete 2: Soul Watch - Diff 5 - 1 Foci - 1 for 1 Quint spent. WP)

[Ashley McGowen]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 6, 9, 9 (Success x 4 at target 5) [WP]
[Extending the roll. Spending WP.]

[Ashley McGowen]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 5, 7, 7, 8, 9, 9 (Success x 5 at target 6)
[And...WP roll to not succumb to flashbacks and begin throwing up.]

[S. Ashton Winters]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 3, 4, 6 (Success x 2 at target 6) [WP]
She's still hauling ass, still crying, though eventually she stops, reaches for the flask that damned near saved her life once. It was repaired, the water wasn't broken today, though she knew that reality was going to discipline her over this one. It wasn't December anymore.

Not even close.

She keeps focusing anyway.
[keeeep extending the rote, same rules apply!]

[Rene Vitalli]
*Rene has a mind for the scarceness of time available to them. Rifling through pockets with gloved hands, taking anything that might immediately identify him. Her voice is small and rushed once Wharil is done ushering whatever is left of dylan into the next life. She jerks the male euthies arm.*

We can carry him. Dumpster. Ash to Ash. Dust to Dust. Help. There's no time.

[Gregor]
Gregor's attention remains outside of reality for a long moment. Time departs and leaves behind a very clear definition. Gregor's hand settles over the Marauder's eyes as Wharil begin the 'Final blessings'. He seems almost mechanical, eyes unblinking and owlish as he stares into that bloodied mirror on the back of his glove. His other hand rises, sucking in a sharp and warped breath, wiping the blood clean of the reflective surface with slow and deliberate force-

-And Gregor watches. Stares. Blood drains from his features, leaving the red that marks the external all the more excessive in it's display. He watches for that long moment, even after Wharil has finished. A hand at his shoulder or near him would be smacked. Hard.

...But eventually the moment would end and the Man is blinking again, staring at his own reflection. His breath emerges, remembering to exhale, harsh and wheezing before he looks up and around. Dazed. Narrowed. He climbs to his feet with a grim alacrity. The Euthanatoi are talking about body dumping. Covering tracks.

Arcane does it's thing. The Dreamspeaker's down the sidewalk on a crowdless Mile. Long strides and distance and little else.

[Nathan Spriggs]
Nathan stumbled towards the woman who had approached Wharil, he was trying to make heads-or-tails of what had happened. His glance occasionally falling to look at what remained of the man, his end had been merciful thanks to Wharil, it was probably less painful than bleeding away in chunks. Nathan closed his eyes and took a deep breath, recomposing himself though a ghastly look of unease mixed in with disbelief at all the occurrences.

"...I'll help," Nathan spoke coarsely, forcing the words out of his mouth, the least he could do was hurry things along before the police came, he didn't know what else he could help with so he'd help with the body if they let him.

[Dylan Willis]
[Thanks for the scene, y'all!]

[S. Ashton Winters]
She stops, eventually, and she knows... knows... knows reality is going to make her pay for this, but the effect is over. She stops, she ducks to an alleyway and reaches downward, past her shirt and takes something that should not be. She grips flesh and she holds.

Ashton knows this is going to hurt, but she doesn't particular care. She can barely feel it, anyway.

She pulls up, up, and upward still, past and skin tears, but not really tears. It's like rubber, like a mask. It is discarded. It is dropped.

the woman who steps out of the alleyway is blonde. The same build as Ashton, yes, but not the same features. Dark eyes, short blonde hair, higher cheekbones, a weaker jaw and smaller lips. No one would be any the wiser. There's skin dropped in an alleyway. A mask, left and discarded. Witnesses would be confused, suffice to say.

[Rene Vitalli]
*Almond eyes cast up to Nathan with all the charm of a spider sighting a fly. Beautiful, and entirely unpleasant. Rene makes to haul the dead Orphan up. No time for introductions, if this was a sleeper well... They'd deal with it. She makes to haul Dylan's bloody form to the alley.*

[Alice MacIntyre]
Alice stayed crouched down on the ground, curled over herself, thighs and knees pressing into her chest to keep pressure on her insides, to try and quell the pain by pressing everything still and solid. Her nose was crinkled, eyes screwed up, and teeth bared as she kept her hand pressed hard on her wrist, which still leaked blood that dropped in fat crimson splashes on the sidewalk to join the rest.

People took off, others that she's never seen before stayed, hovered around the fallen Marauder, spoke to him, plunged blades into his heart, talked about hiding the body.... and completely overlooked her. Pale eyes shut and she curled tighter, pressed her blood-smeared forehead against her denim-clad knees and grumbled wordlessly into them. Her vision blurred a little, she coughed and spit a wad of mucus and blood onto the ground beside, her, then snarled at those hovering about the body of Dylan Willis.

"Hey! Not to inconvenience anybody, but a little bit'a help would be just fuckin dandy. Greatly appreciated, even."

[Wharil Choc]
He was panting, eyes wide as the muscle of the marauder's heart twitches around the blade of the knife, then finally ceases. He was sliding it out, wiping the blood off on the Crow's clothes, and sliding it back into the scabard in smooth, slow, purposeful motions.

And suddenly he's tugged.

Rene is speaking to him. Ashes to Ashes, she says. Dust to dust.

"We'll call the scavengers." He says, even as he moves to position himself under the arms, lifting as he stands. Together to two carry the body out toward the nearest Alleyway, walking past the remainders. Alice. Ashley. Nathan. They were all fine. They were all alive. They could take care of themselves, or as he would hope, take care of one another.

Right now though? These two had business with the dead.

[Ashley McGowen]
Wharil's shadow falls over Gregor, Alice and Ashley, and the Hermetic, done with her effect and with clouding the minds of the area's Sleepers, watches this. She watches Dylan's eyes as the knife falls, and her gorge rises and she somehow manages to hold it down, despite these few minutes when she remembers Hell. She glances up at the dark eyed Euthanatos, hears Rene talk about disposing of bodies as though from a distance, and then looks down at Alice.

"Somebody get her and carry her out of here? I can't."

The Hermetic looks down at the front of her, stained, and wonders how she's going to walk the Mile unnoticed. She'll find a way though, can Will her way through the crowd if she has to.

[Nathan Spriggs]
Nathan turned at the yell, in a way it'd help him snap back to reality, they could handle the dead. It wasn't his place, he hadn't known him like they had, but the living he could deal with. Especially someone of this unique temperament. He walked towards her, pacing himself carefully, he was an unknown variant in all this, they didn't know him, only Ashley and Wharil did. "...I'll help you, but before that, where do we go from here?"

With those words, Nathan dropped to his knees to be in a better position to pick Alice up, he ignored the sensation of blood soaking into his pants, that didn't matter. They had to escape, all of them, he didn't have time for petty worries.

[Rene Vitalli]
*She could go over there and heal the woman on the ground. Tap her chakras. Probe her wounds and knit her flesh back together. She doesn't. Instead she gets away from the blood. Away from the crowd. Away from the reflective surfaces and the confusion. Into the Alley with Wharil. To dust an Orphan. Again.*

[Alice MacIntyre]
One of the men she's never seen before in her life approached and knelt down, got arms around her, and pulled her up onto his legs for support before rising to his feet. He'd have to cradle her, and it wasn't particularly easy nor was it very difficult. Alice had an average build, average height. She wasn't a lightweight, but she wasn't going to break his spine either.

She curved her lower back in pain when he shifted her weight, bared her teeth to the sky and first growled, then yelled in agony. The yell ended in a stream of curse words that had a distinctly southern flavor to them, and she turned to tuck her head against Nathan's shoulder and clenched her hand more sternly over the blood-seeping wound in her arm.

"Ahhhhfffuck..." She shut her eyes and grumbled through bloodred teeth. "Don't suppose ya can weave bodies back together, can ya sugarpie?"

[Wharil Choc]
Wharil isn't as strong as he looks. Perhaps not as strong as he lets on. He struggles eventually, panting a little. Normally he'd try not to let Rene know. He'd try and put up an impressive front. That was for play time. This was business. Wharil panted. But he spoke through it.

"The body...will break down...as it ought to...We just...have to...nudge it along...faster...with tama"

He groans as they heft it up and into the waiting dumpster, struggling visibly. His hands were shaking. Was this shock?

"Nature will break it down too....but we'll have to call them...with prana."

He readies his knife again, his focus for both of these. This was a sign. When a man carries tools specific for one job...one could safely assume that he made a regular habit of it.

"Ready?"

[Nathan Spriggs]
Nathan considered her carefully, she could be putting up a strong face after the crisis but he'd never met her, he couldn't read her yet so why bother trying. Something about her made him return to normal though, her personality made him realize he was acting unnaturally, he never showed weakness, why start now?

"Well, depends. Do you want your limbs in normal placement or do you wanna look exotic? Because either way, probably not," Nathan spoke with his usual tone, usual demeanor, he was back to the same hard-to-read but seemingly happy expression and tone he always had. The shock was gone now, or at least on the surface. "So, Ashley, where do we go from here? Cops'll be here in less than 2 minutes probably and I'm not gonna look too good running around with an injured woman on me and a gun in my pocket."

[Rene Vitalli]
*Dylan is deposited in the dumpster with a low unladylike grunt of effort. Thread. Thread. Where was her thread? Gloved fingers quest in her pocket, sticky with blood, looking for her tangle by feel. A glance to Wharil.*

Wait.

*This was not the time for a change of focus. It was too cold, and while she would rather get arrested for indecent exposure and lewd conduct than murder, she'd still rather not get arrested at all. AH! A red tangle of thread is snatched from her pocket, gloves shucked as she makes with unraveling it, eyes sliding shut. She nods.*

I am ready.

[Wharil Choc]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 1, 8 (Failure at target 3) [WP]
[Call the Scavengers, Base diff 6 (coincidental), -1 Practiced Rote, -1 Foci, 1 Quint spent]

[Rene Vitalli]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 5, 8, 10 (Success x 4 at target 4) [WP]
[what Wharil said! but NOT a practiced rote. -1 foci. 1 quint spent, wp]

[Wharil Choc]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 2, 5, 9 (Success x 3 at target 4) [WP]
[Trying again, +1 diff]

[Alice MacIntyre]
A noise that sounded too harsh to be human, too twisted to be animal rumbled against Nathan's neck. It was a spine-chilling sound, like the creaking of the closet door when you're five years old and your mom won't listen to your cries of a monster in the closet. It was also humored, and Alice licked Dylan Willis's blood off her lips with a broad swipe of her tongue before wheezing her reply to the blonde man's half-offer.

"Ah, good...." More coughing, another snarl of pain, and Alice had blood dripping out of her nostrils. This too she licked off her upper lip. "Hope... hope ya don't mind, but I'm gonna rest. Wake me up when I ain't dead, 'eh toots?"

That said she pressed her temple against the guy's collarbone, rolled her weight inward, and pinned her bleeding arm between her chest and Nathan's to help with holding the pressure down. She might not actually sleep or pass out from the pain, but she was going quiet and sinking inward for now.

[Ashley McGowen]
Nathan picks Alice up, and the younger girl's head tumbles against his shoulder. Ashley trusts that Alice can tell Nathan where to take her. And the Euthanatoi...are doing what Euthanatoi do, cleaning up the body. Ashley can't tell where Ashton disappeared to.

A glance sidelong at Nathan. "My apartment is close, let's take her there. Hopefully we can...someone can come over and help her," Ashley says, before she looks over her shoulder at Wharil and Rene and Ashton. One of them, perhaps.

Ashley guides them through the street to her apartment, doing her best to take back roads and stay close to places where she knows Sleepers aren't going to be. And they hurry, in spite of the fact that they are all tired and Nathan's arms are full of dead weight and Alice is asleep.

Presently, and not too far from the site, they reach a brick walk-up, and Ashley guides them inside. And then there's her neighbor. The young man who always wears argyle sweatervests, with the thick glasses, who smiles a lot and usually holds the door for her. He stares.

"Car accident, we've got it," Ashley tells him as they brush past, leaving him stunned and horrified outside.

And inside it's much quieter, brown leather and wood and the walls are lined with bookshelves. Full of books, of course, of all manner of titles and genres, a rather eclectic collection, and Ashley encourages Nathan to set Alice down on her couch.


[Wharil Choc]
How does one know when something like this starts working? At what point does a body start to rot, and how does one know when that rot is happening faster than it ought to?

Let me tell you. It starts with the blood. The red of it was a trick of the air, something that made it immediately pretty as the oxygen was no longer transferred but seeped right in. But so on red turns to brown. To black. It seeps out from under the skin. It exhudes from the entire body.

The air in the body finds its way out of openings, natural and otherwise, and out of organs where they swell up under skin, and drive it loose. Healthy, living hair thins and dries. Healthy, living skin does the same. And soon...soon...

The flies come first. Did they smell it? Do they find the gasses and the liquid in the air and follow it to the source? Or do they simply know? Wharil and Rene have their attention away for just a second, and by the time they turn back the flies are there, and their maggot children. The roaches take to the clothes as well as the flesh. The rats. Tha cats. If there were vultures this far in the city they would be here, circling over the tops of buildings until it was safe.

Soon the flesh would melt. Soon the bones and hair and fingernails would be nothing but dust. There would be nothing left except the buttons on his shirt and the rivets on his jeans. Oh, and yes. A feast for scavengers.

The knife sheathed again, Wharil steps away, satisfied finally. It was over. This part, at least. There was still work to do, and he had to wonder how much more difficult that work would be now. Now that...Damnit.

You weren't supposed to see this.

He shoves his hands into the pockets of his bloody coat. An Elbow nudges Rene. A head nods toward the other end of the Alley. Maybe...maybe she'd comfort him again, like last time. Maybe they both needed a little bit of comforting after this.

[Nathan Spriggs]
Nathan nodded, he'd been silent most of the way, analyzing the evening's events, considering it all, his brain was in overdrive from the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, flashes of Dylan's death still fresh in his mind. Not to mention the slightly freaky woman he was carrying in his arms, he'd never been particularly strong since he didn't work out so he'd had trouble here and there but luckily he had held on and made it. Nathan had been unnerved by her earlier scream but he put it up to the pain and memories of the afternoon surfacing, as he laid her on the couch, he turned to face Ashley.

"So..." Nathan's voice was grave, he wasn't accusing her or asking her about what had happened, he just honestly didn't know where to go from here. What now? What could they possibly say, or discuss, this wasn't like when they'd talked at the deli, someone had just died in front of them. No amount of discussion could make up for that fact.

[Rene Vitalli]
*A nudge. A nod. All thats required for Rene to accompany her .. friend? Partner? Out of the alley. First at a walk, then at a jog, and soon at an all out run. Away from the sirens and the commotion. Oblivious to Wharil's conflicted feelings, all business. Hotel bound.*