X00032:8.Y00001:12.Z00054:5, Frontline Apparel | Night City Integrate | Undercity | UrbanZone - March 9th, Day 3 (Sunday), 9:21 AM PST

Weather Conditions: High City (Thunderstorms, 15 mph winds from the NE.) | Midcity (Rain, 10mph winds from the NE.) | Undercity (Fog and Rain, no winds.)

Air Quality Index: High City = 25 | Midcity = 42 | Undercity = 75 (masks required)

“Sir,” the AI tries again. “Please, sir. I don’t want any trouble. If you’re in need of the police, please let me know and I’ll call right away. If you’re not in need of the police, I insist that you holster your weapon and either make a purchase or leave immediately.”

Ghlahn returns his weapon into its case as the last thing he wants is the AI calling the police. "No need for the police. I could however use a new coat and some shirts. Do you have some premade samples I can look at. Need to check the quality before I spend my money on junk." Hoping the AI will be busy for a few moments, he turns his attention once again to the two "homeless" folks.

“The autofactories will print sample swatches,” the now smiling hologram responds. “We don’t have any samples, I’m afraid.”

Of course, the store would not have samples. That would have been too easy. Ghlahn turns to the hologram. "Can you have the samples printed for me? I am so enjoying the lovely view I don't want to leave the window.”

Pulling out the walkie, he radios another update. "Whatever you are going to do, do it soon. The store AI is a bit nervous and I can't stall much longer."

“I am not capable of feeling nervousness,” the Asian hologram smiles and tilts her head. “Is there a reason I should be nervous?” Waiting on the answer to the question, the hologram projection walks forward and settles next to the CEE-metal sniper. “Are you expecting trouble? Your posture suggests that you are not enjoying the view. And you did produce a weapon. 

“I’m sorry, sir, but if you’re anticipating participating in a gunfight, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I am programmed to protect the interests of the owner, which includes the shop and all of its assets.

“According to my analysis of your behavior, I’ve concluded that you are not here to make a purchase.”

A few moments pass in silence following the AI’s unnecessary explanation, moments in which Ghlahn continues to watch the two women across the way. They are apparently content to remain in position, continuing their ruse. Taking a moment to assess the street, Alex scans the group of gangers having out near the entrance of 12th Alley. Some are leaning against the wall of the building, others are near or on the trunk of the car. As near as Ghlahn can tell, there’s no danger there. A group like that should scatter in the face of Edgerunners. Further down the road, a couple of individuals hang out sipping coffee from bio-friendly disposable cups and then another couple of loners are on either side of the entrance to the building. These two could potentially be trouble.

They aren’t engaged with anyone. They are just standing against the building, one about forty four meters from Ghlahn’s position and practically straight to the East of him. The other about the same distance, just on the other side of the double doors. Maybe they’re trying to blend in with the street gang hanging out on the corner but if that’s the case, they’re doing a poor job of it.

Casino’s dour voice comes back over the radio. “Okay, we are up and moving. If our ‘homeless’ go active, you know what to do.”

“I have notified the police of your presence and uncooperative nature,” the AI hologram pleasantly explains. “Have a nice day.”

In his experience, Ghlahn estimates that cops may or may not show up in the Undercity and if they do, it will likely be upwards of ten minutes before they do.

(OOC: March 9th, Day 3 - Sunday, Time is 09:28 AM PST)

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X00032:8.Y00001:12.Z00054:5, 12th Alley | Night City Integrate | Undercity | UrbanZone - March 9th, Day 3 (Sunday), 9:25 AM PST

Weather Conditions: High City (Thunderstorms, 15 mph winds from the NE.) | Midcity (Rain, 10mph winds from the NE.) | Undercity (Fog and Rain, no winds.)

Air Quality Index: High City = 25 | Midcity = 42 | Undercity = 75 (masks required)

“Are you serious?” Echo turns to look at him with wide eyes, her lower face wrapped in her balaclava.

Grabbing hold of the opportunity, Bloodbank steps forward, “All the more reason why we can’t just go busting down doors. Your instinct is telling you there’s something not right. I say we proceed with caution and assess the situation as we come to it.”

The medtech glances over at the techie for support but is drawn back to Echo when she says, “Fine.”

“Fine?” Colin practically stumbles over the word. “A couple of minutes ago, you were gung-ho and ready to burn down the world.”

The nomad shrugs, “If Casino feels that something’s off, I’m prone to listen.” Turning back to the blonde solo, she looks up at him and asks, “What’s the plan?”

Listening to the others talk, Fixer can’t help but agree that something is amiss. "Casino's right, something is weird. You hold a kid worth millions here?" he shakes his head. "Hang on." He has been hanging back to allow those with a clue about this type of thing to lead but now he moves forward and looks around the corner. He snaps a quick picture with his small bracer camera to allow him to also look more closely without staring. Plus, it might allow him to blow up the picture and see things in more detail. What is he looking for? In truth, anything. 

"Whatever you are going to do, do it soon,” Ghlahn’s voice crackles across the radio in Casino’s pocket. “The store AI is a bit nervous and I can't stall much longer." 

As he thinks about what he has seen when he peeked around the corner, he also closely scans the picture he has taken. "If you were hiding a rich kid in one of those shelters, you'd have some sort of communication system, right? How do you contact the outside world? I can't believe the entire brains of this outfit are all still squatting down this alley. So how do they reach 'em? I'm trying to see if there are any wires or any kind of tech connected to those structures in any way from where we stand. Do you think Blossom has a way to check for wireless signals? Anything like that might tell us about any security they might have. Plus," and here he looks up from his picture to glance at the others, "if one of those is wired and the other isn't I know which one I'd put my money on."

He goes back to scanning his picture and he adds in a mumble, "But time... time... we don't have much time."

As he complains about time, Fixer continues his investigation of the end of the alley. Using his extended audio abilities, he listens in on both of the structures to see if anything useful can be heard. In the near shack he hears two older voices discussing... food it seems. That seems pretty straight up. Moving on to the larger structure at the back he hears... pfshhhhhhhhhhhh... what the heck was that?! It sounds like gas being released. Then there is a slight clanking of metal on metal. Like... it is hard to place, but maybe a piece of cutlery striking the side of a tin can? Dinner time all over the place it seems.

That done, he uses his telescopic amp to allow him a close-up look at the two structures. He is looking for any sign of technology—wires or antennas are his first thought, but anything that doesn’t scream, “down and out in an alley” will work. He even looks at the rubbish around the structures for anything questionable or even footprints in the muck. Finishing his surveillance, he looks up at the rest of the group and describes what he has seen and heard.

“Both are occupied. From what little I can tell, the front one seems the most normal. The back one—I wonder about that gas-like sound. Was it gas? For what? Cooking something? Knocking someone out? Setting a trap? Or nothing at all? I don’t know, just a sound. So far, I haven’t seen anything tech-wise out of the ordinary. I’d love to know if Blossom can pinpoint anything wireless down here. We know there is stuff, but what, and coming from where? As for those buildings—I doubt there is a door in that mess anywhere, but we can’t count it out for that last tent.”

With that said, he shrugs and looks to the others. “Ok, boss, that’s what I got. I can try to keep the audio feed going as we move up—it might let us know if they have been alerted somehow that we are approaching. No guarantees. What’s the plan?”

Casino is quiet, lost in thought, his gut telling him something is not right, warring with his need to go balls to the wall and get this done and move to rescue Vegas fast. Yet the clues to this point have led them here, to this one place, to this one moment in time, and with a second team on their ass, it is now or never.

“There’s just too much unknown here to call it off. We know we have watchers, so this could very well be a well-laid trap, but we need to get this over with.” A slight pause. “Fixer, you and Echo, together, take the closet hut. Bloodbank, watch the ally behind us if you see anything out of place, like anything that looks like members of that second team, don’t think about it, just light them up. You think about the right or wrong of taking them down, it could cost all of us our lives. I’m trusting you to keep our exfil route open with or without the kid in hand. I’ll take the far hut and hope we call this right. Everyone keep alert, keep on mission, don’t hesitate if you need to kill but still beware something is not right.”

A last check of his MPK and the broad-shouldered solo radios Ghlahn. “Okay, we are up and moving. If our ‘homeless’ go active, you know what to do.”

Placing the radio back into his pocket, Casino quietly moves to the far hut. Seeing everyone in position, he gives the signal to commence.

(OOC: March 9th, Day 3 - Sunday, Time is 09:28 AM PST)

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Echo leads the way, padding quietly across the eight meters to the only visible entrance. Her submachine gun isn’t raised, but it is ready. Fixer is hot on her heels as Casino makes his way even further down the alley to the last ramshackle structure. In position, they wait with an eye on the big solo. When he gives the go-ahead, Echo uses the barrel of her weapon to push aside the loosely hanging wooden door and duck to step inside. 

Crates are stacked at the entrance reminiscent of tables. The one on the right has pictures in dull silver frames; pictures of family. Parents and two children, just the parents, just the kids, individuals, and none of them looking like the picture of Jace they’d seen a day ago. The one on the left holds a chipped vase with an arrangement of fake flowers. Echo moves past these towards where low voices can be heard.

Stepping into the main area, the two Edgers are met by an unexpected domestic scene. Directly in front of them a few meters into the bowels of the structure, are two elderly people seated at a makeshift table covered by a soiled tablecloth with lace hemming. The woman sits to the left of the man, and the man is facing the Edgers. His hand darts towards the sawed-off shotgun sitting on the table but hovers above it as Echo’s submachine gun levels on him.

“Be smart,” the nomad says in a low volume. “There’s no reason anyone has to get hurt.”

“What do you want?” asks the old man as he anxiously glances at his wife.

Sitting still, the woman appears resigned. She’s almost regal, like a queen who has been sentenced to the guillotine. 

(OOC: March 9th, Day 3 - Sunday, Time is 09:28 AM PST)

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Sending the others into action, Casino ducks through the canvas entrance just inside the wood structure. The entry is clear with nothing to block his way and as he rounds the corner, the big solo is met by a surprised Rya Mendez who has spun about from the foot of a cot. Past her, just beginning a meal of kibble warmed on a camping burner, is Jace, his innocent face a little grimy and shocked.

“Jace!” Rya makes to spin towards the boy…

(OOC: March 9th, Day 3 - Sunday, Time is 09:28 AM PST)

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X00032:8.Y00001:12.Z00054:5, 13th Street | Night City Integrate | Undercity | UrbanZone - March 9th, Day 3 (Sunday), 9:21 AM PST

Weather Conditions: High City (Thunderstorms, 15 mph winds from the NE.) | Midcity (Rain, 10mph winds from the NE.) | Undercity (Fog and Rain, no winds.)

Air Quality Index: High City = 25 | Midcity = 42 | Undercity = 75 (masks required)

Looking ahead and down the avenue, Luther assesses the street, searching for a place to park the Airjeep. There are two cars parked on the right side of the road near the church but beyond that, the curbside is clear. Of course, there’s the group hanging out around the church and the other group at the next corner. 

Having now been around the block a couple of times, the fixer can easily recall the areas where the groups are gathered and potential problems could exist. Processing some quick math in his head, Charlie figures that if he were to park a few meters in front of the black sedan, he would still be able to “burn rubber” around the corner and arrive at the mouth of the alley in just a few seconds. The position would also place him between the two major groups on the street, reducing the risk of provoking any interaction with either. 

Acting on his decision, Cred Stick Charlie pulls the Airjeep over and into the position he’d postulated the best, and settles her onto the ground. The notification alert on his agent sounds and the message displays across his optical splice as soon as he mentally allows it. 

I’m being watched. - Blossom

--------------------------------

Cyberspace is a black void with streaming data highways crisscrossing like a chaotic array of light pulses. This is a visual representation that is designed to give the netrunner some comfort in the alien landscape—a means by which the data packets can be visualized by the brain. This barren and stark landscape is Blossom’s domain. She thrives here as much as she thrives in any VR landscape. The biggest difference between the highways and VR is that there’s a lot of unknowns in the highways. Where VR is themed and the little wardriver can predict the uses of particular programs, the wild highways of the Net are as unpredictable as the wilds between the city integrates. Here, wardrivers are forced to write code on the fly in most cases, making guesses as to what data packs they are infiltrating, and do so on the move. Here, to protect the interests of the group she’s aligned with, Blossom is looking for anything that might seem out of place and that could mean anything.

A command window hovers before her and within it, the beautiful netrunner is rapidly typing out code that pokes at packets but doesn’t waste time by penetrating. Agent data packs flow past her, the tendril of code she’s produced licking their glowing surfaces. As quickly as the taste of data is recognized, Blossom has moved on to the next, the results of her search displaying in rapid succession beneath her command lines.

A mental nudge draws her attention to the massive digital representation of her Doberman, her Watchdog program. What is it Maru? she asks. Following the glowing eyes of the program, Blossom spots a spider avatar in the distance, and near to that grotesque eight-legged freak, is a wasp avatar. Hello there, Blossom muses, Who might you be?

A new line of code appears on her command line and the Doberman shifts and ripples, turning into a massive Hellhound. Let’s see what you want, the netrunner moves to the other side of the data highway and floats up above it, her program protector following with long, powerful strides in the digital nothingness. The arachnid and it’s hovering companion remain still.

Bringing up another window, Blossom activates her communication app and sends a message to Charlie, I’m being watched.

(OOC: March 9th, Day 3 - Sunday, Time is 09:28 AM PST - 19th Street)

I'm of the mind that any nudity is too much. Anyway, I've pressed on and I must be missing something. I'm trying to like it but it is very shallow.

I'm three episodes in. I give everything three episodes. Not sure about this one. The nudity is completely unnecessary. It also is cheesy in areas. I don't know if I like it.

Too late! I've hidden Isabelle somewhere in the Inn. You'll have to search to find her!

Excellent! Saves us a Scry spell. 

Muahahahahahahaha!

Gib has decided that he's going to retire to a library. He loves it sooooo much.

Kith who? Hello, BOOKS!!!

Ch'dau and Aranwen aren't going to want to join the next adventure. 

"Hey, Ch'dau! Aranwen! Wanna go on a 'venter?"

"Naw. We're fine, thanks."

I'm so glad that everything has worked out. Truly a modern-day miracle.

Yup. Was indeed the correct roll. I'm looking for a post from Tann and Espatier and then I'll update. Thanks for the posts that are currently up.

I worked for a call center once a very, very long time ago. My computer was running slow (this was back when you often ran out of storage space on the computers) and since I shared the computer with two other shifts of people, I thought it was time to start clearing things out. Only, I didn't want to just willy-nilly delete things. So, in-between my calls, I was going through files and found one I didn't recognize. Double-clicked it and my screen started filling with new browser windows, each one a different porn site with full-on explicit images front and center. This was pop-a-mole style bombardment. I could close them fast enough. They just kept popping up. And then my boss walked right up behind me. Luckily, we were able to prove I had nothing to do with it because of the timestamp of the file, etc. but I was legit freaking out.

On another note, that same boss once stepped out of his office and called out to the call center for everyone to go to whitehouse.com as there was an important announcement from the feds. DON'T go to whitehouse.com. That's a porn site. Whitehouse.gov is the correct site. The whole call center was panicking as people started freaking out.

When I was a young man (back when the wheel was first invented), I decided I was going to give coffee a try. Me an a bunch of friends went to a coffee shop where I ordered a Turkish Coffee. That tasted like someone infused dirt with the bitterness of a hundred thousand lemon rinds and then left the dirt in the bottom of the very tiny bronze cup that it came in. I didn't finish it and instead ordered a cappuccino. I didn't like that either, so I ordered a regular coffee. Hated that. Added cream. Still hated it. Added sugar. Still hated it. I also discovered that I hate the smell of it while going through this process of elimination. Needless to say, I don't drink coffee and do my best to stay away from it.

Same thing basically happened with alcohol of any kind. Don't like the smell, don't like the taste, and most certainly don't like losing control. 

Awesome. MORE POWER!

I second, Eol's sentiment. 

Is there anything we need to do to prepare our characters? 

Wyatt studies the case while the doc performs her assessment. Save her could mean the ship, except for the obvious situation of the case. In his estimation, the case can't hold anything larger than a small child. An animal is possible but why go through all this effort to save one--sacrificing his own life to do so. No. There is but one solution. There's a child in that case. Maybe even a baby.

"Could really use some power 'bout right now," Sung radios his tech team.

Welcome back!

The maps can be found on Roll20.net but I've also taken a screenshot for reference. The red arrow indicates the direction you've been traveling so you can see the end of the alley I'm referring to.

Remember that you can make rolls there as well. Don't forget to explore your character sheets. 

X00032:8.Y00001:12.Z00054:5, Frontline Apparel | Night City Integrate | Undercity | UrbanZone - March 9th, Day 3 (Sunday), 9:20 AM PST

Weather Conditions: High City (Thunderstorms, 15 mph winds from the NE.) | Midcity (Rain, 10mph winds from the NE.) | Undercity (Fog and Rain, no winds.)

Air Quality Index: High City = 25 | Midcity = 42 | Undercity = 75 (masks required)

“Sir,” the AI tries again. “Please, sir. I don’t want any trouble. If you’re in need of the police, please let me know and I’ll call right away. If you’re not in need of the police, I insist that you holster your weapon and either make a purchase or leave immediately.”

Ghlahn returns his weapon into its case as the last thing he wants is the AI calling the police. "No need for the police. I could, however, use a new coat and some shirts. Do you have some premade samples I can look at. Need to check the quality before I spend my money on junk." Hoping the AI will be busy for a few moments, he turns his attention once again to the two "homeless" folks.

“The autofactories will print sample swatches,” the now smiling hologram responds. “We don’t have any samples, I’m afraid.”

(OOC: March 9th, Day 3 - Sunday, Time is 09:21 AM PST)

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X00032:8.Y00001:12.Z00054:5, 12th Alley | Night City Integrate | Undercity | UrbanZone - March 9th, Day 3 (Sunday), 9:20 AM PST

Weather Conditions: High City (Thunderstorms, 15 mph winds from the NE.) | Midcity (Rain, 10mph winds from the NE.) | Undercity (Fog and Rain, no winds.)

Air Quality Index: High City = 25 | Midcity = 42 | Undercity = 75 (masks required)

Peering around the corner, Echo surveys the remainder of the alley with a critical eye. There’s only approximately twenty- to twenty-five meters of real estate left in 12th Alley. Just around the corner and four or five meters from her position is another small shack. Made of Plood™ planks and plastic portions of shipping containers, there’s visible light inside. At the end of the alley, an estimated fifteen meters away, is the poorly constructed Plood™ entrance to a shack that appears to be attached to a military tent spanning the width of the alleyway. The canvas of the tent is too thick to allow light to seep through, but there is a small stream of smoke coming out of the stove pipe on the right side of the tent.

“We have two possibilities,” Echo informs Casino quietly. “Someone’s home in both cases.”

Nodding quietly, Casino gives the two ‘shacks’ a closer look over the small nomad’s shoulder and drawing in so that the scent of her wet hair fills his nostrils.

“Well,” the solo begins in a low tone, “if we go all out into one, we have the possibility of warning the other one if we are wrong on our first choice.” A deep sigh “If we do hit hard and fast, we have to hit both at the same time and hope one of these shacks hold the kid. If he is not here, then we are mostly gonna be f***ed as far as public relations are concerned.” A pause. “I can’t help but think we are missing something. This is not where you hold up with a kidnapped boy, a kid with people rich enough money-wise to send TWO teams after him. Maybe he came here willingly?”

Waiting for a response from the rest of the small group, Casino can not help, for the first time, stopping and thinking maybe this was not a kidnapping, but the boy trying to break free? Crazy right? Continuing to scan the two shacks, his hand aches to call Ghlahn for an update on the group’s possible ‘homeless’ problem but he breathes deep instead. Something is out of place, like being dealt a crappy poker hand—lord knows I’ve had too many of those—yet the big solo can feel it in his gut. No matter what he and the group find, they will be causing some bloodshed tonight.

“Are you serious?” Echo turns to look at him with wide eyes, her lower face wrapped in her balaclava.

Grabbing hold of the opportunity, Bloodbank steps forward, “All the more reason why we can’t just go busting down doors. Your instinct is telling you there’s something not right. I say we proceed with caution and assess the situation as we come to it.”

The medtech glances over at the techie for support but is drawn back to Echo when she says, “Fine.”

“Fine?” Colin practically stumbles over the word. “A couple of minutes ago, you were gung-ho and ready to burn down the world.”

The nomad shrugs, “If Casino feels that something’s off, I’m prone to listen.” Turning back to the blonde solo, she looks up at him and asks, “What’s the plan?”

(OOC: March 9th, Day 3 - Sunday, Time is 09:25 AM PST)

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X00032:8.Y00001:12.Z00054:5, 13th Street | Night City Integrate | Undercity | UrbanZone - March 9th, Day 3 (Sunday), 9:20 AM PST

Weather Conditions: High City (Thunderstorms, 15 mph winds from the NE.) | Midcity (Rain, 10mph winds from the NE.) | Undercity (Fog and Rain, no winds.)

Air Quality Index: High City = 25 | Midcity = 42 | Undercity = 75 (masks required)

“Got it,” Blossom breathes out hard. “The cop cam is mine. I’ve also got a cop channel broadcasting app running. If the po-po are involved I’ll have their twenty before they’re a threat to us. Net traffic is pretty benign as well but to see the bones of the matter, I’d have to completely jack in.”

Looking sideways at the fixer, she smiles slyly, “Will you be okay all on your little lonesome while I go virtual?”

Charlie nods as the gorgeous blond rests her head against the headrest and retracts her keyboard back into her bracer. After a moment, the only signs of life she shows are the slow rise and fall of her breasts. Charlie waits for a bit, then speaks aloud to himself.

"Zoot suit…” *Harumph* “It’s a navy-colored, Takanaka Cotton/Arachni-silk smartcloth, three-piece suit. But none of you understand about that, do you?" Charlie grumbles knowing that Blossom is in cyberspace watching over all of them. "Thank you, Blossom,” he smiles. "Maybe, just maybe, we can get through this and pull us together a team." 

Looking ahead and down the street, Luther assesses the street, searching for a place to park the Airjeep. There are two cars parked on the right side of the road near the church but beyond that, the curbside is clear. Of course, there’s the group hanging out around the church and the other group at the next corner. 

(OOC: March 9th, Day 3 - Sunday, Time is 09:21 AM PST - 19th Street)

Why did this stop? Is there a tribble in the warp core? 

Okay. I guess I'll go ahead and move things forward. Not far forward, but forward. Some decisions need to be made.

I had a vision of this post hit me last night as I was lying in bed.

Visual chaos. A bedlam of horror. A concert of death. Peramont doesn't have the vocabulary to describe the scene unfolding about him as any of those three. To him, the battle waging between the factions is needless and stupid. And yet, he has to wonder whether his fellow cultists are still paying homage to their god while slaughtering each other. Stepping as deep into the shadows at the edge of the cavern as he can, the former stablehand out of Morad crouches down and bites back his fear.

Where did these people come from? Is that a cat... man? Why is everyone fighting each other? We are so close!

From his hiding place, Per (as his friends call him) struggles against the desire to bolt and run, a decision that spares his life. Mouth agape, he watches the events unfold and turn from a senseless battle to a horrific slaughter, and then the ceiling falls.

By the gods! Was that Teren? Crushing stones remove companions from existence one after another. Look out, Ahmeth! Oh no! Degred! Pockets of darkness swallow up the carnage and Peramont's body begins to shake with silent laughter. Should have gone the other way, Ghuro. Then maybe you wouldn't be flat now. Oh, ho ho! Nambrit! Bet you wished you didn't have that stupid cloak now. The sheer amount of death triggers within him macabre humor. Each death is a comical offering to D'hurgen. And then the ghosts start flying. D'hurgen's black eyes! Tucking his head between his knees, Per begins to fervently pray, the irony of his action completely lost to him.

Darkness doesn't begin to describe what Peramont opens his eyes to when the cavern falls silent. Where am I? This D'hurgen's Catacombs? Am I dead? He can see nothing, not even his own hand in front of his face. He can hear nothing but the eerie silence that follows a cacophony.

"Cedric?" a deep voice that Per can associate with the priest of Therassor he'd witnessed waging war on his cult family calls out from somewhere in the general vicinity of in front of him and to the right.

"I'm here!" an unfamiliar voice calls back.

"Will Solanis bless us with some light?"

Fear rails against Per's ribcage once more. If they have light, they'll discover him and kill him. Frantically feeling about him, the cultist finds the wall of the cavern and use it to pull himself into a standing position. Smaller stones tumble from his path, clattering about as light flares into being behind him causing the black-robed man to freeze. Slowly turning his head to look over his left shoulder, Per pulls back the curtain of stringy hair. A terrified, wide eye stares over his shoulder at the pocket of illumination. 

Four figures are huddled together. A woman...The Syl lives? The cat-man...And the demon cat? The cleric of Therassor, and a cleric of Solanis. His breath caught in his throat, Peramont remains as still as he can unwittingly doing the one thing that could keep him from being discovered. Despite the strain on his neck and eyes, the cultist continues to watch as the only other survivors he's aware of begin the process of tending to each other. After an amazingly long time, the divine light vanishes casting the cavern into complete darkness once again.

They could hear me if I move. I don' even know wheres t' go! Despair grips his mind rendering him immobile. Time is lost to him as he stands worrying over the slightest sound, the extremely faint murmur of the other survivors, and his own breathing. Muscles scream out in heated complaint at his motionless state. His left knee begins to tremble, then a painful twitch catches in his hip. Soon, his whole body is trembling. I can't stay like this fer-ever... I gotsta sit. Lowering himself with the caution of a mouse caught in a cat's gaze, Per finds the ground with his hands and lowers himself into a crouch, then gently settles on his left buttock and maneuvers into a very uncomfortable fetal position. Despite being beyond tired, the ex-stablehand cannot find sleep at first. His enemy is nearby and he's been told that he snores. If he falls asleep, he's as good as discover--sleep ignores his fears and takes him anyway.

Jerking awake, Peramont immediately senses that something is wrong. I ain't in my cot. Tha's what's wrong. Why ain't I in my cot? Even as his initial assessment settles in his mind, he realizes that there's light illuminating his eyelids flooding his vision with red. Furrowing his brow, Per pushes his stiff body upright as he opens his eyes. I'm on the bloody floor! Why am I on the floor? Memories come flooding back at the same time as his gaze adjusts to the light, his vision focusing on the bearded face of a helmeted warrior. Looking to the right, Peramont starts at the closeness of the cat-man. 

"Good morning," the deep-voiced cleric of Therassor says flatly, his narrow eyes reflecting the light glowing from his bared sword's crossguard. "Rest well?"

The question is accented by a rumbling growl emanating from the chest of the cat-man. Peramont swallows nothing as his mouth is completely dry. Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump... the rapid beating of his heart floods his ears; wide, bulging eyes lock onto the silver cat's face. "Is... is... h'," Per's voice is a raspy whisper unable to spit the words out.

Following the cultist's gaze, the priest stares at the cat-man for a moment, piecing together the question Per is attempting to form. 

"Is he going to... what? Kill you? Eat you, maybe?" The cleric finishes for Peramont with a disinterested tone that somehow releases the black-robed cultist from his morbid stare. With a nod, the ex-stablehand gives a brief affirmative as he returns his eyes to the holy warrior. 

"Not yet," the bearded man replies. "So long as you prove useful, at least."

"I'll tell ya anythin' you want t' know," Per rushes to comply.

Thus begins the "usefulness" of Peramont Weschiller. He picks up on the companions' names after a while: Gib, or Moreno, is the priest of Therassor. Ch'dau is the cat-man, something called a Kazari and he's scary. He keeps growling at the cultist, taking pleasure in seeing him jump, squirm, and be otherwise unsure. The quiet Sylvari woman is named Aranwen, but she is more standoffish than the rest and pays him very little mind. The kindest of them--and thus, to Per's mind, the weakest--is the younger priest of Solanis, Cedric. So it is to Cedric that Peramont--a man not known for his wiles--attempts to attach himself as they work to dig themselves out. Between Cedric and Gib, the party is well-fed, watered, and injuries healed. The two priests also provide light but for the most part, the group works tied together in the dark with Peramont telling the tale of why the cult was there and what the ceremony was.

The party accepts what he says with very little interruption. When Per runs out of things to talk about that are based in fact, he begins to make up additions, desperate to remain useful with one eye always on the Kazari. At one point, his story must have gotten too far-fetched and it earns him a slap to the ear by the warrior-priest. The blow isn't hard enough to even knock him off balance, but Per decides then and there that he won't elicit such a warning again.

He's lost all track of day or night and has no concept of how much time has passed. The priest, Cedric, has continued to show him kindness, making sure that he eats and even stepping between Ch'dau and Peramont once when the cultist accidentally dropped a stone on the cat-man's foot.

"He wants t' kill me, that one," Per whispers to Cedric during a meal break.

The young priest glances at the Kazari who is devouring his meal nearby and then looks back to the cultist, "All life is valuable."

"Then you won't let 'im? Won't let none o' them?" I gots 'im now. Got me an ally.

"They won't kill you if you don't do anything to provoke them, Peramont," Cedric quietly replies.

Work continues. Gib asks many clarifying questions that unwind the fact from fiction. Ch'dau keeps him hopping. Aranwen keeps working at the digging. Cedric keeps "falling into his trap." And then, during one of the work periods just after a time of sleep, the Kazari pulls a free a stone that sends a stream of pale light in a ray piercing the inky black. Surprise and hope flood Per's whole body. Giggling, the ex-stablehand renews his efforts as do the others. Their freedom doesn't come fast enough but it does arrive and Peramont happily spills out into the cool morning air as soon as he is able. Still tied to the others, he begins to tug at the knot only to freeze when the heavy hand of the warrior-priest on his shoulder. 

"You're still useful, right, Peramont?" Gib asks ominously.

"Oh," the cultist nods frantically, sending his long, greasy hair bouncing about his shoulders. "I am, Master Moreno. It was jus' pinchin', the rope was."

Receiving a series of pats for his lie, Per resigns himself to assisting the others out of the hole. For a number of moments after they all achieved freedom, breathing fresh air for the first time in an indeterminate amount of time the five victims of loss shuffled about, to the cultist, who is himself caught up in the rapture of the fresh air filling his lungs, lost in their own elation. Rapture grows within him to euphoria and he begins to laugh. At first, the laughter is slow, real, and honest. Then, it increases in tempo and causes him to wheeze into coughing fits. Dropping to his knees, he falls forward as his robes get caught beneath him and pull him forward awkwardly, planting his face in the mushy earth. Rolling onto his back, his clothing twisting about him, Peramont spreads his arms wide and calls to the skies, "Thank you, D'hurgen, my dark lord!" I've survived. I live to serve you again, Walker of Shadows.

Forgetting himself, Per sits up, spreads his hands wide, and looks for Cedric. Gib, standing by a tree, covered in dirt, shaggy-looking with his thick facial hair, staring at the cultist with a flat expression... Aranwen, hollow and covered in grime, also staring at the manic man in the leaves... Cedric, concerned and confused, equally as dirty and a little funny to the cultist of Death who finally sees the irony in a cleric of the sun god dirty and soiled from being removed from the sun for so long. Why're they all starin' at me?

"What?" Peramont dumbly asks.

"That was quite the display," Gib remarks dryly.

"I'm happy t' be above ground," Per shrugs and scrambles to his feet, adjusting his robe into a more comfortable draping. He doesn't bother with brushing the leaves off as he's long since lost any cares about cleanliness.

His answer doesn't appear to stimulate any emotions in the priest of Therassor. Aranwen... Is she mad? Aranwen is actually staring at him with a fierceness that Peramont hasn't seen in her since she engaged the Mistress. Cedric looks troubled prompting the cultist to ask, "What's happenin'?"

"We've got a problem, Peramont," Gib responds, shifting his weight to his right side and resting his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"What's that?" the dim cultist tilts his mangy head to the side and squints at the priest.

"What to do with you," comes the simple, emotionless reply.

"Whoa," Per holds his hands up in front of him and takes a step backward. "I helped. I was useful. We spent all that time down there t'gether... jus' let me go."

"So you can run off and rejoin your Mistress?" Moreno presses in his bass monotone.

"I don' know where she went. I swear. I'm jus' gonna head back t' Morad, take up my ol' life again," Per smiles wide displaying his overly long, crooked, black and yellow teeth. "I'm no trouble t' no one."

"Sounds peaceful," Gib remarks quietly.

The staring continues and Per feels the insides of his stomach start to crawl. They're gonna kill me now. Glancing at each of them, Peramont chuckles nervously and shifts his eyes past them, searching for an opportunity. Gotta bolt. Gotta get outta here an' fast.

"You're free to go," Moreno shrugs his shield into a more comfortable position and raises his eyebrows at their captive. "Go find your peace."

"What?" Peramont gapes. "Really?"

"Do you want to return to Crandel with us?" there's a tone to the question that stimulates an immediate, stumbling response from the cultist. 

"No! No... I'm good--grateful, even," Per begins to back away at a walk. "You all take care of yourselves."

The staring continues. Feeling like his opportunity is passing, Per spins about and runs. Elation returns as he twists in stride and rounds a tree, moving as quickly as he can as far away from them as possible... running a few steps past the point where Ch'dau's falcata removes his head from his body.

"Go see your god." The last words that the cultist registers are uttered by the scary cat-man.

Threw a little somethin' somethin' up myself. Took some liberties that Olan can adjust or disregard as he sees fit.

Harrumphing, Moreno settles against the stiff-backed, uncushioned, wooden chair and stares into the candle's waning flame. Before him, strewn across a desk far too small to hold all of the books and scrolls, is the combined total of his study materials. Focusing on the one clue that he has to work with, Kithran's pregnancy, the scars of his battles with the undead minions of the death cult and the party's encounter with those worshipping cultists in the underground temple are more than physical. Weary, moss-colored eyes drift to the thin window placed high in the wall from which a pale glow of moonlight is barely visible in the night sky and his mind drifts back to the events leading up to the present.

Primal urges to survive no matter what had been the fuel that had kept the priest of Therassor from succumbing to his despair after Davena—aided by a turned Kithran—had escaped justice leaving them to the horrors in a collapsing temple. Gib had never seen the like. Even in his studies at the Temple as an acolyte, he had never encountered a tale depicting the terrors of that day. When he is able to sleep, his dreams are wrought by replays of melting flesh, screaming people, merciless souls hungrily seeking their next victim, slabs of stone obliterating nearby people; one second they are running, terrified by the hunting ghosts and the next, there's a boulder where they once were and everything nearby is splattered in gore. And there they were, his surviving companions, wounded, suffering as much from the cuts and clawed gouges in their flesh as the stabbing, painful realization that their own Kithran had betrayed them. Moreno hadn't even had the time to appreciate Cedric's quick thinking in getting to Ch'dau to save his life; the Collapse had happened all too quickly.

With Aranwen out of action—the look on her Syl face haunting and hollow—Gib had been forced to take charge. Thoughts of the decisions he made over the course of the next couple of weeks are constant pins poking at his confidence. Was he right? Did he do enough? Should he have eliminated that foul cultist that had survived with them? Of course, they wouldn't have received the full story had he, but sharing the stale air in the crumbled temple with the man had been poisonous. Still, it was through that man's story that they learned of the Anchor and Kith's part in it; a bug planted in the warrior-priest's mind that picks and scratches at his every waking thought.

Shifting forward in his appropriated chair, Gib draws in a deep breath and uses the heels of his hands to rub away the grip exhaustion has on his eyes. Time is of the essence. Before, when they first encountered the undead on the road outside of Crandel, time wasn't even a concern. Then, their ignorance protected them from the ghastly truth of the situation they sought to stave off—an agenda that they knew nothing about. 

Memories of Atharis' body lying torn open on the ground flit into the forefront of his mind. I died, the spirit of his fallen friend declares accusingly, and for what? Next to the young wizard's mutilated form lies a Cidal, slowly being devoured by ghouls. Midge's small ghost rises from the carnage and joins the young wizard's. Have we died in vain, Gib? Anger and loss fill his chest like waters pushing through a broken levy. Vocalizing the emotions in a primal growl the Kazari might have been proud of, the newly advanced Corporal-Elect of Therassor slams his hands onto the desk sending a jolt through the items spread across its surface. 

"Frustration is the enemy that defeats the seeker," the Sergeant of Knowledge chides from behind the podium at which he labors, his threadbare voice strangely echoing in the cavernous chamber. 

"A scant collection of available knowledge is the main force," Moreno replies in his deep timber, meeting the higher ranking clergyman's disapproving gaze with an even stare. "Frustration is the bloody aftermath of the battle.

"I've torn this library apart in search of information, Sergeant. There's nothing here."

"If information about bringing an incarnation of a god to this plane were prevalent, Corporal-Elect, I'm afraid we would have a much larger problem than that which we face this day."

Sighing, Gib concedes, "Be that as it may, this—" he waves a hand dismissively over the materials before him, "—has proven to me that our Mighty Lord has never intended to manifest Himself in such a way. There isn't even so much as a scribble indicating that walking Audalis was even a spark of a thought for Him."

"Rest assured, soldier," the skinny priest replies, "If D'hurgen succeeds, Therassor will meet him on the field of battle despite your inability to discover a plan to do so. There are many things that are above your rank and understanding."

"I spoke with the Most Holy Field General Gerrtalt and expressed to him the direness of these circumstances," Gib retorts with a curled lip barely visible under his heavy black mustaches. "This is the most exhaustive library in the Church. If there are plans to counter the god of death's earthly incarnation being born to my friend, they are surely hidden well."

"Not all knowledge is kept in a library..."

"You were ordered to help, not play at riddles, Filas," Moreno growls and pushes himself up from the chair to stand defiantly before the smaller man.

"Mind yourself, soldier," Filas, Sergeant of Knowledge, cautions, his narrow face imperiously lifted to stare the Corporal-Elect down. "I have opened halls that have been long ignored, even that is reserved for those of higher standing and position than you may ever dream to achieve, and have helped you search the tomes with my own eyes. Forget not your place with me, Moreno Enderedre."

Matching stare with glare, Gib breathes fiercely through his crooked nose for a few beats of the heart before dipping his head a little in deference and stating through clenched teeth, "My apologies, Sergeant. We've been at this for days on days and have yet to discover anything of value. I do not even know if this... this pregnancy has a normal gestation period or if, because of the divine element, it is escalated. I do not know how much time we have let alone where Davena may have stolen Kithran away to."

Dropping his clenched fist to grip the hilt of his sword, the warrior-priest continues, "Sitting in these musty halls reading text after text, following rabbits down holes and crows into shadows... I long for a simple battlefield."

"Battlefields are rarely simple," Filas reminds him with a sorrowful note of remembrance. "But I understand. The hour is late. The acolytes have already retired and without rest, your mind isn't as sharp as it could be. Take my advice, Corporal-Elect. Seek out your bed. Return tomorrow with fresh eyes and a renewed vigor. I will commandeer another class of acolytes to assist in the search and we'll magnify our efforts. I'll also send a runner to the Great Library to see what has been found by the squad researching there. We are not beaten yet."

Releasing the death grip on his sword, Gib turns a dejected eye back to the mess of literature before him. "I would like to but I haven't been sleeping so it is a waste of time to try.

"Another day has passed with no news from Cedric of Solanis, no word from our counterparts who are searching through other libraries. It's been weeks since my companions parted ways in Crandel. I'm left with handfuls of nothing for all of our efforts. I need to find a better way to be useful."

"You can certainly use time in prayerful contemplation as armor against frustration," Sergeant Filas slyly brings the conversation roundabout. "Perhaps pray for some guidance on how best to address your superiors even when beset by that pesky enemy, frustration."

Closing his heavy eyelids and shaking his head, Gib steps out from behind the desk and positions the chair beneath it. "I'll leave you to your books, old man. For now, at least. The chapel is a clarion call that I must answer. You should seek out your own bed. Therassor knows you'll be waking soon enough to piss."

Filas chuckles, his smile twisted by the scar that cuts through his lips and jaw, as the warrior-priest makes his way past the podium. Rubbing the back of his neck where stiffness has taken root, Gib makes his way through the tables, bookshelves, and cases containing histories, philosophical musings, scripture, and more esoteric documentations. The walk is made longer for the winding path through the collections eventually spilling the troubled bearded man into a torch-lit corridor. The chapel is near the front of the temple within easy access for those coming in from the parade grounds, but from the library, the journey takes much longer. Passageways leading to dormitories, classrooms, and more mysterious chambers wind through the majestic and stately temple. White marble columns and statues, silver metalworks, mosaics depicting glorious scenes from scripture are everywhere and eventually, the halls grow in height and splendor with their vaulted ceilings and intricately detailed reliefs. 

The beauty and majesty of this edifice are lost to the harrowed Corporal-Elect. Each battle scene he comes across turns into that fateful battle wherein they had failed to stop the end of the world. Every carved marble scene, miniature though they may be in their alcoves, are a monumental reminder of how great his god is and how ineffective he has been. The halls are empty as the clergy have long retired for the night but they echo with the words of his friends, filled with despair as they discussed Kith's fate during those days underground, digging themselves out. Words flit about in whispers like the spirits released when Davena's denizen had destroyed that crystal... words that melt the flesh of confidence away leaving the bones of doubt.

Scratching at the stubble growing on his newly shaved head, Moreno stops before the intimidating double doors to the chapel and considers the scenes worked into the hardwood. Here, the image of Therassor in his glorious armor bearing Meritorious, his trusted sword, is depicted leading a charge against horned demons. The demons are, of course, falling beneath the hooves of the cavalry and being pushed back by the pure righteousness of the warrior god. Here, Therassor and his faithful are winning the day.

So many times before, when he had been a younger more optimistic man, this scene had excited Gib. Now, standing before it with his head shaved in mourning and his black beard shaggy and grown out of his normal point, Corporal-Elect Moreno Ederedre feels shame. A shame that is as effective as a stone wall in keeping him from entering this holiest of places. A shame that mocks him with shadows and intimations of what could have been had he but been stronger. Heavy is his head as he raises it to peer up at his beloved god's image.

"I commended my soul to your charge on more than one occasion, my General," his husky words are hacked free of his mouth, sharp and splintered. "Why did you not take me to your halls then? What deeds had Atharis and Midge performed that earned them their places but not me? And now... now there is no relief, no hope to be found? I walk a battlefield of bones and hear naught but their crunching beneath my boot. Where are the birds? Where are the blue skies? It is blood that I see covering the land, Mighty General, and I cannot see the field for it."

"Let me know if that door has an answer for you," a tenor says quietly from behind him and to the right. 

Giving a start, Gib turns with embarrassment to see the angular form of Right Major Alesh approaching from an adjoining hall. Alesh is an athletic woman, broad in the shoulders and narrow in the hips. Her curly, dark brown hair is cut short and shaved to above her ears, a portion of it tied up in a topknot. She isn't a traditionally beautiful woman with sharp features hardened by time in the field but she is said to be a brilliant tactician and very capable swordswoman. And although she isn't every man's dream to look at, what beauty is there has been accentuated by her confidence and airing. Standing a full span of a hand shorter than Moreno, she looks up at him as she draws within his blood circle. 

"I've held many a one-sided conversation with that door in my time," she smiles wryly, "and will be quite offended if it decides to answer you when it has been ignoring me all these years."

Unable to smile in return, Gib bobs his head in understanding. 

"You're Corporal-Elect Moreno Ederedre, correct?"

Again, Gib nods.

"I was there at your advancement ceremony," Alesh hooks her hands in her swordbelt and drops her weight to her left. "You've stumbled upon quite the conspiracy. Do you mourn your lost companions or the lost war?" Her inquisitive brown eyes look to his shaved head, accentuating her question.

Gib considers the query knowing that the war to which she refers is the one they are fighting to keep D'hurgen from Audalis. "Can it not be for both that I have presented myself such?"

"Surely," Right Major Alesh narrows her eyes, "but I didn't take you for a fatalist. The tide of war can change at the outcome of a tiny battle, Corporal-Elect. I've seen it—experienced it—even read about it. The principle is taught in every strategy class within our ranks and yet here you are seeing valleys of bone and blood caught up in the hole you currently find yourself in when you should be seeking the higher ground."

"A task that I've been about for weeks now," Gib responds cautiously, folding his arms across his chest.

"It is a forever task," Alesh spreads her arms wide and raises her eyebrows incredulously. "Any field commander will tell you that. Battles are unpredictable. The enemy strategists will have their own plans devised and will throw them at you when they deem the time is right. Have you forgotten the lessons found in the Book of Epectir?"

"Be resilient as the water," Moreno responds tiredly, "for it will eventually win over any stone thrown in its path."

Alesh strikes Moreno's shoulder with the back of her right hand, "There you have it! This is the problem with defeat, it breeds self-pity. You need to overcome that wound and pull yourself up by the boots, soldier. Therassor would expect nothing less. By the Nine Hells! You shouldn't either."

"And what does a field commander do when all signs point to utter defeat?" Gib strikes back in a low and quiet voice.

"That's easy," Right Major Alesh grins and settles back on her boot heels. "You fight like you've got no tomorrow, for if you do not fight, you have no tomorrow."

"More wise words from the Book of Epectir?" Corporal-Elect Ederedre presses.

"No," Alesh keeps on grinning while she starts to walk past him. "That is from the Book of Alesh."

Turning so he can follow her exit with his eyes, Gib shakes his head, "You don't know the weight—"

The Right Major stops and spins on her heel to glare imperiously at the man, "By daybreak, I leave for Daviena Castle to assist in the preparations for this dreadful event. Do not think that just because you're neck-deep in dusty old tomes the rest of us are sitting on our laurels. There are parts to be played by every man and woman in Ertain. Messages have been sent to spread the news of your discovery as far away as the Syl forests beyond Coria. Do not presume that this burden is upon your shoulders alone. That mantle is very unbecoming a servant of the God of Righteous Battle."

Taken aback, Gib holds his hands up before his chest, "I did not know."

"Of course not!" Alesh shoots back with a furrowed brow that sets her fiery eyes deep in shadows. "You are a Corporal-Elect. There's no need for you to be privy to anything except that which is within your jurisdiction." Her expression softens. "War finds all people. There's no running from it."

Dipping his bald head in acceptance of her words, Gib presses his lips together. He hasn't considered that the work he was doing wasn't the only work being done, that the Church of Therassor wouldn't be doing more. For the first time in weeks, he feels a little lighter. The burden of finding the answers, or preparing the world, is no longer on the shoulders of the cave-in survivors alone. For a moment, hope spears the chest of despair allowing a little light through.

"Therassor is waiting to give you council, Corporal-Elect," Alash holds her left arm out and points towards the chapel doors. "Listen closely."

As the accomplished woman strides into another corridor, Gib turns back to the chapel doors. Standing erect, he pulls the doors open and proceeds down the long aisle between the pews towards the dais at the end. The chapel room is a grand rectangular display of Therassor's might. The pews are divided into three sections by massive white marble pillars upon which, two thirds of the way up their height, lifelike carvings of stone soldiers blowing trumpets and wrapped in the livery of their god lean out from the base. Overhead, arched vaulted ceilings are painted with visually stunning depictions from the Histories of the Righteous, A Scripture of Therassor. Multiple smaller altars run along the walls of the chamber providing places for more private worship, each contained within a small, dark cherry wood booth with gothic ornamentation along the tops. Centered at the end of the chapel and upon the five-step dais is the main altar, broad and ornate, gilded in silver and dark cherry wood, its surface covered by a blood-red silk cloth hemmed in silver thread. This altar is surrounded by candelabra standing upon staves eight feet in height bearing an impressive one hundred light candles—one hundred for the Hundred Martyrs. Behind the altar is an alcove bearing the seats of the Council of Therassor at the head of which is the always empty Mighty General's chair. Even the Most Illustrious High General sits to Therassor's right. Behind these chairs is one of the crown jewels of the Faith, the forty-foot by one hundred foot stained glass windows depicting Therassor with Meritorious held boldly before him, his armor radiating righteous light, his helm's visor open so that his eyes can bear witness to all unrighteousness that the council may seek to battle it.

Drawing up to the altar, Gib draws his sword from its scabbard and brings the crossguard to his lips. "Holy General, Mightiest of Battle Lords, I have come to seek wisdom."

Kissing the holy symbol upon the crossguard, Moreno sets the blade upon the altar, piercing end towards his heart. Bowing his shaved head, the warrior-priest whispers his heart's desires to his god. "I've lost so many of the battles that should have won you the day, my Commander. I cannot see for the blood that veils my eyes. Clear my vision. Let me see the field's potential. Grant me insight and wisdom that I may serve you well. The enemy of righteousness has taken to horse, his armor is solid and proven, his spear is sharp and unbroken. The world lies before him, defenseless, breast bared, ready for him to strike the killing blow. I would have it be otherwise. 

"Again, I commend my soul into your service. Show me how to defeat this enemy."

Huzzah! Some action.

I don't drink, but I'm down with watching the antics.