Saturday September 9th
9:00 PM

The light clattering of the train's wheels on the just slightly uneven track provide a lull, almost a soothing feeling, drawing those in the west-bound train closer to sleep. The journey has been uneventful, just a standard trip, with the train's nose now aimed into the setting sun, and the individual cars all lit by false, electronic light. A few clouds break the otherwise empty and monotonous sky out the windows, with twilight colours settling on both them and the fields below. There is little to see out the windows now, for the train is travelling across prairie-land, but that's alright. The installed cinema, reminiscent of the style of an airplane's, is made up of miniature screens located on the backs of the many seats, with a button control installed on the armrests.

In one of the train's cars, identical to the others in appearance, only six people are seated within. Wisps of immaterial wind can be seen around each of the others, perhaps an indication of their power, their essence. Closer to the back of the car, sitting by one of the windows, a smartly dressed man can be seen typing away on his laptop. He is cleanly shaved, with short, dark brown hair. Every now and then he stops typing, and quickly glances around the train car in a seemingly nervous twitch.

At the front of the car sits a couple. The woman is seated in her wheelchair, apparently asleep with her head resting against the shoulder of the man next to her. She has brunette hair, tied back in a long ponytail, and she is dressed casually, with a few paint stains visible upon her sweater's sleeves. Her suitcase in front of her is thin, but both wide and long, easily capable of holding poster-sized paper. The man next to her has black hair, and no trace of any moustache or beard. Unlike the woman next to her, he is dressed slightly formally, but also seems to hold an air of a mystical person. He is simply gazing out the window, his eyes distant and unfocused, as they have been throughout the trip.

On the opposite side of the couple, a young woman sits. She too is dressed casually, wearing a black hoodie with the hood up. She also exudes an air of confidence about her, which perhaps can be seen by the faint essence swirling about her. A few tufts of platinum-blond hair can be seen just beyond the edge of the black hood.

A few rows back from the couple, near the middle of the car, sits another woman. Like the man in the back, she seems to have a vague air of tension, perhaps apprehension, or something else. There is a slight unease around her grey eyes, but her posture is calm and relaxed. Her hair is a short length of a dyed red colour.

On the opposite side of the car from her is a man with well tanned skin, identifiable as a Native American. He has black hair, and piercing green eyes. However, perhaps the most unnerving thing about him is quite simply how wild he appears, not one anyone would expect with a city job, and although his arms can't be seen, one can guess by his strong looking hands that they are well toned, as would be the rest of his body. He wears a black overcoat with an easily identifiable native tone, with its mosaic embroidery over the shoulders and tassells along the bottom of the sleeves. He also wears similarly dark leather boots, a worn denim pant, and a casual white shirt.

Eventually all sight of the sun vanishes over the horizon in the distance, and outside turns black, lit only by the train's electronic light. Finally, the train's motion can be felt slowing, and it comes to a stop at an outdoor train station next to the town of Altin. The time is 10:45 PM. The train station is reminiscent of the style of the archaic train stations, but is well lit by the electrical lighting. The silence, if one can consider the soft hum of electrical lighting and the clicks of typing silence, is broken by an announcement over the train's PA system.

"We apologize for any inconvenience, however, we will have to delay our departure due to some temporary maintenance. We hope to depart in ten minutes, at 11 o'clock pm at the very latest. We thank you for your understanding." A man's voice can be heard over the PA.

The announcement wakes up the woman in the wheelchair, and she looks around slightly, but seeing that it isn't her destination, leans back against her husband. Shortly after the announcement, the door toward the station at the front of the car slides open, and a woman in a conductor's uniform walks in. The uniform is blue, and she wears a blue cap, underneath which her short blond hair can be seen. Under her arm, she is carrying a black folder. She calmly steps to the centre of the front of the car, and places the folder upon a table which she folds out of the side. The man in the back stops typing as he eyes the woman.

"Now, if you want to proceed, please sign your names here." She says, her voice gentle, and matter-of-factly, as she opens the folder. It only holds one page within it, and on the other side is a ball-point pen. Looking back to everyone, she adds, "It's a contract." and seeing everyone's eyes narrow with suspicion, continues almost reassuringly, "Don't worry, all it says is you'll take full responsibility for your actions. You know, the usual stuff."

The man at the back quickly stands and walks over, but before he can put the the pen to the page, the woman adds, "Real name, if you would please, the name of your soul. Rest assured, not even I will see it."

Raising an eyebrow at the woman, the man carefully signs the page. Following him are the couple at the front, first the husband, who raises an eyebrow at the page, but does sign. The wife then signs, showing only a bare trace of hesitation, confident that her husband would've told her otherwise if she shouldn't have.

Should you choose to scrutinize the page, you find that it is a rather ornate sheet of paper, a pure white page lined with what appears to be gold, and the letters seem to be made from golden leaf. This is what it says:

I chooseth this fate of my own free will.
The path I shalt forge is of my own doing.
Whether good or ill results of my actions,
I accept responsibility for them.
Below this are six lines, the first three already having been filled by the other's signatures, however, try if you will, they are illegible, although whether this is by their intent or not is difficult to say, considering the woman's words that not even she would see the signatures.

((Hehehe, I know I took this bit of the opening involving the signing from another source, but I liked the idea of it... anyway, as she says, if you wish to proceed, sign ^_^))

Guinevere gazed through the window into the night. The prairie rolled by in endless waves. Under the faint light cast by the crescent of moon that held dominion over the night scene, the view from her window was beautiful. She was held, transfixed in her own thoughts just as much as in the landscape beyond the glass. Initially Guinevere glanced up to watch the sun set, the train angled just so that she could see it ahead of the train. After the last golden drop had vanished from the horizon, she couldn’t turn away until the entire sky had been converted into night. Only then did she glance away when the lights were dimmed. It would have been better if they didn’t insist on keeping the lights on in the car, however dim they adjusted it for the sleepers.

The girl wore a black hoodie that was at least a size, or maybe two, too large for her, with a rabbit embroidered on the left. Her hair, the lightest of light blonde, fell out of her hood on either side of her neck. It probably would reach as far as her shoulder blades if it ran down her back. On the occasions when she glanced away from the window that had held her attention for most of the journey, a thin scar could be seen, running from just below her left eye toward her ear. The mark did not seem to detract from her pleasant beauty, however, rather having an endearing quality. The miniature girl, looking to be in her mid-later teens wore a skirt and jeans together, with a developing hole in the right knee. On her feet, her chosen foundation was of brown and black boot/shoes, probably designed more for wear and tear – of which they seem to have seen much – than for fashion.

Then the small town, only stop on her voyage between home with gran and gramps and the city, came into attention. It would be unfair to say that then it came into view, for on the plains, things came into view the moment the light could reach your eyes, not counting on the curvature of the Earth. The train never stopped here for more than a few minutes. Maybe it was a secret place that was infested with demons, or it was the subject of a governmental conspiracy, and so stopping for long enough to drop off passengers – besides those who were in on the secret – was not allowed.

An announcement came over the P.A. "We apologize for any inconvenience; however, we will have to delay our departure due to some temporary maintenance. We hope to depart in ten minutes, at 11 o'clock pm at the very latest. We thank you for your understanding."
There goes a perfectly good conspiracy.
The disabled woman across from Guin woke from her sleep on her husband’s shoulder for a moment. She sent a pleasant smile, instant message, to the woman. They were so sweet together. The song on her MP3 changed to a coincidentally appropriate tune.

Then an alarm went off in Guinevere’s mind, a sixth sense that alerted her to incongruities and peculiarities. A woman dressed as a conductor stepped into the car with a folder under her arm. The moment of excitement in her breast built up into a warm mischievous glee. Perhaps the conspiracy hadn’t bee ruined yet.
The others got up to sign the contract with their truenames while Guinevere didn’t move. In fact, she had closed her eyes and was beginning to mouth the words to the song. The thought crossed her mind that there could be a professional lip-reader looking at her, who knew the song she was singing. “It’s the time – of the sea-ea-son for lo-ov-ing~” The song that started when she looked at the couple across from her.

When she still hadn’t been called upon for her implied ignorance of her environment, she decided to move matters along herself, for the good of the investigation of course. The conductor was just taking the contract from the last signer. Guinevere, apparently realizing that something was happening that she was not privy to, leapt to her feat with her arms stretched upward – not an incredible length. “Oh! A sign-up sheet? Of course, how silly of me.” She reached for the pen, this step timed so that it would be offered to her when she sought it. There was a problem, however, in that he hand was unable to grasp the pen, covered in her sleeve as it was. Timely use of her right hand freed her left, which was in turn used to grasp the pen.

In a flurry she propped the contract against some surface that would suit her needs and promptly wrote down ‘Guinevere Fe-‘ then she stopped, apparently startled a mistake of hers. “Whoops! That’s not my name; it’s a nickname you see. She scribbled it out and next to it began again, but this time in her haste she flopped her ‘G’ together with the ‘u’. All the while, she was actually looking down the other names. Everyone here had indeed signed in their truename. She had time to read the agreement twice by the time she successfully wrote out ‘Guinevere MacInti-‘ but another switch of her hand messed up the legibility. “Sorry,” Guin beamed up apologetically. Before the conductor could remind say anything to remind her to spell out the name of her soul only, she did it with a quick, long flourish of the pen. By this point in time, the line had long been used up, and her real name had to be shoved in beneath. Guinevere was moments from handing back the folder when the other scribblings on the page disappeared. With some astonishment, she deigned to add an arrow pointing from her truename to the line. She then handed it back quickly, without waiting to see if the line would vanish too.

“Signed!”

The woman wearing the sunglasses, hiking boots, jeans and a Hard Rock San Diego t-shirt of equal worn out appearance had curled herself into the seat, a brown backpack squished protectively between her chest and her drawn up legs. Wrapped around her was a red and purple fleece blanket. Propped between the window and her head a light pink stuffed animal bunny was serving as her pillow. She did not sleep even though the dark circles under her eyes screamed of how little sleep she had gotten recently. The smell of the chemicals on her dyed red hair combined with the thoughts running through her head kept her awake.

Every time someone shifted in the car she jumped and turned her head in their direction. The young man directly across from her disturbed her some, but he had kept to himself, as had everyone else, so she did not do more than keep an eye on him. Besides her moving gaze she was generally restless. The worn out paperback book would appear from her bag now and then, but she could never get further than a few paragraphs before it would go back in the bag. Tubes of crackers would come of the bag between attempts at the book, which she would chew on nervously letting the crumbs fall all over the blanket before getting exasperated and wiping them off frantically and shoving the crackers back in her bag. Her fingers fiddled with the edges of her pants and the hem of the blanket. She just wanted this trip to be over with. Every clack of the train wheels took her closer to Mexico. Mexico, she had to get to Mexico.

When the train slowed to a stop she sat upright in her chair and peered first out into the darkness that surrounded the train, but saw nothing more exciting than the few lights of a sleepy desert town, she then turned her shaded glance over the car, looking at each patron suspiciously.

The loudspeaker announced that they were experiencing mechanical issues. Her mouth twisted into a knot.

You know dear, this is just what you deserve, after what you have done. You’ll never get to Mexico. If only you had been the good wife and mother I had raised you to be dear. None of this had to happen. You know if they find you, they won’t take you back, they’ll shoot, and likely shoot to kill.
Her mother’s voice rang through her head as her fist pounded against the arm rest in frustration.

She had just started to uncurl her hand and work refocusing her mind when the lady in the blue uniform entered the car. Immediately she threw her hand into her bag, curling her fingers around a hard solid object hidden deep within it and dropped down into the seat. Cautiously she tilted her head to get a glance of the woman in the small spaces between the seats. Not noticing any firearms or handcuffs Eve eased some, but still sat tense as a rattlesnake, ready to strike if necessary.

The blue uniformed woman spoke then, explaining that to proceed they would have to sign some contract, with their real name. What kind of rail service was this? Maybe the town had a bus station, she could catch a bus to take her down south.

And yet, the others were getting up and signing. It was only her and the strange Indian man who had yet to sign. If she tried to get off the train now it would only make her stand out. Standing out was the last thing she wanted to do. She fingered a lock of her blaring red hair, and caught a sight of the hideous color out of her peripherals. That had been a mistake, she really couldn’t afford to make any more. Her fingers released the hair and slowly moved up into the air.

“Bring it here, I’ll sign…” she said as confidently as she could. The uniformed woman brought over the folder and pen. Eve took it and carefully examined the document, formal looking, and with little written on it. Nothing overly alarming was written, what could it hurt, could she possibly get in any more trouble than she already was in?

Taking the pen she quickly scrawled her name, the letters stared up at her and for a moment her bottom lip quivered as if she might cry. She watched until the letters smudged out of legibility, and swallowed hard chocking down her tears and handed back the folder. That done she turned her back to the car and stared out the window, seeing more of her own reflection than anything beyond the window.

Borrowed time love, your living on borrowed time… her mother whispered.

His gaze tracked from the night-shrouded view of the prairie beyond the train’s window and, for perhaps the hundredth time today, Crowkiller’s glittering, wolf-like eyes traced a slow, scrutinizing circuit around the interior of the car and the humans with whom he shared the space. As his eyes encountered each of them he paused for an instant, nostrils flaring as he scented the air, sampling the essence that exuded from one before allowing his senses to move on and investigate the next. The nervous ones drew his attention first…

The woman across the aisle with red-dyed hair was perhaps the most on edge. Her anxiety was almost a palpable thing and, at first glance and despite the essence gathered about her, Crowkiller had nearly categorized her as a rabbit, scared and skittish and bolting madly ahead of the wolf in a desperate but futile attempt to escape her fate. As he had watched her in the hours they had spent in this car, though, he had come to sense a bit of the predator in her, as well. Not easily stirred to the hunt, perhaps, and certainly hesitant to make the kill but there was a bit of Wolf in her, regardless, and, he sensed, who or whatever was hunting her was likely in for a nasty surprise when… if… they caught her.

The man towards the back, busily clacking away at his laptop, also had struck Bas as more than just a little uneasy. The man’s insistent, frenetic keystrokes, punctuated by regular, apprehensive surveys of his surroundings for the duration of the trip had set Crowkiller’s nerves on edge more than once… What are you runnin’ from, little rabbit?… but he’d managed to restrain himself, so far, leaving the man alone to bang away on the machine unmolested. If the irritating clickity-click-click didn’t end soon, though... No… you won’t… you can’t…
A low growl rumbled in his chest as he recalled the Nomad code he had, in recent years, sworn to live by. Suppressing the sound as best he could, he forced his gaze away from the man and on to the curious little creature closer to the front of the car. The ghost of a smile played on his lips as he, again, noticed the image of a rabbit on the left side of her too big hoody… Prey, his instincts growled again, meat! All of them! …despite the embroidered bunny, though, Bas didn’t get the same sense from this one as he had the first two. This one hadn’t given off any sense of angst, no scent of fear or trepidation clinging to her, and, aside from the sleeping woman across from her, the tiny blonde thing seemed to be the calmest spirit in the car. There was an odd tang to her essence, though… a strangeness that, try as he might, Crowkiller found difficult to define. He sniffed the air again, inviting more of the girl’s peculiar scent to filter in, deliberated it a moment longer, then chuffed softly and let his scrutiny of the little one pass.

The sleeping woman and her husband, then; quietest, so far, of the spirits on this train. Both rippled with power ¬¬ as did the others, here, of course – but, unlike the rest, no signs of that power seemed to manifest in them beyond the wispy auras. None of the conflict that had heightened the spoor of the red-haired woman, or the apprehensiveness that had betrayed the clean-shaven man, or even the quirky, disconnected ripples that emanated from the tiny blonde. Had it not been for those auras, though, Bas would have questioned if the Moon Gods had set him on the proper path, at all. He hadn’t questioned their guidance when this hunt had started, nor did he question it when the trail led him to the city where he had caught this train – the same city where he had left a handful of gang members’ corpses twitching in their own juices a day before – but, after he had sold his motorcycle in order to get the money for a ticket, leaving him with nothing but what he carried now, and boarded the train to find himself in the company of this group, he couldn’t help but wonder if the Old Ones were testing him somehow… or sending him to his end for past transgressions…

"We apologize for any inconvenience; however, we will have to delay our departure due to some temporary maintenance. We hope to depart in ten minutes, at 11 o'clock pm at the very latest. We thank you for your understanding."
The PA snatched Crowkiller’s attentions from the couple and the arrival of the woman in a conductor’s uniform prompted another low rumbling in his chest, accompanied by the flaring of nostrils and a curious cocking of his head to one side. As she spoke, opening the black folder that she carried under one arm and explaining its purpose, Bas folded his arms across his chest and turned his eyes back to the view beyond the train’s window… And here we are, he thought, even as the man in the back finally tore his fingers away from his computer and moved eagerly forward to sign his name, the scent is found, again, and the hunt resumes.
The woman and her husband signed next, finally showing a bit, albeit a very faint bit, of trepidation as they did so. Their signatures were followed, after a moment, by the strange, little one – even in signing her name, this one was more than peculiar, and the act took much longer than Bas thought it ought to.

“Bring it here, I’ll sign.”

He flicked a sidelong glance at the red-haired woman across the aisle and watched out of the corner of his eye as she, too, took the pen and scrawled her name on the contract presented by the conductor. When the sound of the pen lifting from the paper reached his ears, one of the Indian’s hands disappeared into the long, fringed duster that he wore and re-emerged and instant later wrapped around the hilt of a long, heavy bladed knife. As the conductor reclaimed the folder from the red-haired woman and turned his way, he pressed the sharpened edge of the blade to the palm of his right hand, coaxing a thin, red line of blood from beneath the skin.

“True name,” the conductor reminded him softly, opening the folder to present him with the contract.

The Indian offered a near imperceptible nod and, without looking at the woman, clenched his cut hand into a fist over the gold-trimmed document and squeezed a few droplets of his blood onto the last unsigned line. He watched the blood scroll fluidly across the line to spell out ‘Sungmanitou tanka nagin’ then become illegible and disappear into the page. Only then did he lift his green-gold eyes to the woman, nodding faintly to indicate that he was finished. As the knife was returned to wherever he had sheathed it beneath the leather of his coat, Crowkiller’s gaze turned back to the night-cloaked vista outside. He wondered what this place might have to do with the hunt as much as he wondered about these five others who would share this part of it with him.

((OOC: just a few minor liberties taken, here, with the conductor's actions, etc.. Edits as necessary. ))

Returning to the front of the car, the conductor closes the folder with a smooth motion, holding it under her arm. Reaching the front, she turns back to face everyone.

"No one can escape Time; it exists everywhere," she says calmly, holding up the folder with the front held toward everyone as though in symbolization, covering half of her face with its width, "Yet, nowhere." She adds, turning the folder sideways, but at that distance, one would expect the folder's edge to hit her face. Yet, nothing of the sort happens, and then realization strikes. The folder has disappeared; not even its edge can be seen as she lowers her hand to her side. "You can't plug your ears and cover your eyes, or can you?"

"And so it begins." She finishes, stepping backwards, her form fading into nothingness as though it were engulfed by a shadow that doesn't exist.

After a moment of slightly shocked silence, the man in the back resumes typing. Something then becomes notably odd. No one has disembarked from the train from any of the cars ahead or behind, and indeed, there are no people on the platform, administrative or otherwise. Ticket tills are empty, no sounds of people can be heard from the station itself, although echoes of the people waiting in the other train cars can be heard. Suddenly, the man stops typing. He grunts, his eyes distant and his forehead wrinkled in concentration.

"Everyone, move!" He yells, slamming his notepad closed.

Alas, it is already 10:54 PM

Bong
The chime of the clock tower is unnaturally loud, reverberating in the air itself and sending chills down everyone's spine with its unsettling pitch. The noise doesn't even seem to come from the clock tower, almost from all directions, threatening to distort everyone's sense of direction. Everyone is standing, except for the woman in the wheelchair, from both the shout and the bell toll, but before even two steps can be made, the bell strikes again.

Bong
Everyone braces for the third chime, but rather than the bell tolling, something else occurs as well. Right when the bell chimes a third time, an explosion rocks the train. The front car that houses the train's engine has completely been destroyed, and bits of flaming, metal, and glass debris can be seen through the windows flying from the centre of the explosion. An analytical mind would think that the train's engine just exploded, but the mind drenched in adrenaline doesn't think of the cause, quickly setting the body to run. Next, the train car behind the engine car explodes with the fourth chime, for seemingly no reason at all.

Yet, as luck, or perhaps fate, would have it, although the explosions have offset the train's position, and are causing it to start moving backwards along the track, the path to the platform is still clear from this car. It takes no thinking, for it is simply instinct, as everyone runs onto the platform. Just in time as well, for by the time everyone is on the platform, the clock tower chimes for the seventh time, causing the car they just ran out of to burst in a ball of fire. Shields are quickly woven by those who can, but the damage caused by the flying metal and glass shrapnel is incredible, despite being outside of the core blast.

Guinevere's shield stops most of the debris from hitting her directly, offsetting it by enough of a fraction of an angle to avoid her, but one fairly large piece of glass breaks through and cuts deeply into her right bicep. The woman in the wheelchair, who seemingly would be incapable of dodging any of the debris, is unharmed, with her shield strong enough to even avert a piece of chair that might have struck her in the head otherwise. Eve twists and twirls, and successfully manages to avoid the brunt of the flying shards, but a metal edge, probably off of either the chair or the window, strikes her in the calf, causing her to trip onto the floor. An appropriate time for it to happen, however, for it causes her to avoid several hardwood javelins from the floor of the car, making them pass overhead. The man with the laptop also seems to be clumsy, stumbling in his step, and causing his laptop to slide across the floor. Yet, as he dives to retrieve it, his initial stumble proves to be his salvation, for at that moment, a fairly intact and flaming chair rockets over him, as several glass shards pass below him. Bas simply allows his wolfish instincts to take over, allowing him to avoid a considerable amount, but he also gets hit a number of times by various pieces of objects. Alone, they aren't much, but altogether it causes a fair amount of pain across his body. The most unfortunate, however, is the man beside the woman in the wheelchair, for although her shield is strong, it can only protect one person. He is knocked down by almost a volley of various pieces of wood, glass and metal.

By the time the clock tower has stopped chiming, which is in ten chimes for those who counted, none of the train cars remain. The group of six people are left on the platform with various pieces of the train left upon it. Yet, despite the proximity of the blasts, the platform itself has not sustained considerable damage, and is not aflame from the smoldering debris. The first ordeal is over, but now there are many unanswered questions, namely, what is to be done now?

[Damage Sustained]
-Guinevere has lost 3 Essence and has taken 5 points of damage (the 3 Essence were used in a physical damage cushion of 15 points, which has been spent)
-Carrie (the NPC in the wheelchair) has lost 5 Essence and has taken no damage (same use for Essence as Guinevere, but for 25 points, of which 20 points has been used up)
-Kenneth has taken no damage (He got incredibly lucky...)
-Eve has taken 5 points of damage
-Bas has taken 10 points of damage
-Carrie's husband (NPC) has taken 20 points of damage
Main note: No one is in danger of dying

The sound of the explosion had settled to a ringing in her ears and the soft crackle of smoldering wood behind her. Slowly she lifted a strand of her garishly red hair from her eyes and lifted her head to look around. Everyone on the platform seemed to be alive, except for maybe the man who had been sitting next to the woman in the wheelchair who lay prone on the platform. That fact seemed amazing. When the first explosion had gone off she was certain that was the end, finally. After everything that had happened she would die in a train wreck. But then she had started to move, grabbing her bag and rushing out of the car onto the platform, and here she was alive.

“So much for keeping a low profile…” she muttered to herself as she looked out over the platform to the twisted remains of the train, but her attention soon focused on more pressing matters.

Pain radiated out of her leg and she sat up to look at it. A large bit of metal poked out of her jeans, already they were turning purple from her blood. She winced slightly, but it would take much more than that to stop her, that she knew from experience. Adjusting herself to get a better look she then pulled her bag closer and began rummaging through it.

Out of her bag she pulled out a t-shirt, this one sporting a faded ‘Mr. Bubble’ logo on the front of it, a plastic bag with a small bar of soap, and a bottle of water. Without even pausing to consider what she was doing she wrapped Mr. Bubble around the end of the metal, gripped it tightly and with a stifled scream yanked it out of her leg. Tears welling up in her eyes, she held up the bloody end of it and stared at the blood dripping down to her hand for a moment before she unwrapped Mr. Bubble and threw the shrapnel off the edge of the platform.

Quickly she pulled the hem of her jeans up to her knee and twists to look at the wound. It is deep, but clean, thankfully. A quick motion removes the cap to the bottle of water and then pours water over the wound, she winces again as the water pours over the exposed flesh. Biting her bottom lip she gets the bar of soap and builds a lather on her hands before applying it to the gash, making a terrible face, but not screaming as she does. Another rinse with the water and then she ties Mr. Bubble tightly around her calf and lowers the pant leg back down.

Stuffing everything back in her bag she takes another look around, half expecting to have heard sirens already, but maybe they haven’t heard yet, and she would use that to her advantage. Slowly, babying her injured leg, she rises, slings the backpack over her shoulder and looks at the others.

“So… I’m not really planning on staying around for someone to come help us. Anyone need anything? Cause if not, I’m getting out of here…”

The car detonated with a roar that rattled the eardrums and numbed the body from her proximity to it. Almost without thought Guinevere bent the forces of essence around her to form a barrier against incoming physical objects. At once the barely perceptible bubble surrounding her body began to ripple violently on the train side as it pushed the flying debris far enough away from trajectory to save her. Unfortunately the barrier failed after so much punishment, and some piece of sharp twisted metal or another clipped her in the arm, throwing her to the ground.

“YOU TAKE THE THUNDER FROM THE MOUNTAIN, YOU TAKE THE LIGHTNING FROM THE SKY . . .”
Such was the hushed scream that greeted Guinevere’s ears as the ringing of the explosions died into memory. Her train of though had been derailed and subsequently detonated in similar fashion as the physical train that they just barely escaped, and now the fragments were returning. The first thought to circulate through her mind was one of suspicion confirmed. The mp3 player in her pocket could read her mind - or perhaps her emotions - and was subtly selecting the ‘random’ songs based upon its perceptions. In other news, she now had some hard evidence of whatever conspiracy surrounded this town.

Soon enough, Guinevere tried to stand up, but her arm inconveniently reminded her of the injury with a quiet hiss, just at the moment she was attempting to use the related muscles. A quick inspection proved that the object that had gotten past her shield invocation had indeed struck her and torn open her sleeve and bicep. Crap, that’ll be a bother to sew back together later. Good thing black doesn’t show stains. Not too far from her she saw the red haired woman wrapping her injuries with a shirt. In a moment of innovation, Guinevere stuck her arm out of the hole in her sleeve and used the remainder to bind her cut as best as she single-handedly could.

She made another careful attempt to get up from the cold concrete of the station floor, carefully not putting weight on her wounded arm. The station was littered with debris, and a number of the fluorescent lighting fixtures had been damaged. For a second Guin wondered how many lights would have to be broken in order to leak enough mercury gas into the air to be hazardous, but that line of thought was abandoned. On the platform with her were the occupants of the car, but no one else. Perhaps they had all died in the explosions? Shouldn’t at least the rear cars heard the explosions and escaped as they had? Or was the train emptied so that only they would remain in line of fire? The plot thickened.

Guinevere edged nearer to the couple from before. Growing up on a farm, the lesson of not talking to strangers rarely saw application, where every soul met was likely a friend, or a friend thereof. On the other hand, how was one to determine who was a stranger when one was so much stranger than they? She made up her mind and stepped right up to them. The woman was uninjured, with the remains of a shield invocation still visible in the air around here, but he had been struck by a number of bits and pieces of the exploding train.

“Oh dear, you must be in pain. Why, if I had taken the full blast from that explosion, I reckon I’d be dead,” she said, her tone conversational. She stretched her slender hand to his forehead and checked for his temperature. You didn’t do it that way with animals, but the doctors on TV seemed to like doing it a lot. She glanced up at Mrs. Wheelchair, then went to work gathering Essence for a healing invocation. (Gathering 10) A faint glow began to rise from her body as she drew more Essence from herself until she thought she had enough. In about the time it took a cheese stick to heat in the microwave (which you can be sure Guin has confirmed), she had enough Essence to restore some of his injuries. The girl’s body visibly braced for the onset of pain as she finished the focus and poured her refined Essence into his body, quickening his natural healing process. The Exploded One, she named him then and there.

(Perhaps will respond to Ms. Nervous Bloodhair in future, but Guin was reasonably preoccupied at this point in time.)

The explosions and their preceding pressure waves had spurred Bas’ survival instincts even before his mind had registered them and, moving with preternatural speed and grace, the Feral’s body turned and twisted as he sprang across the platform in his efforts to avoid the flying shrapnel. A decidedly inhuman growl rumbled up from deep in his chest as he landed in a ready crouch several yards away from the rest and his narrowed eyes glowed with an animalistic rage as he surveyed the destruction and suffering that had resulted from the blasts. His body veritably rippled, the urge to change, to let the beast be free, manifesting physically as much as mentally in response to the perceived assault… and the coppery tang of spilled blood that now hung in the air. His lips curled back, revealing gleaming, white incisors that seemed to be lengthening by the second, as the growl reached his throat… a growl that could very well have evolved into a howl if he let himself go.

There was another scent in the air, though. One that tickled his senses and piqued his curiosity even more than the smell of blood… Tainted essence, his mind registered as he tipped his head back and sampled the air again, the leftovers of a curse, maybe… He expelled the bitter tang from his with an aggravated chuff as he rose from his crouch and, finally, thought to inspect his own wounds. His fingers found and tested each injury for severity, irritated snarls punctuating the exploration of those that were worse than scratches, before he tore away his shirt and began to fashion bandages from it. After tending his wounds and discarding the remains of the t-shirt Bas finally stalked towards the remainder of the group, licking the blood from his fingers as he approached.

The odd little girl in the oversized hoody was busy tending to the crippled womanand her mangled husband… Doesn’t smell dead. Might be better off if he was… She had apparently already managed her own injuries.

The female with the blood-colored hair, too, was busy tending her own wounds but was quick to catch Crowkiller’s attentions when she got to her feet. “So,” she said, gingerly testing her weight on an injured leg, “I’m not really planning on staying around for someone to come help us. Anyone need anything? Cause if not, I’m getting out of here…”

The ghost of a smile played on his lips as he turned his lupine eyes in her direction. “And where will you go, little rabbit,” he asked, eyeing her curiously. “Deeper into the town where this hunt leads,” he nodded faintly in the direction of the clocktower that had recently tolled out the destruction that had been visited upon them, “or, maybe,” his eyes ticked to where the train tracks disappeared into the night, “away from destiny and into some perceived escape from what we are?”

((OOC: Okay… it’s not much but I think I’m getting back into ol’ Sebastian’s head with this one. EDIT: Oops! Carrie's the one in the wheel chair, not the hubby! Fixed.))

The ghost of a smile played on his lips as he turned his lupine eyes in her direction. “And where will you go, little rabbit,” he asked, eyeing her curiously. “Deeper into the town where this hunt leads,” he nodded faintly in the direction of the clocktower that had recently tolled out the destruction that had been visited upon them, “or, maybe,” his eyes ticked to where the train tracks disappeared into the night, “away from destiny and into some perceived escape from what we are?
Slowly Eve turned her eyes over to the strange man, he had made her uneasy in the car. Something about him suggested violence, it suggested chaos and unpredictability. All things she had had too much of and was desperately trying to avoid. ‘We’ he had said as if the two of them had something in common. Face set, top lip struggling not to curl into a snarl of displeasure, she took another look at him, let her eyes flash into his for a moment.

That moment seemed to last a long time, though later she would know that only seconds had passed as their eyes linked. While her own grey eyes peered into his strange eyes, green with golden flecks sparkling in them, she tried to read him. All in all she wasn’t afraid of him, not really. He was most certainly not with law enforcement that much was obvious. She was anxious, but not afraid. If he tried anything she wasn’t going to hesitate to retaliate with everything she had, and she knew she had more then met the eye. Five years ago she wouldn’t have stood here staring deeply into the eyes of a wild man reading him, challenging him almost, while she bled, while others hurt and the debris settled into the dusty desert nothingness. But she was not the same woman she was back then.

As much as he could sense from her she gathered things from him. He seemed more animal then man. A primal energy shimmered off him like the wavy air that gathers over the highway on hot desert plains. But despite this she did not feel he was currently interested in harming her. It was then that she realized what he must mean by that ‘we’ he had said earlier. The survival instinct that could make one act inhuman when cornered was something that had long writhed beneath her surface and recently had reared its ugly head again. Perhaps that was what he connected to, and if he did she did not completely mind. Finding herself relating to the strange man gave her goosebumps, she did not like to think of herself in those terms. However, if he thought of her in those terms perhaps he would respect her more, would decide that she was not prey.

Back to the matter at hand though, so she pulls her eyes off his and peers into the darkness around them. Eyes immediately turn south, toward her intended salvation. She knew she couldn’t escape who she was or what she had done, but she did hope she could escape from those who would punish her for it. That was where the anxiety welled up, it was a race she was running. Two weeks ago the news of her escape had made brief appearances in the national news. Thus far she had managed to keep two steps ahead of the law, and she needed it to stay that way. She had to get to Mexico first. In her minds eye she saw the border between the US and Mexico as a heavy black line drawn across the land, sand drifting across it when the wind picked up; on a pole next to it wanted posters were tacked up, sand piercing the faces of societies rejects, her own mug shot was on one of the posters.

Out south was… nothing. There was nothing out there but darkness and tumbleweeds, no black line of freedom in the sand, no posters, no highway… nothing. A sigh escaped from her lips. The darkness was inviting to her, it provided safety and a place to hide, the temptation rose in her to simply dart out into it, let it consume her and protect her while she ran toward the black line in her mind’s eye. The desire was intense, a desire to finally step over that line and feel the sunshine beating upon her forehead to breathe air that was truly free, unlike the air here that tasted of freedom but had that artificial sweetener aftertaste to it.

The desire would have to go unsatisfied for now. She had no provisions for a desert walk. The blanket she had carried with her had gone up with the train, the bottle of water in her bag would not last her long, she had no sunscreen, not even a hat to keep her pink scalp from burning.

Resignedly she turned her eyes north, a pit forming in her stomach as she did (and inwardly she wondered how close it felt to the ‘blue balls’ men complained about when their desires were unsatisfied). The town, it was her best chance. Perhaps the little outpost here in the middle of nowhere hadn’t heard about the Black Widow’s Daring Escape as the papers had stated it. Maybe the cops were dried up and couldn’t care less about her. Maybe fate would finally look upon her with kindness. Maybe it would rain elephants.

Stop trying to run my cupcake. You’ve been a bad bad girl and you deserve to be punished…
“I’m heading into town...” She speaks to shut up her mother’s voice in her head. Adjusting the backpack onto one shoulder, letting it hang down to her side with the zipper partially open, so she can easily snake her hand in it and pull out whatever she might need in a flash, she looked over the platform at the small group of survivors, “If I run into anyone on my way I’ll see about sending help…”

It is all she can do for them, and really it is more then she should do.

Thinking of police lights lighting up her face, of flashlights blinding her eyes as they bounce off shiny badges, of guns and of Billy clubs being dragged across metal bars in the dark while she cowers on a thin mattress… she makes up her mind and without waiting another minute she starts walking to the stairs that take her off the platform. Her eyes focus on the town ahead of her and she works on steadying her thoughts, drawing up flimsy thoughts of drinks with umbrellas in them and warm ocean water playing on her toes.

"Thank you." The woman in the wheelchair gratefully says with a smile to the strange girl beside her, before she helps her husband sit up, "Honey, are you okay?"

"I will be." Comes the fatigued and worn reply, "What about the others? The other passengers?"

Carrie carefully rolls her wheelchair closer to the train tracks, and gives a gasp. "... I don't think anyone else survived." She murmurs to herself, before repeating at a louder call to inform the rest of the group.

The notion of going into town seems to be accepted, if not really considered as being an option to begin with. However, when Eve offers to get help, the man, finished checking over his laptop, sharply looks up.

"Don't you go and get the police or anyone of that sort, okay?" The man says, his voice tense and fast paced, "I mean, chances are they already know; those explosions should've woken up the whole town for crying out loud. In anycase, what can they do? Maybe put out a couple of fires, but we're in no real condition to need a hospital trip or anything."

"Speaking of other people... where is everyone anyway?" Carrie asks, having wheeled back to the general group, "There's no staff... just us."

[Status]
Guinevere:
21/26 LP
33/46 Essence
Eve:
35/40 LP
Bas:
27/37 LP
Carrie (the NPC in the wheelchair):
-5 Essence
Bryan (Carrie's husband):
-10 LP
-10 Endurance
Kenneth (Nervous NPC with a laptop):
No change

A wolfish grin spread across Bas’ face as Eve dared to meet his gaze… and hold it. A challenge, little rabbit, His head canted slightly to one side as the thought (and the instinctual urge to answer a challenge with violence) breezed through his mind but his eyes never wavered from hers, or the defiance of the dying?

No… you’re no rabbit, are you, little sister? He waited, locked in the staring contest with Eve, for an answer that he knew wouldn’t be forthcoming even as the chatter of the others floated to his ears…

“Thank you… Honey, are you okay?”

“I will be...”

The wheelchair bound woman and her mate…

“What about the others? The other passengers,” the man continued.

“Dead.” Bas whispered the word, his gaze still fixed firmly on Eve, before Carrie’s gasp of realization and spoken concurrence with his own estimation.

“I’m heading into town,” the little red-head said, finally diverting her gaze from the Indian’s as she set about adjusting her pack, “If I run into anyone on my way I’ll see about sending help…”

"Don't you go and get the police or anyone of that sort, okay?"

The Clickity-clack rabbit with his damned laptop… Bas’ head didn’t turn in the man’s direction but his eyes shifted sidelong to regard the angst-ridden little suit and the hint of a snarl ticked one corner of the Feral’s mouth…

"I mean, chances are they already know; those explosions should've woken up the whole town for crying out loud,” Kenneth tittered on, “In anycase, what can they do? Maybe put out a couple of fires, but we're in no real condition to need a hospital trip or anything.”

“Why don’t ya just piss yourself, now, and get it over with,” Bas grumbled, forcing the urge to throttle the life out of this one back down into the darker recesses of his spirit.

"Speaking of other people... where is everyone anyway?" Carrie asked, wheeling herself back to the general group, "There's no staff... just us."

“Dead,” Bas repeated the word, this time above that grave-dirt whisper in which he had first uttered it. He turned to face the rest of the group, himself, then, and let his eyes sweep appraisingly over them even as his ears stayed tuned to the sound of Eve’s retreating footsteps as she made for the exit. “Gone,” he amended, after studying them for a long moment, then, with a faint sweeping gesture at the lot of them, “There is only us…”

Can’t wait to find out why, in seven kinds of hell, the Moon Gods would stick me in a pack like this!
“…this pack,” he continued, “and the test that the gods have laid before us out there. Whatever that test may be,” he said, the leather of his duster whirling about his ankles as he turned to regard the retreating Eve, again, “it would be wise for none of us to face it alone.”

((OOC: Bas, obviously, isn’t necessarily “happy” with the “pack” that the Moon Gods have saddled him with – as he sees the situation, anyway – but given his “mentality” realizes that in order for this “hunt” to be successful the pack must be maintained… Woohoo for freaky, shamanistic, amerind thought processes. ))

The voices on the platform filtered over to her and she paused with one foot on the stairs. A dry smile curled the edge of her lips up to accompany the breathy laugh that she makes. Her thin neck turns so she can glance at the group of survivors on the platform once again.

Going to the cops was the last thing on her mind, of course. The Strange One suggests banding together at least for the moment. He has a point, she muses. Trains do not generally explode on their own, that mixed with whatever was happening concerning the ‘contract’ they had to sign

-her mind flickered at that, the name of their soul the woman had said, and without hesitation she had written out the name she was currently going by, not the one that was written on her birth certificate, or her marriage certificate, and it had worked-

Meant that something strange, and potentially dangerous, was underfoot. Perhaps not going about it alone was preferable.

The Strange One would not be going to the cops; the one on the laptop was obviously avoiding police interference; the blonde girl seemed too naive to go to the police on her own; and the couple… they were the wild cards. The guy on the laptop and the couple could also be liabilities even when the police weren’t concerned. Strange One had already smelled out Laptop’s fear, fear could mean irrational actions, those got you killed. And the woman was in a wheelchair, she was not going to get caught waiting around for some disabled person she didn’t even know to catch up. Liabilities, wild cards. Eve didn’t like the hand she had been dealt at all.

She should still be on that train, heading West, heading toward a town where she could hop a bus and find her way South; South toward the border, toward freedom.

With a sigh she shook her head and continued down the steps slowly. On the ground she heard her boots grind against the hard dirt as she took her first steps. Without looking around she muttered just loud enough for those above to hear her.

“There isn’t anything else out here but the town… which is where I am heading. I am not going to stop anyone from doing the same.”

It is currently as committed to the others as she is willing to get. Her pace is slow though, and she digs around in her bag until she finds a flashlight.

A white circle plays out before her, lighting the way.

"Thank-you," said Mrs. Wheelchair when Guin finished patching up the Exploded.
The half-pint blonde with the crescent scar beamed up, "Y’welcome." Judging by the prevailing attitude of the station, not a single person present was at all surprised by magic, which Guin supposed made sense—what would a Normal do when asked to sign his true name, anyway? Spell it very carefully? Which suddenly reminded her.

Guinevere popped to her feet and looked out over the south end of the platform, pulling her hood off as she did. The train was entirely destroyed, pieces littering the unscathed platform. Hmm... Incongruities. The woman with the clipboard; she vanished just before the explosions started, which was just after she made everyone sign the waiver. Suspicious indeed, she thought.
Hard Rock San Diego joined her for a moment, looking out toward the south. Guinevere glanced up at her out of the corner of her eye, as the song on the mp3 changed to a tune of a vastly different genre, a musical adaptation of a poem called The Stolen Child. The possible significance of the song chosen by her empathic mp3 alarmed her as the chorus chanted for the souls of children to leave behind the world of weeping that they cannot understand.

H.R. San Diego turned back and started away, ”I’m heading into town, if I run into anyone on my way, I’ll see about sending help.”

"Don't you go and get the police or anyone of that sort, okay?" Guinevere, who had been taking in the sight of the Tall Dark and Black, saw him suddenly cast a baleful glance at Fidgets. ”"I mean, chances are they already know; those explosions should've woken up the whole town for crying out loud. In any case, what can they do? Maybe put out a couple of fires, but we're in no real condition to need a hospital trip or anything.”

“Why don’t ya just piss yourself, now, and get it over with.” T.D. Black snarled at Fidgets. That was when the idea sparked in Guinevere’s mind. His gruffness and his attitude towards the most openly nervous of the group seemed to fit the bill. She watched him, subtly, as he speculated the condition of the other passengers.

“There’s only us . . . this pack, and the test that the gods have laid before us out there. Whatever that test may be.” He turned to the woman with the dyed red hear and Hard Rock shirt. “It would be wise for none of us to face it alone.” Guinevere nobly rallied, at least in her mind, to his defence. “I think sticking together is a good idea. We should be careful—who knows what plots that blow up trains could do to a lone person?” She mentally kicked herself for that last line. You were supposed to avoid talking about the bad possibilities when advising nervous people.

“There isn’t anything else out here but the town… which is where I am heading. I am not going to stop anyone from doing the same.” H.R. San Diego said. She dug out a flashlight and led the way through the dark and moonless night.

As individuals sooner or later signed on to the consensus of going thataway, Guinevere made sure to bring her no doubt comforting presence to the one who most needed it. She quickly slid up beside him, put up effort to match his pace, and then looked up at Sebastian Crowkiller reassuringly. “Hi, I’m Guinevere. What’s you’re name?”

She was blissfully unaware of the silent war that waged between her own natural likability and Bas’ waning tolerance.

(If you were wondering whether you read that right or not, yes, Guinevere believes that Bas’ attitude is a front. Also, granted that it’s two weeks before the full moon, I’m guessing that it is either New or bears the tiniest sliver, only in the night sky around dusk or dawn. Perhaps we will soon be able to refer to each other by our characters’ names, rather than the nicknames we give them, not that “little rabbit” and “the Strange One” haven’t been fun XD.)

I don't think anyone needs it, but the cast of this post are:
Mrs. Wheelchair, played by the NPC in the wheelchair, Mrs. Firnilm
the Exploded, played by wheelchair's husband, Mr. Firnilm
H.R. San Diego, played by Eve Handle
T.D. Black, played by Sebastian Crowkiller
Fidgets, played by Kenneth/laptop dude

“I think sticking together is a good idea,” Bas was almost surprised by the tiny blonde’s agreement and his eyes slid, briefly, in her direction as she continued, “We should be careful—who knows what plots that blow up trains could do to a lone person?”

“There isn’t anything else out here but the town,” Eve returned as she rummaged through her bag and, after a moment, produced a flashlight from it, “which is where I am heading. I am not going to stop anyone from doing the same.”

“And people often believe I am what they see me as rather than what they do not see,” Bas rumbled, more to himself than anyone else, as he watched the woman follow the light out into the town, “and, just as often, have died for those misguided perceptions…” A hand disappeared into his duster, then, and reemerged with fingers wrapped around the grips of a sawed-off shotgun. He flipped the weapon open, ensured that both of the shells were in their proper place, and slapped the thing closed before returning it to it’s place inside his coat and stalking off behind the red-headed woman.

He hadn’t gotten far when he heard and heard the little blonde one skittering along beside him. He barely managed to maintain the growl that the perky little girl’s proximity to him evoked but, with a bit of effort, choked it back before it reached his throat. “Hi,” she chirped, looking up at him with her all-too-innocent face, “I’m Guinivere. What’s your name?”

One corner of his mouth may have twitched a bit – the beginnings of a smile, perhaps? – as his wolfen eyes locked to hers for an instant. “Sebastian Crowkiller,” he replied tersely, “Bas, if you find it easier.”

As the group tentatively made their way from the station, a few things began to be clear. Despite the apparent abandonment of the station, it looked quite in order; there was no dust along any of the advertisement posters along the hall, and the posters themselves indicated human presence at least a couple weeks ago, if one looked at the dates associated with them. Even coming to the front doors, automated glass worked as they were programmed to, and opened without fault.

Outside, the first thing that could be felt as though there were a heavy weight in the air. There was a gentle wind, but the tension in the air was unmistakable. The whole town seemed to be still. Despite the town's modern appearance, even with electrical lighting along the sidewalks, it held a very archaic look because of how the buildings were.

All of the buildings were boarded up with plywood across their windows, and even covering what were probably glass doors. Yet, strangely, it isn't in the same manner as a typical 'ghost town'. Every plank of plywood across a window or door was placed specifically to ensure maximum coverage, so it's impossible to even see in, much less for anyone inside to see out. Also, despite the doors being boarded up if they're not already wooden, they aren't boarded up in a way that would obstruct entrance.

Apart from the strange buildings, there were other signs that the explosive train was not the only bizarre occurrence that had happened in this town. The occasional destroyed building, with only charred wall fragments remaining, the few collapsed or broken street lamps, each with an eerie dark patch underneath, and other things that are visibly destroyed for no apparent reason, such as a phone booth, or a newspaper stand.

In the near-distance, one undamaged building could be seen towering over the rest. Its shape was that of a tower, and one of its clock faces could be see glaring at the party. The time was now 11:00 PM, but the tower didn't toll.

Amidst the soundless town, seemingly frightened into silence, only the wind gently blew, almost trying to coerce the group back to the station...

A dangling sign easily catches the eyes of the group, being the only sign of movement there is. A bit further along the road, to the right side, a wooden sign tentatively hangs, crooked on its one chain, the other being broken. It reads The Blue House Inn, and although it is painted a deep blue shade, it looks far from welcoming or homey.