#keiisho

He'll be dropped for you!

⠀⠀⠀Dorothea crosses one leg over the other, arm folded beneath the table as a hand remains poised just under her chin. Even beneath the shade of her hat, the glimmer of excitement is obvious. ⠀❛ ⠀And how does one adapt the nature of mystics for your more modern times ? I can only imagine the amount of prying eyes that make it all the more difficult... And I somehow have difficulty imagining the Clock Tower being so adaptable in the first place.⠀ ❜ ⠀

With the Southern Clocktower currently out of commission, Reines knew that she would have to retreat to her old home for the time being. Staying in a ruined foundation simply wasn't an option. Besides, Anda was no longer here, so her brother could no longer demand she play nice with them.

However, it would seem her brother was no better at keeping house than Judar was. Just looking in from the street, she knew she was in for a headache. How incompetent could people have really become without her here? She'd had more faith in him.

"Trimmau."

The maid nodded and took up the lead to the house. With disrepair like this, Reines did not trust there not to be something lurking in the reeds. Similarly, it was also the mystic code that opened the front door to prevent anything from falling upon them or jumping out.

and much like any servant, it was far too easy for her to continue in lifting the entire couch where he sprawls himself dramatically, effectively dumping him onto the floor with a considerate plop than truly hoisting him. before long, she sets the seat back down, as polite as ever despite the fact she'd just lifted it without sweat to jostle a grown person several times her size from where they were.

❝ While I understand, do you not think it inappropriate to let things fall into this state? ❞

ʚїɞ - "A magic professor? I see... My name is Fern. I am an apprentice under the mage Frieren and have the qualifications of a First Class mage in the world I come from." Fern bowed politely. It was traces of mana that had guided her to this man and she had asked him if he had any ties to magic.

She didn't know if he was strong or not, and this city's rules meant that she couldn't even demonstrate her own talent.

Eyes squint at the light. The electricity had been dim; the water turbine was getting old, and they couldn't go out for parts, so the estate was always in relative darkness. Just enough light to make it around, but they'd adjusted to it. The white, sterile lighting in an otherwise sterile room was jarring, and the ceiling blindingly stared back at them. The only pop of color among all the white and chrome is a house plant in the corner of the bedroom.

A thin frame pushes itself up from the bed, muscles weak and screaming. There's still fibers under their nails from trying to crawl across the carpet, palms mottled with reddish, brown, flaking chips of the blood that dried on them. A look down at their clothes... musty, fraying. There's a crisp, singed ring where the bullets ripped through them, covered and soaked in a stiff cloth of blood-soaked band shirt.

("...Okay. I don't think I lived through that. So am I, dead?")

That searing, agonizing hatred they felt moments before... subsided. Perhaps the shock of waking up in such a different environment subsided that haunted rage? ... Wriggling out of the shirt, shoving it under the bed, they chose to wrap the bedsheet around them like a cowl. Their hand presses against their chest.

("...Heart's beating? Maybe I'm not dead?") ... ("...Which means the, uh. The thing is still here.")

Even in this room, they could feel the vague flickers of sorrow beyond the door.

("Okay... okay. Um.")

Their old flip phone is in their pocket, but shows a date far off in the future. The last time they looked at a calendar was forgotten to them, but Gran's funeral was in the 2000's, wasn't it? According to all the paperwork they had to sign.

("Maybe this isn't my phone.") ... ("So I guess... I could go outside.")

The thought of that is terrifying, though. They're not supposed to be around people. Around that outside world. That's what she told them. But...

...

A pale hand tries to find a doorknob to turn, only for the door to slide open with a smooth-sounding click.

("Fancy.")

Their steps are soft and unsure in their socks, and the loose fabric around their ripping jeans makes more sound than they do (aside from the mumbling, of course.) The hallways are just as sterile as the room, long and unremarkable. Part of them wants to think this is a hospital, but the very image of a 'hospital' is blocked from their memory.

What emerges from the room is an empath. Pale, splattered with dried blood, malnourished. The shadows under their eyes look like bruises, and their hair grew out in two tones--one a faded violet dye, and the other a chestnut brown from their roots, streaked with white. They're afraid of making a sound, as if breaking the silence would unleash some horrible monster.

Finally, they see a sign, pointing in a few directions. Rooms 400-450 from the hallway they came from, a mess hall in another direction, with a strange word above them all.

misc action memes

It's not this city, it's the other one The old apartment they had in the cultural sector Falling through the glass in the table to get away from the thing crawling out of the wall

The rooms keep going on and on, through bedrooms they've lived in The walls they've carved tally marks into the wood, their old music and movie posters peeing off the wall, and That Thing still trying to reach through to scratch through their limbs

The same rooms keep appearing in loops, with the only indication being the blood on the floor and the shards they keep cutting their palms onto. Nails dig into what remains of their leg, dragging the empath backward, down to the foyer and the stains on the rug and the rotting smell of iron in the air.

Something else grabs one handful of their shirt at the shoulders, then two, yanking them sharply backward--

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--Those same hands kept them from rolling off of the sofa. The sleeve that wipes their mouth comes back smeared with red, and their tongue feels sore in their mouth. ("Must've bit it running...")

His words are stern, but soothing. Breathe. Calm down. Take a few seconds... And while Anda doesn't directly look at the professor, they do put up a shaky hand as the other's goes to reach for a cigar case.

("...You don't have to do that, I'll be fine.")

Lord El Melloi II hasn't stated what lighting those do outright, but the empath has caught on for some time. Something about the smoke calms people down and gives something of an air of clarity to anyone in range...

The two sit in silence still, for a few minutes. Ever since Anda returned, the nightmares had been more vivid. Of something chasing them through the dark of the old estate, dragging them back. The phantom pains in their leg, the feeling of losing their strength... Usually, they don't end with the other pulling them out.

He knows these are new. They both do.

"...I don't really know how to make them stop."

" ..... .. ....... ..... .... ....... "

looking upon his screen a smidgen more, there was one thing that tugs at the back of her mind, like strings threatening to unravel a curiosity the moment she opens her mouth to question why every depicted character seems drawn so differently.

❝ And did the artist give no concern at how different each appears in their art? Or was it simply part of the client's request? ❞ even if she didn't exactly do commissions, she was privy enough to know some were made to go astray in their styles, given enough command.