#netherworldflower

Halfway in, the little thing had scampered away faster than he could keep up with, despite trying (twig-haired and dirty, he'd gone back in shame), despite guilt. And what he'd deemed as some sort of silly little creature had proven him very, very wrong in his assessment. Hubris comes in many forms, doesn't it?

Maybe he'd wondered what it would be like to be an animal, sure, but that was when he was a child. Centipede did not ask for this. And yet, he still tries to get the attention of the nearest person the only way he can. (This is humiliating and he's going to want to throw himself into the ocean.)

She sees a fox, and a little baby one at that. He know she sees it, exactly as he was warned of and stupidly, stubbornly ignored. But it is most definitely a purple fox: for some reason, those weird little pixies had at least let the fur match his hair color. A yipping sound. He bounces around her feet. Maybe he can stick around and find the damn missing pig now.

Welcome to blistering Isola Radiale, Lancer!

You’ll be staying in HOUSE 110!

You will retain everything you were given in your previous stay.

Dropped for you!

If nothing else, free catering is always a temptation that Gregor can't resist. There seems to be a lot of that going on this week, treats and snacks and delicious grilled meals open almost around the clock. He isn't sure what all the festivities are for, but he's more than willing to take advantage of them.

And take advantage of them is certainly his objective for tonight's dinner.

He'd been meandering around the space station for the better part of the day after he found out the panel he'd stumbled into could teleport folks just like the W Corp train system does, idly perusing what felt like endless kiosks and stores. Being in space was weirdly mundane for how novel a concept it sounded. He spends most of his time away from any windows or outlooks, sequestered somewhere between the gardens and the mall for most of his trip. The space station was indulging in festivities as much as the Isola itself— he's just glad the tea party event was still going by the time he realized it was there.

…Even if some of the atmospheric indoors space-y stuff for the little event is making it hard to actually see where he's going.

Gregor ducks out of the way of a large, bright ball hovering plainly at head height as he turns the corner around a tall hedge. The only warning he gets is a flash of blonde hair and red fabric before he knocks square into a girl a few inches shorter than himself.

Gregor's pilfered sandwiches meet a very sad end on the carefully maintained grass, the contents spilled in a scatter of ham, olives, and cheese.

"Ah scheiße," he cusses, fumbling to get a better grip his only slightly spilled cup of tea with his one good hand. It left a small wet streak down the front of his white work shirt, but not much else, thankfully. His sandwiches are goners, but at least his dignity is intact.

"Shoot. I didn't get you, did I?"

Of course, if he is here, that means he's missed all the effort that Queen's put in trying to find him. Like playing her mixtapes in public, putting up "Have You Seen My Kid" posters, and renting a car to drive around with the Queen Signal turned on...

None of it's worked.

Still, it wouldn't hurt to go directly to one of the houses that her fellow computer (her phone) is telling her where he is. Maybe he's taking an extra-long nap and missed all of the excitement, somehow.

Wearing a smile on her face, Queen walks up to the doorbell and gives it a ring. When a young girl with blonde hair answers the door, her smile brightens, hoping this is one of his new friends.

* Hi * Do You Know If Lancer's Home

She says that and only that. Obviously, this should cause no confusion and be easily understood.

but that irritation briefly settles in the shadows of the Church of Onoma. he lingers outside the doorway, arms crossed, back resting against the stone as the mumbles of the service inside filter through the cracks in the stone. it seems he wasn't the only one drawn to this place, as he's taken notice of the woman who has lingered as long as he has.

" They talk of fulfilling the wishes of their chosen 'Prophet' when they come." he begins, eyes closing for a moment. " They don't understand the cost of their gods' wishes."

❍ The scent of death. It wasn't really a "scent" in the traditional sense to Castorice, but because of her blessing she'd always been able to identify and communicate with not only with the deceased, but those that had visited the Nether Realm. She had to consider that the Nether Realm she knew did not exist in other worlds, but at the same time it was logical to assume that other worlds had something similar to it.

This young woman had that scent. Castorice mulled over the best way to broach the subject. After all, they were alone, both sharing a bus booth to wait out the rain. Cas was resting against the farthest wall of the booth though. If she didn't ask, then she'd likely regret it if she never saw her again.

Nier is surprised that it doesn't hurt. She's never been poisoned before, but from what people say, she figures it would hurt. Instead, it reminds her of when she was starving to death in her family's dungeon, that slow feeling of wasting away. Like something's inside of her, taking small bites so that bit-by-bit, she'll pass away. She doesn't mind dying, but the waiting is painful.

"I wish... it were faster..." she mumbles, drawing her arms over her chest. "I don't like... waiting like this..."

Walking is too tiring, and so Death carries her, draped across the primal beast's arms like she's being brought to bed after a long night. They drift silently through the city streets, some section of Golden that isn't too overrun yet. Only their companion's footsteps sound in the tense silence, occasionally broken by Nier's tired words.

"Ereshkigal, did you find anything...?" she calls, her voice straining to carry more than a few feet away. "I don't know that much about poisons, but they... they usually have antidotes, don't they...?"