Three was heard clambering back to the ground floor a few minutes later, arms laden with a few weapons he'd selected. "Guy's an asshole," he told Aislinn as he set an Arc Thrower pistol in front of Aislinn, "but he's an oblivious asshole who's not thinking straight half the time. We go in hard, but we go in non-lethally. As infected with Belial's quote-unquote gifts as he is, I wouldn't risk killing him. His soul would vacate the premises and then the Butcher gets what he wants: a high-powered shell to slot a minion in. If that happens, we're fucked.
- While I am aware of his lessened reasoning abilities," tentatively added the android, "I do wonder if he wouldn't be receptive to cajoling. We have never directly faced him before, he knows us only by reputation and his self-worth is as easy to inflate as ever..."
He shrugged. "I believe he could be placated; convinced to come along peaceably. If he believes we are willing to redress his perceived injustices, he should be collaborative up to a point. It is only the matter of putting him in cuffs before this particular occurrence."
Three seemed uncertain. "How would he believe that we're looking to give him his old job back? Would he even listen? He's pretty far gone, Bagley. At this point, he's been looking for a way to make the city grovel at his feet. That's a bit more than wanting to be even Steven. Even if he consented to following us back to Central, he'd beeline for Crystal and try and rub it in her face. He's beyond reasoning."
Another shrug. "Be that as it may, we owe him an attempt at a diplomatic solution, at the very least," added Bagley. "Should this attempt fail, he will have vindicated more aggressive measures."
* * *
Taking the Q's monorail would whisk Meris into Sandhill in about twenty minutes. The place was Weasel Biggs' primary turf; low-density residential and commercial strips that served as much as a starting point for new families looking for cheap leases, as an endpoint for old couples living on their pension funds and in need of the same thing. It wasn't quite a ghetto, as that particular denomination applied to the northernmost strip of Green Island's residential areas, but it had the marks of having been one of the Italian American diaspora's primary points of implantation over the decades. A lot of entryways were lined with stone pots containing flowers, and several of the small community gardens she'd see on her way over to the docks wafted with the smell of freshly upturned earth. The locals had been airing the soil after their last harvest of tomatoes, zucchini and aromatic herbs, making sure that next spring would see rejuvenated soil ready and waiting for its new batch of seeds. Cheap religious garden statues were in abundance, and it wasn't uncommon to see garage doors covered with a flag of some sort. The Italian and Greek colors flew proudly, with a few French outliers and people who'd settled with a commemoration of some bygone edition of the Mundial. As much as football was a religion unto itself in America, you could still find pockets where the gridiron and cleats were barely mentioned.
She progressed along the coast, the business districts lights and spires gleaming off in the distance, across the Hillard. Going a few blocks northwards would have taken her out of Hope and towards Point Judith Road, but that was neither here nor there. Instead, lining the coast allowed her to transition into the commercial docks. Green Island's side of the docks was more gentrified and came complete with a small boardwalk, but the mainland's side was practically dead. Most of the warehouses there were time-shared between Weasel and Sarvin, while the grain silos hadn't seen use in over sixty years. There'd been a time where ships lined the coast, carrying grain from Canada. Now, Hope's piers were largely used to transit imported goods from the sea to the country's roads, but the old grain silos had paid the price for the economy's diversification. Several municipal administrations - Doherty's included - had continuously mulled over the idea of tearing them down in order to invest in some sort of gentrifying project, anything to give Sandhill something to be proud of. The newspapers carried about one rumored new project a year, and none of them ever came to fruition. Condos, a museum, another boardwalk, an extension for the marina - everyone dreamed up projects, but nobody dared to intrude upon Thomas Quint's self-styled domain.
The silos' terrain was fenced and dangerously buzzing with cheaply assembled repelling wards. Old dolls had been nailed to the fence's cardboarded exterior, more wards spray-painted almost everywhere one looked. Forlorn creaks and rattling chains could be heard in the distance, while blown-out sections of the silos' exterior lining served as windows. The lurid and dancing lights of several torches could be guessed at even from afar. The crisp air made the scent of decay imperceptible and had driven the flies away, but peering through cracks enabled Meris to take a gander at a small kingdom's worth of refuse. Judging by the look of things, Quint dragged whatever remained of his failed projects back home and seemingly left them there to rot, when he wasn't suitably caught by the police.
Seeing how the air was still, Meris would hear the faint squawking of a microphone being pushed into its higher frequencies, followed by indistinct snorts and mutterings that sounded somewhat pleased.
Delmar had seemingly observed the situation as much as she had. "The front gates are chained shut, and there's a heavy-duty padlock keeping the chains in place. You could use the Black Speech to try and alter the state of that padlock. After that, a summoned gale should throw the gates open."
It felt as though he were following her gaze. "Or you could go for a stealthier approach. This fence hasn't been maintained in ages, there's bound to be a segment you could pry open without cutting yourself. In any case, if you go that route, there's plenty of cover available. You could head inside while remaining unseen. Thank the idiot for his habit of keeping mementos of his past shames..."
Chapter II: Gravity
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IamLEAM1983
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TennyoCeres84
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Re: Chapter II: Gravity
Aislinn snorted lightly, disbelieving Quint could be reasoned with, and passed along a couple pistols to Neasa and Ciaran. "We'll try to stroke his ego first, but if that doesn't work, we need to keep him from causing serious trouble. Without killing him," she summarized, picking up the pistol to look at it.
"Shouldn't we take some form of ear protection? To at least dampen the effects of the flute, in case he tries out a test run on us?" the oldest McConmara mused, shrugging.
***
Sending the Void Weaver a general feeling of agreement, Meris studied the worn fence closely and looked for weak spots. Before touching the wire, she took out a pair of black leather gloves and slid them on, not wishing to leave behind evidence and wanting to avoid cuts. She then found a big enough section that was rusty and flimsy enough to be broken without needing pliers. She twisted the brittle metal until it broke and quietly pushed the remaining metal out of her way. The selkie stooped down and entered beyond the fence, silently walking past the barrier. Also thankful for the warthog's hoarding of discarded hills of trash, she began making her way toward the grunts and mutterings.
While she had a feeling she could easily take the Infernalist on, she didn't want to chance leaving a bumbling fool in possession of a powerful item like the flute. Early on in her arcane career, she had learned better than to assume anything in a situation. It left you sloppy and vulnerable. Dangerous things to be when you fought creatures that could rend minds and alter matter with a thought. The same thing could be said for basketcase mages who had pledged their loyalty to manipulative demons. She also didn't plan on killing the porcine man; that left him open to being possessed by some minion of Belial's, and she had no urgent desire to take on a loose cannon like that.
For now, she stayed low and remained silent, getting as close as she could to the pathetic mage.
"Shouldn't we take some form of ear protection? To at least dampen the effects of the flute, in case he tries out a test run on us?" the oldest McConmara mused, shrugging.
***
Sending the Void Weaver a general feeling of agreement, Meris studied the worn fence closely and looked for weak spots. Before touching the wire, she took out a pair of black leather gloves and slid them on, not wishing to leave behind evidence and wanting to avoid cuts. She then found a big enough section that was rusty and flimsy enough to be broken without needing pliers. She twisted the brittle metal until it broke and quietly pushed the remaining metal out of her way. The selkie stooped down and entered beyond the fence, silently walking past the barrier. Also thankful for the warthog's hoarding of discarded hills of trash, she began making her way toward the grunts and mutterings.
While she had a feeling she could easily take the Infernalist on, she didn't want to chance leaving a bumbling fool in possession of a powerful item like the flute. Early on in her arcane career, she had learned better than to assume anything in a situation. It left you sloppy and vulnerable. Dangerous things to be when you fought creatures that could rend minds and alter matter with a thought. The same thing could be said for basketcase mages who had pledged their loyalty to manipulative demons. She also didn't plan on killing the porcine man; that left him open to being possessed by some minion of Belial's, and she had no urgent desire to take on a loose cannon like that.
For now, she stayed low and remained silent, getting as close as she could to the pathetic mage.
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IamLEAM1983
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Re: Chapter II: Gravity
OOC: it's a drum now; edited my last post.
"We might have to," agreed Drake, "but I think it's conditional to him carrying some sort of beat, right? If he just bangs on that thing willy-nilly, nothing's going to happen. Unless Quint's got latent talents as a drummer, I think we've got a margin we can work in."
He then pointed at the pistol Aislinn was observing. "It's your typical arc-casting handgun. Legal and fully sanctioned Paradise specs. Grissom Engineering - it's a small Paradise joint that decided there was money to be made in actually being lawful according to Earth's standards - and especially America's. It packs twice the voltage of your mundane-use Taser, bringing it at eighteen thousand volts - because it's made for stunning people like Eliphas Buck when they get out of control."
Aidan shrugged. "Anything that's more than baseline-human - anything that packs a lot more muscle or speed or supernatural resistances? It's designed to stun these. Quasi-mundane humans like me and selkies like you need not apply, that thing would stop our hearts dead. Quint's, however, is going to take it. Belial's doped him on demon flesh for so long his heart practically runs on liquefied pizza grease. It would take a lot to pacify him in a one-on-one fight."
He sucked in a breath. "Lucky for us, guy's an Infernalist!" he said, fake cheer in his voice. "He won't punch us, he'll settle with trying to flay or burn our freaking souls! Yippee!"
* * *
The silos' old parking space had turned into a junkyard of sorts, several gutted vans and buses sharing space with piles and piles of mechanical, automotive and yes - arcane trash as well. It seemed as though Quint didn't have the needed resources to plug himself into the closest ley line, which would lead Meris to recognize the harmless and miniature version of the Quigley Road Massacre's arcane bomb, reproduced in the hundreds. He'd probably planted a small army's worth of small metal boxes around town, simple empty containers lined with symbols designed to attract and trap arcane energies. Every once in a while, he probably sent some of his imps to make the rounds and recover chunks of stored via. The discarded cubes she'd find had cracked or been damaged during transport, leaving behind nothing but the weak sensory haze produced by empty arcane vessels.
Getting closer, she'd see that the base of the silo had been blasted open, the gash in the curved brick wall leading to a spiral staircase of precariously bolted panels. In some cases, it looked as though he'd actually stolen wrought-iron stairs from somewhere else in town and added it to his ascending path of flotsam and jetsam. Some structure could be guessed at, however, with the space being divided into floors and each makeshift landing serving a specific purpose. The lower floors were simply storage, followed by assembly areas of some sort. Then came two floors packed with piles and piles of pilfered books and - judging by the sound alone - Quint's actual laboratory. His quarters had to be on the top-most floor. If anything, it was surprising to see that such an unstable mind had created something functional out of seemingly disparate clutter. The floors didn't feel as though they'd buckle under Meris' weight, and nor did they especially creak. As far as makeshift wizard towers went, this was a good one. It probably was the only good thing you could've said about Thomas; that his home had the looks of someone who'd put time and care into it, in his twisted sort of way.
Quickly, Delmar radiated a sense of alarm in the back of Meris' head, urging her not to continue. As long as they stayed out of sight, they had ample leisure to observe what the warthog's plans were, as well as to ascertain his overall state. Stopping in what had to be the kitchen's floor, Meris could clearly hear the warlock cheerfully hum, of all things... It was an odd thing to hear: an out-of-season rendition of Little Drummer Boy as performed by something that sounded like a cheerfully psychotic take on Hank Azaria's Krusty the Clown voice, with seemingly accidental guttural growls and porcine snorts sometimes breaking the absent-minded performance. All around him and above the roane, the animalistic shrieks of vocalizing imps could be heard, along with the occasional pitter-patter of small inhuman feet.
As could be expected, however, Quint soon bungled something in his test arrangement for his stolen speakers and microphone, causing a feedback loop that elicited a pained squawk out of the speakers. Where everyone else would've simply grunted in mild frustration and gone on with their work, the warthog could be heard angrily snarling, stopping mid-song as he dangerously yanked the microphone's jack out of the sound console.
"WAAAAUGH! STUPID CHINESE HARDWARE; I SHOULD'VE FLAYED THAT PAWN BROKER'S SOUL WHEN I HAD THE CHANCE! Ooooh, I would've ripped it into pieces and played around with them, left a mess for the hospital's Psychiarty ward to clean up, made that old bastard pay for overcharging me..."
He sighed with the sort of murderous tension in his voice that betrayed a total inability to calm down. "But it's fine, really, it's fine - they'll all hear the drum, and then they'll all come, and they'll all listen. They'll all listen, for the first time in - how long? Years? Centuries? I forget... Then, Tommy, then, we'll have it all. Yes, I know - I know you want 'em - showers and clean sheets and beer and girls who pay attention to you instead of looking down at you like the heartless, wretched, self-serving and ignorant HARPIES THAT THEY AAAAARE!"
Rage seemed to give way to hilarity, the scream devolving into tense cackles. "Oooh, Tommy, their faces - their faces! I can't wait, I can't wait, I can't wait, IcantwaitIcantwaitIcantwaitIcantwait-"
He seemed so choked with emotion that pain slipped into his registry, a human wail sliding into the quiet cousin of a pig's distressed squeal.
Delmar couldn't help himself but to appear in Aislinn's field of view. Despite the fact that he wasn't really there, he hugged the curved wall and did his best to stay out of the stairs' offered view of their squatted floor. He had his straw fedora in one hand, rested on his chest as if he'd been emotionally shaken.
"You poor man," he quietly said, looking above as if Quint could've heard his display of empathy.
"We might have to," agreed Drake, "but I think it's conditional to him carrying some sort of beat, right? If he just bangs on that thing willy-nilly, nothing's going to happen. Unless Quint's got latent talents as a drummer, I think we've got a margin we can work in."
He then pointed at the pistol Aislinn was observing. "It's your typical arc-casting handgun. Legal and fully sanctioned Paradise specs. Grissom Engineering - it's a small Paradise joint that decided there was money to be made in actually being lawful according to Earth's standards - and especially America's. It packs twice the voltage of your mundane-use Taser, bringing it at eighteen thousand volts - because it's made for stunning people like Eliphas Buck when they get out of control."
Aidan shrugged. "Anything that's more than baseline-human - anything that packs a lot more muscle or speed or supernatural resistances? It's designed to stun these. Quasi-mundane humans like me and selkies like you need not apply, that thing would stop our hearts dead. Quint's, however, is going to take it. Belial's doped him on demon flesh for so long his heart practically runs on liquefied pizza grease. It would take a lot to pacify him in a one-on-one fight."
He sucked in a breath. "Lucky for us, guy's an Infernalist!" he said, fake cheer in his voice. "He won't punch us, he'll settle with trying to flay or burn our freaking souls! Yippee!"
* * *
The silos' old parking space had turned into a junkyard of sorts, several gutted vans and buses sharing space with piles and piles of mechanical, automotive and yes - arcane trash as well. It seemed as though Quint didn't have the needed resources to plug himself into the closest ley line, which would lead Meris to recognize the harmless and miniature version of the Quigley Road Massacre's arcane bomb, reproduced in the hundreds. He'd probably planted a small army's worth of small metal boxes around town, simple empty containers lined with symbols designed to attract and trap arcane energies. Every once in a while, he probably sent some of his imps to make the rounds and recover chunks of stored via. The discarded cubes she'd find had cracked or been damaged during transport, leaving behind nothing but the weak sensory haze produced by empty arcane vessels.
Getting closer, she'd see that the base of the silo had been blasted open, the gash in the curved brick wall leading to a spiral staircase of precariously bolted panels. In some cases, it looked as though he'd actually stolen wrought-iron stairs from somewhere else in town and added it to his ascending path of flotsam and jetsam. Some structure could be guessed at, however, with the space being divided into floors and each makeshift landing serving a specific purpose. The lower floors were simply storage, followed by assembly areas of some sort. Then came two floors packed with piles and piles of pilfered books and - judging by the sound alone - Quint's actual laboratory. His quarters had to be on the top-most floor. If anything, it was surprising to see that such an unstable mind had created something functional out of seemingly disparate clutter. The floors didn't feel as though they'd buckle under Meris' weight, and nor did they especially creak. As far as makeshift wizard towers went, this was a good one. It probably was the only good thing you could've said about Thomas; that his home had the looks of someone who'd put time and care into it, in his twisted sort of way.
Quickly, Delmar radiated a sense of alarm in the back of Meris' head, urging her not to continue. As long as they stayed out of sight, they had ample leisure to observe what the warthog's plans were, as well as to ascertain his overall state. Stopping in what had to be the kitchen's floor, Meris could clearly hear the warlock cheerfully hum, of all things... It was an odd thing to hear: an out-of-season rendition of Little Drummer Boy as performed by something that sounded like a cheerfully psychotic take on Hank Azaria's Krusty the Clown voice, with seemingly accidental guttural growls and porcine snorts sometimes breaking the absent-minded performance. All around him and above the roane, the animalistic shrieks of vocalizing imps could be heard, along with the occasional pitter-patter of small inhuman feet.
As could be expected, however, Quint soon bungled something in his test arrangement for his stolen speakers and microphone, causing a feedback loop that elicited a pained squawk out of the speakers. Where everyone else would've simply grunted in mild frustration and gone on with their work, the warthog could be heard angrily snarling, stopping mid-song as he dangerously yanked the microphone's jack out of the sound console.
"WAAAAUGH! STUPID CHINESE HARDWARE; I SHOULD'VE FLAYED THAT PAWN BROKER'S SOUL WHEN I HAD THE CHANCE! Ooooh, I would've ripped it into pieces and played around with them, left a mess for the hospital's Psychiarty ward to clean up, made that old bastard pay for overcharging me..."
He sighed with the sort of murderous tension in his voice that betrayed a total inability to calm down. "But it's fine, really, it's fine - they'll all hear the drum, and then they'll all come, and they'll all listen. They'll all listen, for the first time in - how long? Years? Centuries? I forget... Then, Tommy, then, we'll have it all. Yes, I know - I know you want 'em - showers and clean sheets and beer and girls who pay attention to you instead of looking down at you like the heartless, wretched, self-serving and ignorant HARPIES THAT THEY AAAAARE!"
Rage seemed to give way to hilarity, the scream devolving into tense cackles. "Oooh, Tommy, their faces - their faces! I can't wait, I can't wait, I can't wait, IcantwaitIcantwaitIcantwaitIcantwait-"
He seemed so choked with emotion that pain slipped into his registry, a human wail sliding into the quiet cousin of a pig's distressed squeal.
Delmar couldn't help himself but to appear in Aislinn's field of view. Despite the fact that he wasn't really there, he hugged the curved wall and did his best to stay out of the stairs' offered view of their squatted floor. He had his straw fedora in one hand, rested on his chest as if he'd been emotionally shaken.
"You poor man," he quietly said, looking above as if Quint could've heard his display of empathy.
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TennyoCeres84
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Re: Chapter II: Gravity
Aislinn rolled her eyes and met his fake cheer with a deadpan tone, "Not if I hit his demonic hide with a barrage of stuff first; I've been practicing lately. "
Ciaran shook his head at his sister. "Let's just get going, " he told them.
***
Meris frowned sadly from her hiding space. "Poor man, indeed. He's completely daft already; I would hate to see him totally gone," she said to Delmar.
However, she knew she would have to be ready to quickly counteract him and his imps. She understood how to drive evil back through her skills as a cantor and remained grateful for the fact she was so in tune with that arcane school.
Ciaran shook his head at his sister. "Let's just get going, " he told them.
***
Meris frowned sadly from her hiding space. "Poor man, indeed. He's completely daft already; I would hate to see him totally gone," she said to Delmar.
However, she knew she would have to be ready to quickly counteract him and his imps. She understood how to drive evil back through her skills as a cantor and remained grateful for the fact she was so in tune with that arcane school.
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IamLEAM1983
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Re: Chapter II: Gravity
"Don't forget your badges," reminded Three. "We're taking the van. Archie, wrap things up with Anastasius and Sophia, we're heading out!"
Shaking hands with the Karthian and dryad, Archie apologized profusely. "I'm afraid you shall have to get used to seeing this house in a constant bustle, as we're quite likely to turn into something resembling a fire station... Always on call, always running left and right, always ready and always a tad panicked," he said, chuckling good-naturedly.
This left Anastasius with the option of taking Sophia home, which he offered like the former aristocrat he was. "Might I take you home, Sophia? As much as I imagine we would both love to lend a hand, we are but civilians in this matter."
The van that they'd purchased was an expansive box-top painted in black, the sort of thing you expected SWAT members to drive. With two passengers out in front and enough room for eight standard-sized people in the rear, it could also be adapted to house the two large-size Clanks on the team and four humanoid team members. It gave some flexibility as far as team compositions were concerned, but it seemed as though the local warlock wouldn't be graced by the biggest automaton's presence, today. Apart from Archie, the expected away party seemingly contained the three roanes, Three and Crystal. There was space enough left for Bagley, the only one left who needed to prove his armature's worth on the field.
* * *
They spent some time listening to the warthog's unhinged private commentary, Delmar seemingly calculating their options. It took a few minutes for him to look back to Meris.
"We can't risk venturing upstairs ourselves," he observed. "His lab only has one way in or out - we'd be trapped on the stairs' landing if he attacked us. Our best bet is to draw him out to talk, or at least to choose a more suitable place to confront him. Either we lure him here or we head back downstairs and outside," he noted. "We'd have more opportunities for cover if things degenerate."
There was a thoughtful pause. "On the other hand, his diminished state would make him more open to suggestion. You could head back outside, where your voice carries the farthest, and try and sing to him. As he's nothing but unbridled emotions, chances are you could touch something in him - whatever's left that's still human. It's a difficult proposition, though: bring him to tears and he might blame you for making him feel vulnerable. If you don't make him feel sufficiently called to, he might dismiss you or not hear you at all."
Shaking hands with the Karthian and dryad, Archie apologized profusely. "I'm afraid you shall have to get used to seeing this house in a constant bustle, as we're quite likely to turn into something resembling a fire station... Always on call, always running left and right, always ready and always a tad panicked," he said, chuckling good-naturedly.
This left Anastasius with the option of taking Sophia home, which he offered like the former aristocrat he was. "Might I take you home, Sophia? As much as I imagine we would both love to lend a hand, we are but civilians in this matter."
The van that they'd purchased was an expansive box-top painted in black, the sort of thing you expected SWAT members to drive. With two passengers out in front and enough room for eight standard-sized people in the rear, it could also be adapted to house the two large-size Clanks on the team and four humanoid team members. It gave some flexibility as far as team compositions were concerned, but it seemed as though the local warlock wouldn't be graced by the biggest automaton's presence, today. Apart from Archie, the expected away party seemingly contained the three roanes, Three and Crystal. There was space enough left for Bagley, the only one left who needed to prove his armature's worth on the field.
* * *
They spent some time listening to the warthog's unhinged private commentary, Delmar seemingly calculating their options. It took a few minutes for him to look back to Meris.
"We can't risk venturing upstairs ourselves," he observed. "His lab only has one way in or out - we'd be trapped on the stairs' landing if he attacked us. Our best bet is to draw him out to talk, or at least to choose a more suitable place to confront him. Either we lure him here or we head back downstairs and outside," he noted. "We'd have more opportunities for cover if things degenerate."
There was a thoughtful pause. "On the other hand, his diminished state would make him more open to suggestion. You could head back outside, where your voice carries the farthest, and try and sing to him. As he's nothing but unbridled emotions, chances are you could touch something in him - whatever's left that's still human. It's a difficult proposition, though: bring him to tears and he might blame you for making him feel vulnerable. If you don't make him feel sufficiently called to, he might dismiss you or not hear you at all."
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TennyoCeres84
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Re: Chapter II: Gravity
Shaking the automaton's hand, Sophia looked to the Karthian and nodded. "I'd appreciate that, Anastasius. Thank you."
Ready and armed, Neasa, Ciaran, and Aislinn piled into the van, with Crystal sliding in beside them.
***
"Right. I'll appeal to his loneliness and hopefully lure him down from his lab," she responded, quietly and quickly heading back the way she had come. Meris did not venture far from the silo and climbed on some heap of forgotten items that would hold her weight. Thankfully, the air wasn't too chilly, and the area provided plenty of surfaces that would lend to her voice being heard.
The bard knew that it didn't take a complex melody to reach someone; it was all about the intent of the song itself. Emotions and urges combined into a call that the intended target could not ignore. She knew she had to convey a basic message that would bring him to her and hopefully in a non-violent manner. First, she began with a beguiling intonation, an irresistible voice destined for only him. Then came her message:
"Tommy, come to me...
Come to me.
Here you will find
friendly company,
a listening ear.
Tommy, come to me.
Here you can rest
your aching heart
and confide to me your woes,
your frustrations.
Tommy, come to me..."
She continued funneling feelings of camaraderie through her words and vocalizations. For the warthog, it beckoned to the most buried portions of whatever remained human within him. She had not bothered with fancy lyrics and let the soothing music tug him toward her.
Ready and armed, Neasa, Ciaran, and Aislinn piled into the van, with Crystal sliding in beside them.
***
"Right. I'll appeal to his loneliness and hopefully lure him down from his lab," she responded, quietly and quickly heading back the way she had come. Meris did not venture far from the silo and climbed on some heap of forgotten items that would hold her weight. Thankfully, the air wasn't too chilly, and the area provided plenty of surfaces that would lend to her voice being heard.
The bard knew that it didn't take a complex melody to reach someone; it was all about the intent of the song itself. Emotions and urges combined into a call that the intended target could not ignore. She knew she had to convey a basic message that would bring him to her and hopefully in a non-violent manner. First, she began with a beguiling intonation, an irresistible voice destined for only him. Then came her message:
"Tommy, come to me...
Come to me.
Here you will find
friendly company,
a listening ear.
Tommy, come to me.
Here you can rest
your aching heart
and confide to me your woes,
your frustrations.
Tommy, come to me..."
She continued funneling feelings of camaraderie through her words and vocalizations. For the warthog, it beckoned to the most buried portions of whatever remained human within him. She had not bothered with fancy lyrics and let the soothing music tug him toward her.
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IamLEAM1983
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Re: Chapter II: Gravity
OOC: I'll add stuff for the group once some time will have passed at the silos.
It took some work and a few repetitions, but Meris would eventually see the warthog's hooded head peak through one of the makeshift windows on the second-to-last floor. Distance didn't allow the archmage to understand what he'd muttered in response, but she wouldn't have to wait too long before the loud squawk of the tortured speakers was heard once more. This time, it was followed by half-snarled and half-screamed words. Fairly simple ones, at that.
"GO AWAY!"
Delmar urged Meris to keep going, maybe to go one octave lower to give herself more stamina. Five more minutes were needed before Quint gave the outer yard another impatient glance, loudly snorted and elected to clamber downstairs. This marked the first decent look Meris would have of the Infernalist, and he wasn't anything to be impressed by.
If the Freaks tend to quickly come to wear their difformities as a badge of honor, there was no graven self-consciousness to make Thomas' horrid countenance more bearable to see. To Arthur Holden's peers went the honor of being considered eccentric more than outright loathesome, while Quint had no outstanding charm, no supernatural moxie to transcend the ways in which Belial had marred his flesh. Meris would've lived long enough to know several people who'd managed to turn unflattering physiques into a boon they actively used, and this poor fellow clearly wasn't one of them. If her friend George was the clearest example of someone who managed to make Ugly work, Quint had no such luck.
He'd seemingly stitched bits and pieces of purple and blue clothing together into a wizard's robe that had the simplest virtue of being color-coordinated. It was an odd sight, fabrics and patterns clashing and woven together with bits of crude twine, the top of a hooded sweater attached to pieces of what looked like several bathrobes, the underside consisting of an old Hope University varsity tee-shirt that had seen better days.
Still, it'd be interesting for Meris to recognize some adaptations from the bygone days of wizards who couldn't approach the marvels of developing technology, a few of which she'd once used herself, back when central heating hadn't been a glimmer in anyone's eye. The old wool skull cap was here replaced with a floppy-eared polyester cap, the long beard her male colleagues had appreciated for its insulating properties being pathetically attempted at by a few scraggly black threads that dangled underneath his lower jaw. Her female colleagues had once preferred the ever-useful shawl that could be draped around the practitioner's head almost like a Muslim hijab, only with thicker and warmer fabrics.
Historical notes aside, however, he bore all the signs of having lost his battle against the siren's song of Belial's offered power. His skin was too deep a shade of yellow to be natural, something that went beyond Vitamin D deficiency or potential cirrhocis. The same could be said with his eyes, aflush with blood to the point of offering nothing but a red expanse, broken only by the tiny black pinpricks of his constricted pupils. Old food stains were stuck to his tusks, seemingly bonded with their enamel over time. As he snarled and scanned the yard for the source of the music, he revealed gums so inflamed that gingivitis couldn't have caused this all by itself. His teeth were abominably bad, and it didn't take a degree to figure out that standing downwind probably meant getting a clear waft of the most wretched case of halitosis imaginable. Not only that, but Quint's corrupted nature stank on the ethereal level as well. Being an Archmage, Meris was free to sense how the corresponding area in the Shadowlands remained vacated, as no shade, no matter how twisted, desired to dwell there for too long.
He eventually zeroed in on her, Meris' song having seemingly mellowed his dispositions to still grumpy, if less than murderous levels.
"What do you want, Archmage?!" he asked, spitting out the qualificative like an insult. "You've got another thing coming if you think I'll come peaceably just because you're immortal and I'm not! You're not worthy of my respect; you have no idea whatsoever of what true power feels like!"
Delmar's tone was one of caution. "Don't scold him, Meris; he's probably heard it a thousand times before. Talk to him if you want, but don't think you'll change him. The best you could do is have him reconsider his current plans - maybe without attacking you."
It took some work and a few repetitions, but Meris would eventually see the warthog's hooded head peak through one of the makeshift windows on the second-to-last floor. Distance didn't allow the archmage to understand what he'd muttered in response, but she wouldn't have to wait too long before the loud squawk of the tortured speakers was heard once more. This time, it was followed by half-snarled and half-screamed words. Fairly simple ones, at that.
"GO AWAY!"
Delmar urged Meris to keep going, maybe to go one octave lower to give herself more stamina. Five more minutes were needed before Quint gave the outer yard another impatient glance, loudly snorted and elected to clamber downstairs. This marked the first decent look Meris would have of the Infernalist, and he wasn't anything to be impressed by.
If the Freaks tend to quickly come to wear their difformities as a badge of honor, there was no graven self-consciousness to make Thomas' horrid countenance more bearable to see. To Arthur Holden's peers went the honor of being considered eccentric more than outright loathesome, while Quint had no outstanding charm, no supernatural moxie to transcend the ways in which Belial had marred his flesh. Meris would've lived long enough to know several people who'd managed to turn unflattering physiques into a boon they actively used, and this poor fellow clearly wasn't one of them. If her friend George was the clearest example of someone who managed to make Ugly work, Quint had no such luck.
He'd seemingly stitched bits and pieces of purple and blue clothing together into a wizard's robe that had the simplest virtue of being color-coordinated. It was an odd sight, fabrics and patterns clashing and woven together with bits of crude twine, the top of a hooded sweater attached to pieces of what looked like several bathrobes, the underside consisting of an old Hope University varsity tee-shirt that had seen better days.
Still, it'd be interesting for Meris to recognize some adaptations from the bygone days of wizards who couldn't approach the marvels of developing technology, a few of which she'd once used herself, back when central heating hadn't been a glimmer in anyone's eye. The old wool skull cap was here replaced with a floppy-eared polyester cap, the long beard her male colleagues had appreciated for its insulating properties being pathetically attempted at by a few scraggly black threads that dangled underneath his lower jaw. Her female colleagues had once preferred the ever-useful shawl that could be draped around the practitioner's head almost like a Muslim hijab, only with thicker and warmer fabrics.
Historical notes aside, however, he bore all the signs of having lost his battle against the siren's song of Belial's offered power. His skin was too deep a shade of yellow to be natural, something that went beyond Vitamin D deficiency or potential cirrhocis. The same could be said with his eyes, aflush with blood to the point of offering nothing but a red expanse, broken only by the tiny black pinpricks of his constricted pupils. Old food stains were stuck to his tusks, seemingly bonded with their enamel over time. As he snarled and scanned the yard for the source of the music, he revealed gums so inflamed that gingivitis couldn't have caused this all by itself. His teeth were abominably bad, and it didn't take a degree to figure out that standing downwind probably meant getting a clear waft of the most wretched case of halitosis imaginable. Not only that, but Quint's corrupted nature stank on the ethereal level as well. Being an Archmage, Meris was free to sense how the corresponding area in the Shadowlands remained vacated, as no shade, no matter how twisted, desired to dwell there for too long.
He eventually zeroed in on her, Meris' song having seemingly mellowed his dispositions to still grumpy, if less than murderous levels.
"What do you want, Archmage?!" he asked, spitting out the qualificative like an insult. "You've got another thing coming if you think I'll come peaceably just because you're immortal and I'm not! You're not worthy of my respect; you have no idea whatsoever of what true power feels like!"
Delmar's tone was one of caution. "Don't scold him, Meris; he's probably heard it a thousand times before. Talk to him if you want, but don't think you'll change him. The best you could do is have him reconsider his current plans - maybe without attacking you."
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TennyoCeres84
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Re: Chapter II: Gravity
Resisting the urge to roll her eyes at the empty insult, Meris shrugged at him. "I didn't expect you to come with me at all, Mr. Quint. I'm just here to talk," she explained, sitting down. The selkie scoffed self-deprecatingly. "Of course, I couldn't hope to meet your arcane prowess. No one could or ever will. If nothing else, you can take a break from your hard work and have a bit of fresh air, eh?" she proposed.
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IamLEAM1983
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Re: Chapter II: Gravity
If the warthog had a few embers of sanity left, they seemed to prevent him from immediately taking the bait. He gave her a sideways glance, nostrils pulsating as if the veracity of her claims was something that could be smelled. "I've been buttered up before, selkie - it'll take more than that to win my trust!"
He grunted. "I suppose you can stay, though; as long as you don't try anything stupid. If you do, it'll be all fangs and claws ripping into your fair phocine flesh just like that!" he warned, snapping his fingers right in front of her nose for effect. "I've got enough imps at my beck and call to give piranhas a case of jealousy, so don't think I can't stop you if you get sly on me!"
Punctuating his words with a snarl and a snort, he started pacing around the pile of junk Meris had elected as a seat, hands twitching as if he couldn't decide whether to keep them close or to go for a more open position by placing them behind his back. All the while, he eyed her the way an uncertain animal assesses a potential threat.
A few moments passed like this. "You don't look like someone who's invested in the Dark Arts, selkie... What could you possibly gain by talking to me, hm? Are you another one of these academics looking to make a cautionary tale out of me? No, I'd have smelled your contempt by now... No, you don't hate me - and that's enough to pique my interest..."
The warlock stopped in front of Meris again, this time leaning in close to take a few whiffs. "You smell like a traveler! Backpacking archmage never experiences the Pit's offered potential in all her centuries of research... Now that's a hard story to sell!"
Seemingly finding himself funny, Quint produced a quick succession of open-mouthed and grinning snorts.
He grunted. "I suppose you can stay, though; as long as you don't try anything stupid. If you do, it'll be all fangs and claws ripping into your fair phocine flesh just like that!" he warned, snapping his fingers right in front of her nose for effect. "I've got enough imps at my beck and call to give piranhas a case of jealousy, so don't think I can't stop you if you get sly on me!"
Punctuating his words with a snarl and a snort, he started pacing around the pile of junk Meris had elected as a seat, hands twitching as if he couldn't decide whether to keep them close or to go for a more open position by placing them behind his back. All the while, he eyed her the way an uncertain animal assesses a potential threat.
A few moments passed like this. "You don't look like someone who's invested in the Dark Arts, selkie... What could you possibly gain by talking to me, hm? Are you another one of these academics looking to make a cautionary tale out of me? No, I'd have smelled your contempt by now... No, you don't hate me - and that's enough to pique my interest..."
The warlock stopped in front of Meris again, this time leaning in close to take a few whiffs. "You smell like a traveler! Backpacking archmage never experiences the Pit's offered potential in all her centuries of research... Now that's a hard story to sell!"
Seemingly finding himself funny, Quint produced a quick succession of open-mouthed and grinning snorts.
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TennyoCeres84
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Re: Chapter II: Gravity
Ignoring his stench, she leaned back slightly and supported herself on her hands. Her body language suggested an open and casual nature. Meris offered him a smile and answered, "I'm a bard, first and foremost, Mr. Quint. Since I was young, I have collected stories. Now, stories, at their heart, have no moral connections; they merely exist to be heard. It's people who attach morality to tales. I only wish to hear your story to preserve it. If not memorized and protected, tales and the people associated with them fade away as though they never were there at all. At this time, I am an archivist who aims to keep the full spectrum of experiences alive and thriving. "