Deleted
I'm speechless.
Group
Deleted
Posts
0
Application
Status
Offline
|
Post by Deleted on May 4, 2015 15:18:12 GMT -8
[[Closed roleplay for the following: Citlalicue, Noelle, Clara, Esther, Arielle, Owen, Alcaeus. See bottom of the post for ooc notes on the situation & set-up for this roleplay.]]
The pottery clay was cool on her hands. Citlal barely moved, gently pressing her thumb into the clay as it spun before her, watching as the indent slowly, carefully deepened. The jar smeared grey on her hands, a comforting grey, and she smiled gently to herself before leaning forward to begin the intricate work. It required so much precision. She used small tools, carving weaving lines into the clay as it spun, before realizing she needed to touch up the opening. It was just slightly off. She used her shoulder to brush hair out of her eyes and began to fix the opening, making it even all the way around.
She hadn't made pottery in a while. She wasn't even sure if she knew where her paints were, and nobody else would have the paints she wanted for it. But the distraction—with Coyotl's birthday next week—
Her chest squeezed so tightly that she couldn't breathe for a few seconds. She closed her eyes. It's been over 500 years. The thought came viciously, chiding with the crack of a whip. You have to stop.
She fought down memories of his sharp, almost golden eyes, memories of his seventh birthday under the trees, memories of his hands outstretched to her whenever she came near because he was a mama's boy and he wanted to look at the stars with her. She'd told him every year that he could become anything, because she believed in the intelligence and wisdom and kindness in her little boy, and he could've done anything, he could've been anything he wanted except—
Except.
She was slowly building an eternity of "except"s.
(we may have loved each other, except— she was starting to understand and see the world with little green eyes, except— I tried to fight and conquer, except— I could've joined them on the other side, except— HQ is my quarters, my home, except—)
With thoughts of Coyotl came thoughts of steel and heat and the smell of blood, and Citlal cut off her mental path there, instantly, realizing she couldn't see the pot through her clouded eyes. She wiped her eyes on her shoulder, leaving small tear stains, and inhaled slowly. Exhaled slowly. Inhaled. Exhaled. "You're fine," Citlal whispered, closing her eyes again. "You're fine. You're fine, Citlal. Make this pot for him." She decided to paint it with deep reds--his favorite color--and adorn it with gold paint and gold leaf and display it in her room, no matter how gaudy her roommates would probably think it is. Especially Albrecht.
She stood and began to wipe her hands. Her phone buzzed loudly in her pocket, so she washed quickly and dried before digging it out. She was expecting a text from someone, but her breath slipped out of her when she realized who it was from.
"Reap Order," the text was titled. Citlal closed her eyes for a few seconds. Not today. She sighed, opened her eyes, and read the rest of the text. As she went, her blood ran colder and colder as she realized that she didn't have one or two names--she had almost ten. A wreckage? She scanned the names again--nine different last names, all with the same location (a train station) and time of death. Potentially a shooting, but given the train station, it was likely a wreckage.
A wreckage meant chaos and sadness. Confusion. There would be more apprentices joining her, she assumed. They would have to get there early just to sort through the victims, if they could even figure out what exactly was going to crash. She turned off her potter's wheel and sighed, running a hand over her face while she looked at the clock. It would be fairly soon. She decided to get ready and wait for the others in the chrysanthemum fields--it would be easier if they all went together, or close to.
Her rapier was leaned up against a wall near by. With Coyotl's birthday so close, she could barely bring herself to touch it. She sheathed it in a quick motion, biting down bile and acid that surged upward at the feeling of the cold metal. (this was the steel that cut us down, this has followed me for so long, this—) Her body heaved, but she ignored it. She dressed in clothes that were easy to move in and subdued and went to wait at the chrysanthemum fields, not really seeing the beauty of them as she walked.
She had to pull herself together. Reap orders were everything. She wrapped her arms around herself and waited.
((OOC: THE SET-UP:
- Each apprentice in the rp will receive reap orders on their phone. It is a train wreck with about 60-65 people. With 7 apprentices, each apprentice will be given a list of 7-10 names to reap (remember that each name consists of a first initial and a last name).
- For your ooc information (meaning your character shouldn't know this!): The location of the reap order is a train station, and that is all your apprentice will know. The wreckage is going to occur because one train will be unable to stop and it will run into another train. This means that some of our characters will be able to find some of their victims (in the train that will be crashed into), but other apprentices will not be able to find their victims until the other train comes careening into the station and crashes. Although I'm telling you this for your rping needs, your characters should follow a logical train of thought for the situation and not magically know what's going on.
- It is up to the rpers to decide what kind of humans are on their reap orders list. Young, old, male, female, occupation—it's all up to you. Whatever you think will give your character the best development here.
- They will arrive 15-30 minutes early and attempt to use that time to figure out who they are reaping. Whether they can figure out in time which train it even is remains to be seen. They will do the reap order, and then we can wind down and have discussion or something in the aftermath.
- This is our first large reap order roleplay, so no hunters have been invited. The apprentices are technically safe for this one. This is a test-run, though. In the future, if this goes well, we'll invite a hunter or two for added tension and realistic-ness.
- Let me know if you have any questions, and let's get to work!))
|
|
Snip, snip, snip
Group
Junior Member
Posts
92
Application
Status
Offline
|
Post by snip on May 4, 2015 16:21:47 GMT -8
Esther's phone was buzzing.
It was an irritating noise to begin with, but she'd made the mistake of setting it on a glass table. This only served to intensify the noise, magnifying it from a discontented hum to a hideous, demanding shriek. Its wailing cut through the air, severing her vigorous mental attachment to the paperwork she'd been poring over.
She swept aside said paperwork and made her way over to the now-accursed device, jabbing at the power button and then the mute button with a thumb and a viciousness that was entirely reserved for the phone. It made her wonder if it had been easier for her back in the 80s, when she had not had a device that provided routine noisy distractions.
But because the phone appeared mandatory (if not at least very helpful) in order to service communication, in remained in her possession. Much to her displeasure in situations such as these. She'd never found much of a use for it besides communication; she wasn't one to chat idly with her fellow apprentices (or anyone else, for that matter). She didn't even find a use for the games (a horrible run in with that ridiculous game -- floppy bird? It didn't matter; another apprentice had handed it to her probably knowing how hellishly frustrating [and time-consumingly addictive] it was -- had pretty much settled the topic of games for her, and the overall conclusion was "never again"). She had to admit it was useful for making posts to the threadcutters forum, but other than that....
She found some amount of moral discomfort with the device. Generated from the vast expanse of Death's seemingly infinite conjured materials, it had been given to hear nearly upon arrival (or at earlier model, at least -- this one was new and shiny; the old one was a brick-like device with its horrible glowing screen and the constant impracticality of having to carry it around). It didn't feel like a device of entertainment or connection, to Esther -- it was merely another extension of Death's power over her. A symbol of death the concept, because when the buzzing wasn't generated by someone sending a text message, it was another reap order.
(The newly made apprentice cast a hollow look over the device... she saw it as a piece of plastic and panels and squares; she would have to use it but she could not find the will -- it was like a fog had fallen over her, and now she could merely amble through it. She did not want to take another's life, but the name on the screen was that of someone who would soon be) --
Shaking her head once to clear it of old thoughts (she doubted it actually worked like that, but it was the gesture that counted), she opened the messaging system and scanned the contents of the inbox. She has become almost mechanical in method; now. See the name, go to the field, complete the order, come back, fill out paperwork, submit said paperwork.... rinse and repeat, with each progressive cycle drawing her nearer to ascension. Her family. The end of this job and the end of her time here.
But life (or death) had interrupted her usual flow of work. For one, her paperwork lay unfinished on the desk behind her. For two, this wasn't merely one name. It wasn't even the usual two or three.
It was a list.
Eight names in black font, almost insignificant. To see a person be summarized by mere letters on a white backdrop, because in the end their aspirations meant nothing, it didn't matter who was who, what they had done, what they had loved and lived through and seen, they were all slated for death --
It was not a pleasant feeling that settled in the pit of her stomach. It wasn't that she couldn't handle the larger reap orders -- of course she could. Despite her... unfortunate state of being in her earliest time as an apprentice, her record was as spotless as she could afford to make it. Emotional detachment and perseverance had kept her quota rising at a steady level. And it would keep doing that. She would dedicate herself to this, but she would not become enslaved to it. She'd hoped that choosing a library job instead of becoming a full-time reaper would ensure that -- Esther wanted so desperately to meet her quota, to ascend....
But she had seen some of the more dedicated of the full-time reapers. The dull look in their eyes. The cold aura they seemed to exude; the manner in which they reaped the souls of the living. The way that some of them possessed seemingly no remorse; not even buried.
Esther didn't want to become like that. She refused to think about becoming like that -- refused to think about some things at all. Like the fact that some of her fellow apprentices had been here for centuries. Doing the same thing she did, all for the sake of the same goal as her own.
The larger reap orders could be handled. And if she couldn't, she would find a way to have it done, regardless. Centuries was a long time; not even forty years into her own internment seemed a terrible place to begin any kind of descent.
She read over the names, trying to get a sense of anything. Who these people were. What they might look like. Who they might be and how she could find them before the chaos erupted. Because chaos would erupt. The site she was supposed to go to today wasn't a hospital, nor was it a place where one would expect pandemonium and death.
A train station. This could only mean a shooting or an accident. She remembered other reap orders like this; the compartmentalized internal agony, the vivid suffering of those unfortunate enough to survive the initial incident, the screams of the dying and the surviving alike. The rush to snip their threads, the ways in which they had to do this (hands tremble eyes sting stow away the lowness of hurt and anger there is a job to be done). Her only consolation was that it wasn't likely she would be alone. Death almost never sent a single apprentice to scenes like this. There would be others, no doubt -- fellow apprentices, all headed towards the same location. Safety in numbers would be with them, chaos or not.
But now there was a time constraint that she was all too aware of. If she wanted to leave in a group, rather than ill at ease and on her own, she would have to depart quickly. There was only so much time that she could spend dallying around before she had to rush; Esther would rather it not come to that.
Hastily grabbing at her scissors had seemed like a good idea, but the prickling cold of the blade shocked her, and her swipe for them wasn't coordinated enough for a good grasp; instead of being caught in her hand, they were knocked away, clattering noisily onto the wooden floor.
Esther was almost hissing with displeasure, but the sense of scorn and regret was slowly chilling into a haunting sense of discomfort. She fished the scissors up with more finesse than before and gripped the handle tightly in her hand. (Two fours too many deaths a pair of scissors falling from her hands, skittering over the wood like they did on pavement, an inconvenience once again --
perhaps if I had held onto them tighter, I would have lived --)
Her hands shook, and the scissors shook with them, clasped between her fingers and palm in a vice-like grip.
(Calm yourself. This is just a routine reap order. There is no need to reminisce over old memories; do not bring personal drama into the affairs of this job. It will be bad for you, it will be bad for everyone around you. You aren't sixteen anymore, so quit this juvenile, self-pitying weakness.)
She had standards to live to. The others could deal with the issue at hand however they saw fit; to Esther, this was the only way she could deal with it. She inhaled to steel herself, exhaled slowly.
Despite her best efforts, her journey to the endless field of chrysanthemums was one where she was lost in thought. So lost in thought, in fact, that she didn't see the other person there until she had gotten within a few yards' distance of them. The sudden flash of pink amidst the flowers made Esther look up, wonder if she should exchange a greeting --
But then she halted. The other woman looked... sad. Very unlike her usual self, smiling and outgoing. Esther could understand sadness, though she might have mocked it regardless (some of the other apprentices did have the unfortunate habit of lingering in melodrama during an assignment). But Citlal looked especially sad, to the point where Esther couldn't find it in her heart to say even one disparaging word. Her arms were wrapped around herself. (Grieving, readying, what is wrong? Why is she like this right before we are supposed to leave? Will she be all right?)
Esther gave her a quiet look.
"안녕하세요, Citlal," she said, but she couldn't think of anything more to say.
|
|
"Truly the bright days shone for you..."
Group
Member
Posts
18
Application
Status
Offline
|
Post by ChurroChariots on May 4, 2015 17:20:03 GMT -8
Light streamed into the library through the monumental, open windows, illuminating the pages of the book Alcaeus was reading. It was one he’d read before, so while he eagerly reread some paragraphs, other ones his eyes skimmed over until a more interesting situation presented itself. His eyes had gone over the same passage at least three times now, reading but not. His thumb pressed into the skin of his lip, other one making a slight indent on the thin paper that held the text.
From his pocket, he could hear a tinkling sound go off—and then another, and another, and another. He blinked, looking out from his seat into the rest of the library, momentarily blinded from the shift of extreme light to dimmer, more natural light. He let his eyes adjust before pulling out his phone. Getting up from the chair, he walked forward a few steps as he pressed the ‘on’ button and swiped the screen to open it. The message box on the screen indicated the number '9.' A hollow feeling began to slowly settle into his stomach. He glanced around the room before opening the message center, seeing 9 different text messages that were all titled 'REAP ORDER.' His thumb clicked them open on by one.
All located in a train station. He let out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. A shaky inhale, the slip of a book from in between fingers, and the unheard clatter as it hit the floor. A train station. Nine people. It wasn't hard for him to figure out. It had to be an accident, a wreck, a—
He shoved the phone back in his pocket, trying not to think too hard about it. People died in accidents every day, be it a misstep off the side off a platform that couldn't be taken back, the foolish idea to run across the street, the inability to stop a car from swerving out of the way—
He bent and picked up the book from off the floor, setting it back in the chair. Running his hands through his hair, he leaned forward on the tips of his toes before planting his feet back on the ground. Inhale, exhale. Shallow breaths were better than nothing. Why did accidents get him so nervous—two thousand years on the job and he couldn't even stop the unsettling feeling that washed over him in waves whenever he knew it would be something uncontrollable.
Those people didn't know they were going to die. They didn't know their last decision would really be their last. Would they regret it? Would they even realize what happened before it was too late—
His feet moved through the library towards the entrance, possibly in a physical reaction to his desire to get away from his thoughts, and he didn’t fight it. He needed to stop thinking. Thinking would make him late, and he didn’t need that. Better to just go. Through the halls, through the dorms, through his room until he found the glinting metal falx that—currently—made his stomach twist further in on itself. He didn't look at it. Down the hall, down the stairs, down the field towards the chrysanthemums—
Ah. Citlal and Myo were there. He should have figured that with something like an accident there'd be more people going too. He didn't want to know how many others received the indifferent buzz or ring of a phone.
He looked between them. This wasn't really the time for pretend smiles or jokes. Especially not with how Citlal looked. He inclined his head, "Hello Citlal, Myo."
|
|
remember me as i was.
Group
Senior Member
Posts
447
Application
Status
Offline
|
Post by quinnquinn on May 4, 2015 18:13:16 GMT -8
The chorus of birds were so loud. They were all Owen could hear. A sleeve had been rolled down so he could finish up his routine check with this bird. A lovely macaw, beautiful, colourful and large. Despite how much he was enjoying himself, he could feel something vibrating in his sleeve. He had gotten a new message. He put his arm down, catching his device expertly as it fell--
A place. A list of names.
10 names. Owen scanned the list, though he was sure the number would be much more. A station and a large toll couldn't equate to a whole lot of scenarios anyway. A team would be out for this kind of reaping too. When was the last time he got one this big? The list would be longer in the end. Surely out of the group he was to meet there would be some who weren't bold enough to go snip snip... There was a reason why he got longer lists when the occasion called for it. His detachment proved to be so efficient for these reapings that it was a wonder he wasn't doing it full time.
He had minimum time to change, so his habit of taking his other set of clothes with him to work was paying off. He just changed then and there in the midst of the roomful of birds - they couldn't care less, and neither did Owen. He tossed his straitjacket over to someone in the mail room to look after for him as he left for the fields with a crow on his shoulder and another on his arm. He pat his vest to check his pen was there as he stepped into the fields--
He'd died and come here, once. Now it was time to help others ascend or come to this very place. Some had gathered already and he nodded in acknowledgement at their presence, noting sadness in their faces. Such was the apprentice life.
|
|
Deleted
I'm speechless.
Group
Deleted
Posts
0
Application
Status
Offline
|
Post by Deleted on May 6, 2015 1:23:30 GMT -8
When her phone chimed, the resulting jump meant that she didn't quite managed to avoid stabbing herself in the thumb with a sewing needle. All things considered, this was hardly cause for alarm -- first, Arielle was not that princess, that... Sleeping Beauty? Regardless, there was a less than minuscule chance of pricking herself and falling asleep in the middle of darning a skirt. (Did -- would a witch's curse even work on someone who was already dead?) Second, it wouldn't have mattered, because her thumb bore so many callouses that the single reason Arielle even realized she pricked herself was the fact that her needle now refused to move.
Brown eyes shifted their focus from serviceable stitches to the slim sliver of metal sticking n the side of her thumb that hadn't even managed to penetrate the skin. Her shoulders rolled in a personal shrug, a small tug pulled it free, and she set her needlework aside, tucking it in the bowels of a worn wicker basket. Already, she gathered her armor around herself, in mind if not in reality; her back drew up as her spine straightened, and an invisible hand smoothed out her expression, pulled back her shoulders to help the pauldrons she had yet to don settle their weight evenly. The mattress creaked underneath as she shifted her weight to reach for her work phone.
And it had to be her work phone. The Galaxy she kept for her own usage was never off of mute or vibrate; personal messages, after all, she could ignore or put off indefinitely. Games could wait. Works orders... less so.
This was her job. This had to be her job. She had vowed to serve, and Arielle couldn't bear to break that, couldn't bring herself to spit on concepts she held so dear. Death was not her God, but she was -- something. She was... something. Besides, it could merely be a request to assist in subduing a troublesome Fallen --
--which mean that it wasn't.
After reading the contents, Arielle set the phone aside (she always does this with care, her touch lingering on the black plastic as she lets it fall back into contact with the wood, fingers pressed to the screen for a brief moment before lifting) and goes about donning her armor in full. Time and an unwillingness to part with the metal skin have forced her to made modifications to the armor she would have otherwise abstained from, but for now it meant that she could strap on almost a full suit (she never wears her helm, not on reap orders) on her lonesome, with no squire necessary to tighten a few extra straps. (Not that she'd ever had a squire -- no -- was she ever a proper one, in the first place? Trained by -- lips move -- harsh voice -- a heavy sparring sword slaps her wrist -- grits her teeth when the bone cracks)
By the time she affixed her sword, the small knight had shaken whatever dusty sensory input that had attempted to dull her mind. It was no use, in the long run; extra memories could only weigh her down when she had all she needed: her Code. Her training. Her loyalties.
And a list of names.
"Je suis désolée," she murmured as she picked up the blackberry once more, her left hand cradling it as it was slipped into a small waist-pouch.
(This is the smallest mercy she allows herself. I'm sorry.)
(It is not enough. It will have to be enough.)
She used the walk to the chrysanthemum field to clear her mind, sharpen her focus. Younger apprentices tended to feel grief for those yet to die, but the eleven hundreds weren't kind to those that lived in its cradle. Everyone knew someone who had an infant or four that died to the coughs, the measles, or never drew breath -- everyone died. Sometimes awfully, painfully; it could have bothered Ari (it did), but the best way to protect the souls on her list was to pray she could snip their thread before they suffered and further pray they were not chosen to be apprentices. To linger would --
That thought was walled away. It does not belong here, not now. Not ever, if she can help it. But if it must exist, if it must grow, then she would prefer it stay away from her when she is in public, wearing a Knight's armor and a Knight's sword and a Reaper's glove.
Instead, Arielle chose to blink in momentary surprise when she saw others in the field; a silly action, in hindsight. With seven names on her list, it would be prudent to believe that hers was not the only reap order being sent to a specific area... what a appeared to be a station, in particular. Thus far, the faces she saw were familiar, one of them belonging to -- "Alcaeus," is what slides out, formal and only a shade softer than she had been intending. His hair was beginning to verge on the rough side of disheveled, and the words (awkward, halting, interspersed with uncertainty, held together with the fierce protectiveness that bubbles in her heart for all things, above all her friends) lingered on her tongue, but she did not let them escape.
"Owen," was what she said instead, rather glad that he didn't wear the... shirt... he had in their last meeting, and: "Esme." She wanted to greet the last member of their party so far, but -- it didn't seem right. Yes, she recognized her (pink hair is very... pink), but to offer a greeting without a name is -- and she doesn't trust her track record with guessing. Still, despite her general discomfort around the brighter and happier apprentice, Arielle has to shake off the urge to take up her shield and set it between the pink-haired apprentice and whatever it is that made her clutch her own arms in such a manner. It wasn't -- right.
Arielle nods, instead.
Je suis désolée.
She vowed to serve.
|
|
The angels did say...
Group
Member
Posts
2
Application
Status
Offline
|
Post by devilwearsprada on May 6, 2015 21:35:34 GMT -8
The one good thing about being dead and in the HQ, was the fact that there were people from every time period and century you could think of. The varying styles of clothing were overwhelming and Noelle loved it. For fashion designers such as herself, this place was a treasure trove. There was inspiration to be found at every corner and she was bursting with so many ideas, she couldn't get them down on paper fast enough. She sat in one of the HQ's many hallways, an old sketchbook in her lap. The pages were covered in scrawls and scribbles, from when she tried to draw as quickly as possible when people walked past. Her hand was beginning to cramp a bit, so she decided to take a break and check her phone. Just as she was reaching for it, the device gave a loud vibration. Followed by several others.
Okay, wow. Someone was either very excited or very terrified about something. She punched in her eight-digit password.
Turns out it was neither.
Her eyebrows furrowed and a bitter smile crossed her face as she read the location.
A train station, huh? What a fucking cruel joke. She had personally been murdered in a train car and here they were sending her seven reaping orders for people who were about to die in a train station. The afterlife sure had a sick sense of humor. As far as deaths went, her own was pretty anti-climatic. She hadn't begged for her life. There had been no time for that. (And her pride wouldn't have allowed it anyway.) She didn't get flashbacks, she didn't break out in cold sweat thinking about it at times. No, she was just left with a hollow, dark bitterness that never went away. There would always be a part of her that would hate the woman who had taken her future away with a single gunshot.
Noelle threw all of her belongings into her bag and trekked back the room to drop them off. The pair of sewing scissors in the hidden pocket of her skirt was a dead weight, pressing against her leg with every step that she took. A weapon used to kill instead of a tool used to create. This was going to be a great day. She could already feel it. Well, the faster she got this over with, the better. As she neared the meeting place to pick up the chrysanthemums, a feeling of dread pooled in her stomach. There were five other people there already. If they all had similar number of victims to reap...she didn't want to even think about the magnitude of the accident about to happen to require this many reapers.
The heavy atmosphere around them was suffocating. Though, a familiar figure stood among the small crowd gathered and caught her eye. She immediately identified him as Al. Noelle felt just a fraction bit better, knowing that one of her teammates would be around. He always made her feel at ease, and was a wonderful person who listened through all her angry outbursts and rants. She walked up behind him and thunked her forehead into his upper back. "Hi. Train station."
|
|
Stuck in orbit
Group
Member
Posts
2
Application
Status
Offline
|
Post by lacrimocha on May 7, 2015 18:31:25 GMT -8
The radio hummed and crackled as the host droned on, about what, Clara wasn't sure. She had long since turned it out, enjoying simply as something to fill the silence as she moved the needle in and out, in and out, slowly drawing the two bits of fabric together. One, two, one, two and...
Snip!
She held the shirt away from her, examining around the sleeve. Even seam, no holes. She gave it a tug, just to make sure the stitching held. Good as new! She folded the garment and gently tucked it into the bin marked as done. There was something oddly satisfying about giving the clothes new life, especially considering all the different sorts of garments that somehow found their way to death's door. Up next was a long silk skirt, the hem worn and frayed from someone who was perhaps a little too short.
"It's darn shame people can't treat ya better," she mumbled as she laid it out on her table. Should she just fix the hem? Or maybe go for a shorter cut? Above the knees? Below? She hummed in thought as she fiddled with the fabric, but she was cut off by a low, somber piano note.
She froze, feeling her stomach twist into a knot. She recognized the piece immediately - of course she did, the dreadful tune played for one reason and one reason only. Truth be told, she regretted ever having set a special tone just for "work". Yet, as if to mock her, her new phone had come with it already set. Someone's cruel joke perhaps.
It cut off rather suddenly and the first not played again. And again. And again. Each one feeling like a rock settling into the bottom of her gut. When the little clip finally played through, she had counted ten. Ten reap orders. Her hands shook a she placed the sewing needle in the small case that held the rest of her supplies. An accident? A shooting? Surely for ten to be assigned to one person, there would be others as well. A bombing? A crash? She pressed the butt of her palms against her eyes and took a deep breath in, trying to soothe her nerves.
Almost seventy years, and yet it hadn't gotten even the slightest bit better. Only worse. And as always, there was that urge to do nothing. Ignore the phone. Forget the reap orders. Who cares? If her team wouldn't be affected, perhaps she would fall to the temptation. She took another deep breath and forced herself out of her chair and over to her scythe. Holding it upright, she rested her head on the smooth, worn wood and closed her eyes. She mumbled a small prayer. Why, to whom, she had no idea. The bitterness that it was going nowhere, to no one, was drowned out by the sense of comfort is still managed to bring. Meaningless as it may be, it was a remnant of her life, of what she used to do. And it soothed her, at least a bit. As she finished, she tried to steel herself. Her stomach wasn't twisting and churning. Her limbs were steady and strong. This was just how life - and death - went. It had to be done.
She snatched her phone off the desk and flipped the case open as she headed off to get her chrysanthemum. Just as she had expected, a small ten sat on the notifications. She looked over each of them. All the same location. All roughly the same time. She let out a shaky breath. Almost definitely an accident then. It would be messy, people would be screaming, crying. Her head pounded at the thought, making her press against her eyes again. May at least some of them go peacefully. May they deliver them in time so they don't suffer.
Before she knew it, her feet had taken her where she needed to be, and sure enough there were six others already gathered. Some part of her thought to at least say hello. They would be working together after all. But all she could muster was a small nod. Her eyes drifted over each of them, quickly setting on Noelle and Alcaeus. It was somewhat comforting to see most of her team here, yet it tug on her heart strings - especially for Noelle. She walked over to the duo, mimicking Noelle and resting her head on the taller girls back.
"Misery loves company."
|
|
Deleted
I'm speechless.
Group
Deleted
Posts
0
Application
Status
Offline
|
Post by Deleted on May 7, 2015 21:35:53 GMT -8
Citlal watched as people gathered around her. First Esther—a welcome face—then Al. Owen. Arielle. Two other girls that she briefly recognized as Al's teammates, although she wasn't as familiar with them as she wanted to be. A good group, then. Apprentices she could trust. Some of them greeted her. When she tried to summon the vocals to return the favor, her throat seemed to knot tightly, painfully. She exhaled slowly and closed her eyes before trying to speak again. It was a little unclear who she was directing it to, though. "Hello." Definitely unclear. She tacked on a hasty ending. "Everyone. Hello, everyone."
This was... not the Citlal that was usually found flitting around HQ with tinkling jewelry and a smile.
She waited for a little while longer, not addressing or talking to anyone while she waited. The observant eye would've found that very strange. When no one showed up for a few more minutes, Citlal reached down to pluck a flower. "I guess we should... start preparing," she said, voice strangled in her throat. Any stragglers could join them, if there were to be more.
"Let's get going." It wasn't what she wanted to say. Her mind was pleading for something, begging—someone please take this, touch my arm and tell me it will be okay, purge these memories, stay with me, please, just wrap me in warmth and burn this all to nothing, stay until I have the strength to endure more and more centuries of this, this hell—but who among the others would understand? Empathize? Comply? And what use did they have of someone so faltered before they'd even left?
None.
Citlal had nothing anymore. But she was not useless.
She lifted her head, chin high, dredging up whatever pride kept her clinging to the past so desperately. "Penn Station," she said, accent thickened as she pronounced it. The chrysanthemum whisked her way, and she stumbled slightly into a busy, bustling station, standing in the middle of a weaving crowd. She straightened slightly and stood still, awaiting the others, but her eyes wandered, taking expert notes of her surroundings instantly.
The humans here were far too busy to look too closely at the apprentices. They shoved past her without glancing her way. One barged into her and kept walking with a disdainful look—Citlal muttered something derisive about white men and started to look around. (She hoped that Owen didn't arrive in time to hear her say that.)
She'd brought along a small notebook, which she pulled out, transferring the names from her phone to the notebook. She wanted to make notes of where the victims were and what they were like to make them easy to find later. Her scrawl was heavy-handed and thick, dark jagged streaks on a small piece of paper, but she got her names down.
A. Hernandez--2:50.
J. Hernandez--2:50.
D. Martin--2:50.
A. Barker--2:50.
D. Klein--2:50.
A. Klein--2:50.
S. Louis--2:51.
M. Montgomery--2:51.
C. Peterson--2:52.
A couple of families. That would help. She had a few tricks that she used to find her victims: checking ticket names, looking for embroidered or monogrammed luggage, and listening in to conversations. She still looked slightly helpless as she looked around Penn Station, though. It was huge. The chances of easily finding their victims were extremely slim. Checking a large hanging clock, she compared it to the times that she'd scribbled down. They had 27 minutes to locate their victims before the inevitable death.
She turned to the others when the'd all slipped into the station. "We have 27 minutes," she said. Her voice was slightly better now. Business-like. Still, her hands were trembling. "How do you guys prefer to do it? We can split up, find victims, and see where they start to congregate, or stick together and move quickly... Ooh, we could also send someone to see if there are any reports of trouble in the station's comm room. Maybe they'll report a rogue train or a suspect with a gun. A small chance, but it's a possibility." Getting organized was good for her. Talking logically buried the emotions she was experiencing.
Pain tried to twist her throat again. "I usually like to start locating people with an eye as to where they begin to congregate, designating their movements as our final location. As long as we remain in contact with each other, it shouldn't be a problem... we can stand posed to reap." She flushed slightly, looking away from the group. None of them knew why she was taking the reins in terms of organization. They had no idea she was using it to distract her. She quickly added an ending. "I mean, that's just... we've all done group reaping before, probably, so... however you guys wanna get to work, we should jump to it."
"I... sorry. I'll just... start this way," she finished lamely, quietly, like a flame flickering out after a brief burst of light. She unsheathed her rapier, visibly paling and shaking as she did so, and gripped it with porcelain knuckles, walking toward the first train she could see. She looked smaller than usual as she went, shrinking into herself and attempting to be forgotten.
|
|
Snip, snip, snip
Group
Junior Member
Posts
92
Application
Status
Offline
|
Post by snip on May 8, 2015 1:22:27 GMT -8
Esther waited quietly and observed, as she was inclined to do in situations such as this. Several others had filed in mere moments after her -- six other apprentices, to be precise, bringing their overall total to seven.
Almost an entirety of one team was here -- she recognized Alcaeus easily enough. Who she didn't remember nearly as well were his teammates. Both young, both female; she'd suspected for a while that groups were assigned based upon details such as age and experience -- this did nothing to rebut said suspicion. Esther wondered for a moment why their group was fragmented -- why wasn't their fourth teammate here? Was he (or she) busy? Otherwise unfit to come along? In the end, though, she kept her guesswork to herself. One absent person would only give those present a small helping more of work. And it wasn't like the rest of her team was with her... or anyone elses' teammates, for that manner. But it was nothing huge. Missing member or not, she was sure that they could support themselves and keep one another in check.
There, too, was Arielle. She had looked surprised to see the rest of them (unnecessarily surprised, in Esther's opinion -- an apprentice was rarely sent out on their own on assignments of this magnitude, and if Arielle had gotten as many names as Esther, it could have been easy to guess that there would be others). She reached out to Al through ways of greeting, seeming more at ease with him than anyone else in their motley group. Esther admittedly did not know her as a friend, but she seemed all right. A bit easily flustered, perhaps overzealous with her (quite literally) medieval concepts of honor. But all within forgiveness, except for --
"Esme."
Esther wrinkled her nose. Arielle hadn't managed to discern her proper name quite yet. Esme didn't even sound like Esther (save for the E... which Esther could begrudgingly admit tied the names together, if only in the smallest of ways). It sounded haughty and foreign, and the pronunciation the small knight impressed upon them didn't help to placate Esther's quiet dislike of the name. Ez-mee. Aigo. (Damn the French and their strange pronunciations.) It sounded like the name of a foreign, haughty woman. One with too much perfume and a generous heaping of false grandeur. Ech.
The bird boy was in attendance, as well. The one that didn't seem to mind the birds' bad manners and sharp peckings. The one that saw little problem in dealing with all their (literal and figurative) shit. Esther didn't know him quite as well as the others, and perhaps he preferred it that way (she certainly couldn't object to that preference), but she felt... haunted. By him. Pale hair, pale skin, pale blue eyes -- also observing, sometimes. Watching, almost listless. She would never admit fear in the face of another apprentice, though (square your shoulders, look ahead, betray nothing). The straitjacket hadn't helped matters (the stigma of it lingered on in Esther's mind, even now, when she should know better).... but he wasn't wearing the straitjacket. He appeared to be wearing normal clothes. Even pants. Esther supposed she could count her blessings for pants alone (regular clothes were an event on their own, but pants were the biggest one of the bunch).
And yet, despite her wariness of the bird boy, he appeared to be more at ease than the rest of them. Calmer. More prepared. Even if she didn't have a burning desire to stand alone in the same room as him, Esther could appreciate his straight-mindedness in regards to the task at hand.
Citlal... Citlal was definitely affected by something. Moreso than Esther had gleaned from her initial observation. What it was, though, Esther had no idea of. She didn't even have a guess. But Citlal was usually... different. Definitely different. More smiling. More outgoing. This new face of quiet and grief was quite worrying, especially in light of the fact that they hadn't even departed yet. If she was like this now, what would she be like when they arrived at their location? After having to snip threads?
For a moment, Esther's sympathy and empathy threatened to drain away into irritation and disdain. Why was she here, if she was like this? Would she even be able to handle this? It didn't look like the answer would be anywhere near a confident yes, and so what if she wasn't able to handle it. What if her grief turned into inability? What if --
(What if, what if, what if. Too many what ifs. You can't afford to let the worries of one person worry you, as well. As long as this does not throw a wrench in the proverbial gears, you should not worry....
.... Or should you?)
Esther let out a huff. She would have to blindly place her trust in the other apprentice. Citlalicue had been here for centuries, completing and re-completing this exact repetitive process over and over again. No -- Esther would just have to hope that she knew her own limits and boundaries. That if it came to the point where she could not pull off what was expected of her, she would know how to find a way around it. Or that one of the others with her would know when and where to step up.
Besides, it wasn't Citlal that Esther had to worry about the most. It was herself. Being one of the younger and (presumably) more inexperienced apprentices was enough to make her --
(No. Do not think like that, Soon ja. Determination will get you farther than endless worry.)
Esther plucked a flower at its stem and cradled it in her hands. The flower didn't register the sudden act of gentleness -- how could it? For all anybody knew, it was merely a chrysanthemum, with no sentience to speak of. It had been content to live in Death's endless field for the entirety of its existence, and now it would be content to serve as a portal into the living world.
Esther gazed down at it; it was a white, grey-shadowed one with a yellow center, like many of its brothers and sisters that remained.
(White. The color of death. It's fitting, really, but it's also... it's -- stop. Are you really thinking about the color of flowers? This is not freshman English, silly girl. 초점을 맞 춥니 다.)
Esther scowled, pinching a thumb and index finger around one of the numerous petals.
"Penn Station, New York," she muttered. It came out a bit crabbier than she'd intended, but the flowers never seemed to discriminate in regards to tone. A fact that Esther was eternally thankful for.
If Esther'd had time, she might have pondered about the swiftness of travel. How one small chrysanthemum (a magical chrysanthemum, but still) could take people so quickly between places that seemed so far away from each other. But she didn't have time. In fact --
"We have twenty-seven minutes," said Citlal, and Esther's heart almost skipped a beat. She remembered in that exact skipped beat why she didn't care for reap orders with tall numbers. The hassle of finding those that were scheduled for death amidst everything was a foreboding challenge. Experience and determination or not.
Citlal kept speaking, voice calmer than it had been in the field. Only the tremble in her hands really gave anything away, and Esther might have looked over that fact if she hadn't been keeping an eye out for it. Citlal was attempting to organize them. Was it a coping method? A valiant effort, and Esther could respect it (even if she couldn't understand it -- it was beyond her why anyone would find any comfort in merely talking).
As the PSA dwindled to its end, Esther slunk off quietly, phone in hand, swiping at the lock screen -- much to her discouragement, she fumbled the password on the her first try. She swore (hopefully in Korean, and hopefully no one had heard her; despite how little mind humans seemed to pay apprentices, she didn't like the disdainful looks the occasional one gave her -- it had been something that had put an end to her silently glowering about for her reap target. More subtlety had been registered from then on).
Her second try was successful, but worry bubbled within her, much to her eternal displeasure -- trying in vain to squash it over and over again was becoming an unwanted chore. (You are not always this clumsy, Soon ja. Be methodical, be practical -- take your time so as not to make careless mistakes.)
She pressed her thumb against the inbox icon and was once again greeted by the list. Eight names bolded black, as followed:
L. Smith, 2:50
R. Smith, 2:50
H. San Martin, 2:50
K. Claffey, 2:50
C. O'Brien, 2:50
A. Brown, 2:51
M. Hernandez, 2:51
T. Kim, 2:53
There wasn't much time to find them, now. Citlal's exclamation/estimation of twenty-seven minutes (twenty-six, now) left each person with only a little over three minutes to be located. Esther could only hope for so many things. (That the Smiths are in a pair. That the others are spotted easily. Oh, damn this station for being so large. Why didn't we sprint to the field? Why didn't we get this assignment further in advance? What if one of the people on this list dies of a heart attack at the entrance -- how are we supposed to know to find them?? --)
Esther began to look in earnest, but this action was stymied by difficulty. The bustle and chattering white noise of the station was enough to make her skin itch -- out of annoyance? Out of disbelief? Disdain, perhaps? It was fair to think it might have been both.The world arrogantly went on as though nothing was about to happen. Did these eight people even have the faintest inkling that they were to die? Maybe they had given it a passing thought, or the occasional paranoid one, but certainly they hadn't thought deeply about it today. How many more would be injured? How many would mourn them? But none of it mattered too much, in the end, because the world would continue to go on in the manner it always did. Humans died every day, and yet in the grand scheme of things, little to nothing halted for many of them.
Her scissors were still held firmly in her grip -- perhaps a bit less firmly than they had been earlier, but still firm all the same. With a phone in hand and her work scissors in her grasp (as uncomfortable as they were; she kept promising herself she'd find a comfortable grip for them), waiting for a train to arrive in a station, she could pretend that she was a teenager again. All the way across the country, still settled within Los Angeles. She felt --
She felt....
(Wait for the metro, grab your things. Go to school, feel accomplishment -- your English gets better day by day; soon you will be able to say sentences without the fear and needless shame you feel now. With confidence. The soles of your shoes clomp against the pavement; you walk back to transportation a carefree and burdened young lady. The sun sinks down further in the sky, casting a glow of warm red across everything in sight and an eye-watering glare over windows and glass. It is nearing the end of the seventies and you have your whole life ahead of you, and in that one moment you feel that the world can be horrible, but it can be beautiful as well --)
(It is 2015. The heels of your shoes click against the hard floor of an unfamiliar train station. The sunlight above does not shine into the underground -- artificial light takes its place, a bright, eye-searing white in some places, dull and yellowed in others. There is a cell phone in your left hand; cold, unyielding metal in your right. There's a chill that's settled over your skin, but it might just be your imagination. Your life has ended, but it hasn't, either -- and now you're here to snip the threads of those fated to meet their own ends.
Life was beautiful while it lasted, but it didn't last. What lay after it sometimes feels like a nightmare on loop. And when that train arrives, said nightmare will begin to eat at you once again.)
|
|
"Truly the bright days shone for you..."
Group
Member
Posts
18
Application
Status
Offline
|
Post by ChurroChariots on May 8, 2015 16:31:56 GMT -8
A younger apprentice had joined them in the field soon after Alcaeus had arrived. A pale and quiet boy with hollow, blue eyes. The boy was even shorter than him, dressed in a vest and slacks. He’d seen him around sometimes before, but he couldn’t recall ever talking to him. The only thing Alcaeus could be glad for was the fact that he didn’t seem shaken up in the least; though he knew some people were good at putting on facades.
Arielle had followed in after, and he’d given her a smile in response to her calling out to him. The motion didn’t quite reach his eyes, but he’d glanced away before she could notice, hopefully. Glad as he was for familiar faces, he wasn’t sure how he felt about accompanying them on a reaping order. Especially not one of this scale.
In most cases, reap orders never bothered him too much. Every death was worth mourning, but there was a saying from a Roman rhetorician who’d lived a short time after he died—deficit omne quod nascitur. Everything that is born dies. He couldn’t afford to get too upset over things like this when death happened every day. But, accidental deaths were a different beast entirely. Accidents caused a sea of memories to swell up like the tide at noon, pressing against the edges of his mind. Large accidents were even worse, the sick feeling that settled in his stomach being prolonged until each and every red thread was cut.
The first large reaping order he’d had to participate in had been not long after he died, though it seemed like it was an eternity ago during present day. 79 AD, Mount Vesuvius, Pompeii. The volcanic ash had descended upon the city like solid fog, engulfing everything. The ash, rocks, and lava had made it hard to see or breathe and, for once, he’d been grateful he was dead. Destroyed buildings, yelling, people trying to stay alive even though it seemed more futile as the minutes passed. Even if it wasn’t an accident, it was the first event to cross his mind whenever he’d been assigned to a large-scale order.
The thunk of something hitting his back snapped him back to the present, causing him to glance behind him and see a head of brown and mint hair. Noelle. He felt his chest constrict the tiniest bit, thinking about the irony in her having to be here. This wasn’t going to be hard on just him, and that fact caused the ill-feeling to spread. “Hey,” he breathed, slowly, trying to put the thought out of his mind.
When Clara had arrived, signaled by the small thud of her resting her head against Noelle’s back, as well as her comment, he’d held in a sigh. It was entirely too true. He’d felt a tinge of comfort in them being there, even if the situation was dismal and he’d rather they didn’t have to deal with it. Almost all of his team was here, but he was glad that Linus didn’t have to be there as well. The boy was newly dead; he didn’t need to be assigned to such a tall order so soon. He’d hoped it was a while—a long while—until he had to be presented with that.
His eyes flitted over to Citlal when she’d spoken. A frown tugged at his lips, his eyebrows furrowing. Whatever was going on with her, she wasn’t feeling well, and the fact that she had to go snip threads in this state wasn’t going to do her any good. But it didn’t matter, did it? Death required this of them, and if she couldn’t do it, someone else would step in and do it for her. Whatever happened, the last thing he wanted was for her to break due to the reaping adding onto her internal turmoil.
He sighed, kneeling down to pick up one of the chrysanthemums. He gave one last look to his teammates. “We’ll get through this.” He briefly reached out, tapping both of their shoulders with his hand, one at a time. Then, he plucked a petal from the flower and breathed the words of the station into the air.
The field was replaced by a sleek, crowded station; the green and white colors of grass and flowers turned to the muddled, dreary hues of a confined building. The feeling of confinement was amplified by the humans—utterly unaware, utterly absorbed in their own lives, like he’d been when he was alive—milling around like ants around an ant hill. He looked around, seeing but not. The identification of victims was the part he hated most about these things. In isolated cases it was a lot easier to figure out how to get to the dying, but in a crowded, breathing station that held too many people, identifying or knowing how to get to the victim in time was a hassle. It was a nightmare. You never wanted to leave the person in agony for long, but if you didn’t know where to look, you’d be lucky to even find them a minute before their cause of death caught up with them.
Twenty-seven minutes. Twenty-seven minutes to ID and follow at least one victim, and if it was an accident, where one victim went others were bound to be. His fingers curled around the handle of his weapon. He wanted this to be over already, because the chaos of having to find nine people in twenty seven minutes—if they could even be found before the accident actually occurred—was causing his stomach to churn and flip. Whoever gave death the bright idea of sending dead humans off to play guessing games at finding people on top of having to kill them needed to be hit upside the head.
He wanted to go search with his team—hopefully their targets would be in the same area—but before that he needed to actually look at the names he’d been assigned more carefully. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, tapping it open again before going into the message center. The text of the nine names stood out against the screen, mere letters put together that needed to be placed to living faces, faces that wouldn’t have a sign of life left in them in...twenty-seven (twenty-six?) minutes.
M. Cleveland – 2:50
D. Esser – 2:50
L. Scutese – 2:51
J. Hendrix – 2:51
L. Santoro – 2:52
C. Basile – 2:52
N. Allen – 2:53
B. Allen – 2:53
E. Yu – 2:54
His tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth. Aside from the Allens, no one else in this list seemed to have an immediate relationship to another. Two people within the same minute meant they had to be near each other, didn’t it? It wouldn’t make sense to assign him two people on opposite sides of the train that were scheduled to die at the same time. The names Santoro and Basile at least, gave Alcaeus some hint of what to look for. The names were obviously Italian, and hopefully that meant they shared the common traits one could expect from that. Dark hair—though that wasn’t helpful if either names belonged to a woman who dyed her hair—and tan skin, which also wasn’t helpful when it was almost summertime and the people of this century seemed to love tanning in the sun.
Why did reap orders have to be such a challenge?
He looked around the station, trying to study the faces that moved by in singles, pairs, triples--some dragging luggage with them, some with dark, bland briefcases and rolled up newspapers tucked under their arms. Some chattered away on their phones, others staring at the screens that held the station and destination of each and every train that was scheduled to go in and out of Penn Station.
One of those trains was the cause of death for all of the names on the apprentices’ lists, and he had such little time to figure out which.
((IMPORTANT OOC FROM A NEW YORKER: Penn Station has 21 platforms inside the station; Numbers 21-13 are the Long Island Rail Road platforms, 16-1 aren't very important because they're amtrack platforms(though, obviously since 16-13 overlap, those numbers sometimes AREN'T amtracks). The train that will cause the accident is likely one of the LIRR platforms. The train's PLATFORM NUMBER is not actually updated on the screens until about 5 minutes before the train is supposed to arrive and then depart. The actual platforms are located under a set of double doors that hold the platform name and a screen that displays the train scheduled to park there. Those doors lead to a two-flight staircase that open up to the platform.))
((OOC PART FOR RP: Even though the characters won't know the platform number until five minutes before the accident, they would know what type of train it is that's coming in--especially since Owen has brought attention to it. Due to this, I thought it'd be easier for me to just...come up with the line so that it's not just referred to as 'the platform.' The train will be on PLATFORM 19, and is a Far Rockaway train. It'll likely crash into a Long Beach train stationed to leave, which means the doors of the train that's crashed into will be open. The Far Rockaway train's doors won't be, so your character will have to bust them open somehow if their victims are in there.))
|
|
remember me as i was.
Group
Senior Member
Posts
447
Application
Status
Offline
|
Post by quinnquinn on May 8, 2015 22:46:44 GMT -8
More apprentices arrived after him, though the birds seemed to be more alert and observant about them than he was. They gave the occasional caw in their direction, though as long as they weren’t going anywhere, Owen was fine with that. Seeing solemn faces all around, the boy realised he might be the only one who was fine. It was odd considering he was usually the one who was having trouble with the situation, but not so odd since this scenario kept coming up. Whenever there was the odd reap order, he was the only one standing tall and confident.
He was detached in life, and was still detached in death. Death was normal, Death was forgiving, Death was kind. But perhaps only to him. Everyone else seemed to have something Death took away from them. For Owen, Death gave him everything.
”How odd for a boy who is so awfully mad, isn’t it, Owen…” she would say.
But she wasn’t around to tell him that. All he had were the murmurs of a mildly riled up group of deceased, two crows and several sets of eyes on him. He could feel the tension in the air. No one wanted to be here. Though perhaps, himself a little less than the others. There were definitely some he would keep an eye on - Citlal, most notably - that he would gladly step in for if they weren’t brave enough to go on. Only if it truly got desperate. They had to do the work themselves one day, for if he kept doing it, would they ever learn? Owen looked around to meet the gazes of those observing him, before leaning down to pluck a flower.
He held its petals up to the crow on his arm, who promptly tore parts of it off and spat it on the ground. Owen whispered the name of the station quietly to himself, giving the helper crow a little pat on the head before he stepped out into reality—
—into the concourse. He shielded his eyes from the bright lights, till his eyes got used to them. Bright and beautiful. He remembered how flashy New York tended to be, and a train station was no different. Lit up adverts on the walls, the bustle and echo of the buildings, the busker down the side and oh, the next musical down on Broadway was going to be—
The crows squawked for him not to waste any time. 27 minutes - wait, make that 26 minutes now - certainly wasn’t long, especially when he had a full list of ten. The boy fetched the phone from his pocket and scrolled down to the relevant text:
S. Goodman, 2:50
L. Baker, 2:50
M. Price, 2:50
P. Price, 2:50
C. Hartman-Leigh, 2:51
B. Ashford, 2:51
I. Ashford, 2:51
Z. Huang, 2:52
N. Louis, 2:53
E. Turner, 2:53
Judging from the amount of apprentices dispatched (assuming they all received a similar number of names) there would be at least 60 or so deaths. But how, and why? He felt it was far too many in such a short span for a shooting, so the most logical other conclusion was an accident. Of what kind, was the next question.
He walked over to the arrivals board to check what trains would be passing through at around 2:50. There was a 2:48, so that was probably the one at the root of the chaos later. Whether it would be inside the station or outside in the rail yard, who knew. It was during times like this that he eagerly wished Death could give more details about such incidents. They had time to work it out. He was standing there for a little while longer than he’d meant to staring at white threads going by, and wasting another minute caused the crow on his shoulder to peck his ear.
25 minutes.
He called out to apprentices still around the place, urging them to check the train line he’d identified. Some of them looked so lost, it felt so wrong to keep such revelations to himself. Would he have to hold everyone down, again?
|
|
