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Shelley had to know what that golden orb was. He paid no attention to the other two cult members as they went along their way, save to be sure they didn't see him in his spot between two rotten old buildings. His sole concern was how to scale the walls of the mansion. Knowing time was of the essence- his favorite phrase in the last spy novel he'd read- he hurried through the nearby streets searching for something to help him climb.

A few blocks away he found a park bench light enough to carry and as silently as he could manage, carried it to the high, white walls.

Convincing himself he'd only get one chance to do this right, he placed the bench a few feet from the wall, and backed down an alley-way for extra momentum.

"Shelley, you goddamn idiot." He whispered. Not much of a war-cry, but it would have to do. Then he ran, as fast as his legs would take him, straight at the bench, jumping off of the back rest and praying as he reached for the top of the wall.

He almost made it. He felt his fingertips glance off of the top of the wall as his face smacked loudly against the wall, followed by the rest of him, before landing in a heap at the bottom.

He laid there in silence for a minute, waiting for the charging guards and flashing knives. When none came, he decided to go for another try, this time scooting the bench a bit closer.

This time he made it, and despite hitting the wall with another loud smack, he held to the lip of the wall and, feet scrambling against the plain side, somehow managed to pull himself up.

Shelley dropped into the garden before considering the wisdom of it, and using the shrubs for cover, advanced on the procession. Considering his need for additional camouflage, he quietly broke off a fairly sizeable branch, and using it as a disguise, he snuck further in.

*Option 2A*

Response: 2C

Trying to keep the swishing of her clothing as quiet as possible (and also avoiding stepping on any hems, Ying followed the group upwards. Fortunately, it was difficult to lose track of the moving light, even as the upper levels gave way to more street lamps. Ying half-wondered how many times this bunch had done this before, and if it was always this empty when they did.

The Book Child was hardly out of shape, but with stealth to take into consideration, and the lengthy path the string of white-garbed Folk took, she was nearly out of breath when they finally stopped before the mansion. Her gaze was momentarily torn between scrutinizing the architecture of the building and keeping an eye on the apparent cultists. But then they started speaking, the scrawl of words in the air drawing her attention back to them, and Ying crept a bit closer to read what they said to each other.

And a curious exchange it was. Ying was not sure she had heard about any Golden One, and the title of Godsvoice certainly seemed deeply important. She was half of a mind to follow that fellow when the conversation turned to the mention of an enemy among the white-cloaked ranks. Whatever device the two leaders argued over did not much interest the Child - City Folk built all manner of devices - but the tension in the hands of one of the cultists did not escape her notice.

A thrill of real excitement rose in her chest as the group took off again, and the fellow from before broke off from the main group down a side street. Cults, with rebels within them? Fascinating! Ying's choice was easy. She pursued the apparent dissenter, having to remind herself to continue to keep her footfalls as quiet as possible. The cage and the light within it was undoubtedly important, but she could come back to this location in the future. If nothing else, it seemed prudent to better ascertain exactly what the objects were, and if they would be safe to touch and so forth, first. She would gather information first, and this little rebel, Ying suspected, would be the easiest one to get it from.

Aah, how best to lie to him to find out all that was important that he knew?

Response from Nios & Tiberius
Path: 2A

Nios could feel his legs cramping as he huddled behind the shrubbery with Tiberius, who crouched behind him.
“Ti-”
Tiberius pressed the palm of his hand against his mouth again. “Shh. I’m trying to hear what they’re saying.”
The older book child directed his attention towards the gathering of robed figures. Nios fidgeted and stared at Tiberius’s fingernails, which were, conveniently, pressed right below his eyes. They were so clean. But they needed a trim.

“You said we were going to eat cake.”
“We will.”
“I need to pee.”

As Nios scrunched his face against the hand still gripping his jaw, Tiberius stood with a jolt, pulling Nios-- or rather, his head-- up along with him.

“They’re leaving, let’s follow them.”
“But the strawberry ca-”
Tiberius finally let go of his face, but now he was heading towards the ornate gate of the manse in front of them.

“I think one of them is called the Godsvoice, and he was ordering the other man to do something. There’s something mysterious going on. Don’t you want to find out what it is?”
“N-not really.” But as Nios replied, he was already following Tiberius towards the high white walls surrounding the mansion. To be honest, he was curious about the group that had stood here moments ago-- Who was the man holding the orb? Why did one of them not leave with the rest of the group? But on top of all that, they looked like shady characters, and Nios didn’t quite feel up to whatever trouble was going to come out of this adventure. He should’ve been in bed by now. His legs felt like they were going to collapse beneath him, and his eyes were finding it harder and harder to open with each blink. Though Tiberius was still peering thoughtfully at the wall, and at Nios with an expression that the younger book child was not sure he liked.

“I think if you get on my shoulders, you can probably scale this wall.”
“I really need to pee.” Nios put on the most serious face he could muster. Yet something told him that Tiberius wouldn’t be put off so easily.

“Just hold it a little longer. You promised!” The man began to bend down, hoisting Nios by the ankles, and Nios had no choice but to step onto his shoulders.
“That strawberry cake better be worth it,” he whispered, as he dug his fingers into a crevice in the wall and began to climb. Luckily by now the procession had moved on into the garden, where rustling trees and topiaries concealed the sound of his feet scraping against the marble.

“Do you see anything?”
“They’re moving through the garden...”

“Okay, jump down and try to open the gate.”
The iron hinges made a loud creak as the doors opened, but as Nios glanced quickly behind him, it didn’t seem like the robed figures had noticed. They were much farther ahead by now, and he could barely see the outline of their white robes amongst the shrubberies of the garden.

2C

Oh, this seemed so mysterious! It was so like one of her novels that for a moment Chroma let herself believe she was a spy, or a hero saving the world. Until her pulse made that impossible – she never felt this fear when reading. And though she wasn’t nearly as careful as one should have been in this situation – not always sticking to the shadows or staying far enough away from the group – she miraculously made it to the mansion. This was a more familiar part of town, though she couldn’t say she had ever really looked around this place.

It was the script that made it more real for Chroma, more real than her pulse or her breathing or her fear. It was the script, unstable and weak and not at all the kind that the girl enjoyed watching that really struck it home – this was real. Hidden behind a set of stairs leading up to a house, she held her hands in front of her mouth, eyes sightlessly watching the rest of the conversation. Her mind recorded little things – the strength of the leader’s font, mostly, and how it was one she could watch and imagine a story around, where he would be a great general, tough but fair, crusading against tyranny. She calmed down as she spun her story, adding bits and pieces and a dash of romance. The quiet swing of the gate jolted her out of this story and its dichotomy with her actual situation was not lost on the Child.

The older man broke off and so did one of the group, both going different directions. Chroma had a brief moment where she wondered whether it would be better to just turn around now, wander through Eyncastor until she found some place more familiar and go home. Yet, this was so fantastical, so odd that she was hooked, her curiosity dragging her along. But not even her curiosity would get her into the mansion with its high walls and the thought of following the Person with his weak font that struck a fear within her. So it was the breakaway Person she would follow, the one who didn’t fill her with wariness more than the entire scene evoked. She hadn’t seen him speak yet, and the thought of his words entertained her as she trotted after the man. What she would do if he caught her or she caught up to him – well, that wasn’t what she wanted to think about.
Perhaps he’d have a curly-cued font, or a bold one?

2A

The mansion's garden was a lovely affair, illuminated by flickering lamps that sat on the ground. The tall walls did a very good job of muffling whatever noise might be made outside them, but with the silence in the garden it really was a wonder that none of the group heard the many intruders sneaking about in the bushes. It was clearly a garden that had been growing for quite some time, thick and well-tended, with a purposefully overgrown look in some places that made it easy to hide in. The Godsvoice led his group to a little round pool in the center of it, in which the small moon shimmered and danced playfully.

"Long ago," he began, once all of the followers had settled around him, "the First Child came to us and died for us. His work birthed the Golden One, the thing whose magic sustains us. All of us are filled with the magic of that golden tree, born out of the pages of that sacred book which lies at the heart of our world. A piece of that being remains in us all, it is the reason we can perform such strange little miracles in our daily lives, small as they are, without care or thought."

Here he paused to take from his robes a little shining medallion and he bent forward to place it, carefully, in the shallow water before him. A strange sound started up from within the pond, a distinct gurgling. Bubbles began to break on the surface and it soon became apparent that the pond was draining. The cultists all ignored it.

"But some do not deserve such gifts," said the Godsvoice, returning to his story. "They forget the story and the sacrifice that was made for us, slander our friends, the children of ink, and for such ignorance they and those around them suffer. The coming of so many Book Children foretells a tragedy unlike any we've faced before. Must we rely on them again? Must we allow them to be sacrificed for us to be saved? Or can we change our role in this story as bystanders and victims, make our own sacrifices, transcend what we are... and become better?"

He was met by a fluttering of small type, little murmured streams of words. Agreement, excitement. Preaching to the choir, truly, but the air seemed to crackle now with a religious fervor. He stilled all with a single raised hand.

"There may be doubts in your heart yet. Are we, such a small group, to decide who to sacrifice? Do we have the right to do as we do? But our inaction also brings death. It in itself is a choice - a denial of our responsibilities, a refusal to take control of our lives. We cannot rely on our friends to also be our saviors. Not all can be saved, and not all are worthy of saving." He lifted the golden cage, saying, "this is what we shall use to change all of that. Those who were unworthy shall be made honored martyrs by becoming the means we use to better ourselves. They will help us save the innocent and defend ourselves and our friends. So that we can become more than what was written for us."

The Godsvoice stepped down into the pool. Aside from having drained fully it was now apparent that the bottom had opened up as well and what had once been merely a shallow circle in the grass was now a gaping pit of black. The dim light of the moon and the lanterns scattered about revealed the faintest outline of a staircase, which the Godsvoice began to descend, the others needing no prompting to follow. No sooner had the last one vanished into the darkness did the flat bottom begin to slide back into place and fill again with water.

You've reached an end. Did you just witness the secret meetings of a silly doomsday cult or the beginnings of a dark conspiracy? It sure has left you a lot to puzzle over. Whatever the meaning of this, you've gained knowledge of the location of at least one of the cult's hideouts and how to get in, which could prove very useful in the future.

What are your character's thoughts on all this? You have until 11:59PM PST on August 20th to write a closing response.







"I sent them to do what was right," said the man in the bloody cloak, uncertainly. "Didn't I? They will be safe from that man's ambitions but dead all the same. One step forward, and yet two steps backward."

"We're going forward," said a voice, a thin ribbon of dainty cursive issuing forth from the shadows. Another cultist, cloaked in the plain garb of a follower... and a little out of breath from the long journey to get here. Following the breakaway had meant the City Person's sneaky tag-alongs were made to endure a number of trials. The cloaked cultist had gone fast and gone recklessly in order to catch up - jumping over ledges, running through this alleyway and that. It certainly hadn't been an easy route to follow. Now one gloved hand reached up and removed the pale mask, drawing it away to reveal a woman's face. She let out a sigh and wiped her brow.

"You went a long way down, I had to run halfway here to catch up. Makes bad news hard to deliver," she remarked with a wry smile, though it was tempered by the seriousness of the matter. Quickly she turned her head, scanning the shadows around them. It seemed almost for a moment that her eyes fell upon you and fixed there, but then she turned away again to look at the man. "He knows you're the saboteur, or he will when he sees you next. He wants to call you out at the next gathering."

"Wants to, but I'll be long gone by then, won't I?" Said the man in the bloody cloak a little sadly. The woman's smile dropped immediately. "Yes," she whispered. He offered her the knife.

But she wouldn't take it, hands pressed into tight fists at her sides. "The- Godsvoice insisted any traitor must have a trial," she muttered, quickly. "Maybe this is not-"

"We must," he said, his tone insistent but gentle. "The Godsvoice is a good man, a fair man. But he is manipulated easily, especially by that serpent's tongue. Even a trial would bring trouble in and of itself. Were I to accidentally reveal too much, or if someone is brought to testify... no, this must be done," he said with finality, and as he did he took one of her hands in his and pressed the blade into her other. "Stay true, stay hidden. Find out what that man wants, and at the earliest opportunity you must destroy that device. Killing me will bring you legitimacy once it's revealed that I ordered these latest deaths and deprived the cult of its fodder. Use it well."

She closed her fingers around the blade, unable to do so much as nod in agreement. Still, an understanding passed between them. Finally, licking her lips anxiously, she asked, "don't you want to take off your mask?"

"No," he said. "I am to die for this. I will go to the Golden One wearing it. Now, make an end of it."

She did so as quick and bloodless as she could manage, given she had only a knife to work with. In one swift motion she rammed the blade deep into his body through the already-bloody cloak, then again and again. The man half-cried out, perhaps more from surprise than pain, and steadied himself with a hand on her shoulder as she held the thick fabric against him, a barrier against the potent, staining blood. It took another minute or two for the life to fully drain out of him.

They stood together, intertwined as if in a lover's embrace, until his pale glowing features dimmed with death. Then she shoved him backwards, the movement itself no doubt enough to make a splintering network of cracks appear on his body under his garments. When it hit the ground he broke silently and she, with shaking hands still clutching his cloak, waved the white fabric to scatter the ashy substance he had become. A chill wind came whispering through the twisting streets of the City, gathering his dust and carrying it away toward the forest. Only his clothes and mask remained, a disorganized pile that betrayed nothing of the living person who had worn them not a moment before.

"What an audience I have," she said loudly as she tossed the cloak aside, not bothering to actually confront any of the onlookers. "What does it matter? Since you so enjoyed the killing show, I'll give you a hint for the next one." The Godsvoice's and the advisor's plans be damned. All this inner-cult intrigue, culminating in the death of her friend, had made her wonder if a little mayhem from outside wouldn't beneficial. Slowly, forcing herself to stand up straight in spite of a sudden onslaught of weariness, she began to walk down one of the bridge streets that would take her home, glancing over its edge at the roofs below it. "When the moon is next half-waned there'll be more dark work to be done. If you like that sort of thing. But if you're smart you'll stay home."

She paused a moment to calculate whether she could make the jump, whether the roof would hold and a number of other such mundane issues before she lept. There was a loud crash but the sound of her voice warning, "and no more following!" (as if anyone would jump off a bridge for this nonsense) made it clear she was unharmed. Another jump and she was gone.

You've reached an end! A set of bloody robes and a mask have been left behind, as well as a ceremonial knife, also stained with City Person blood. Will any of the characters decide these things are worth keeping, or are they simply incriminating?

What are your character's thoughts on all this? You have until 11:59PM PST on August 20th to write a closing response.





Panic. Just blind, thrashing panic. It was the only way the City Person was able to respond at first when Faris' caught him. Losing the knife was bad enough, but now a Book Child- no, two Book Children... this was the worst possible scenario. Even if he could fight them there would be no way to kill them. They could bring him in to the City Watch and with his knife and their testimony they were certain to be believed. Sure, the the cult had bribed many officials in various stations of the government, but he didn't trust there would be enough funds to make an incident like this fall off record. No, he wouldn't bring that dishonor on them. There was really only one course of action, now that his mission was so compromised.

He was lucky he even still had this... the Godsvoice has disapproved immensely of the poison caps when his advisor had introduced them, calling for them turned in immediately. But this City Person thought it was a rather practical measure, essential for situations exactly like this one, and had claimed his lost only to install it later. Hmmph, showed what the Godsvoice knew. Would he gladly redistribute them if he were witness to this blunder? Surely he would realize their use the way the advisor had. Would the cult be closer to their goals now if the advisor were Godsvoice instead? It was useless to wonder. I am a martyr for our cause, he thought, steadying and strengthening his will as his thrashing stopped, becoming limp and complacent in Faris' arm lock. Then he bit down very hard on a certain tooth, and in a moment turned to dust in the Book Child's arms.

How morbid! You have reached an ending~ The cultist was stopped from completing his task and Talulah has received a ceremonial knife. Faris has received a set of robes and a mask! They might be useful in the future!

What are your character's thoughts on all this? You have until 11:59PM PST on August 20th to write a closing response.

Dorian wondered how the hell the woman knew she was being watched and why she'd just murdered a man in front of her "audience." The whole business was strange and sickening, leaving Dorian with no more urges to follow. He wondered what in the world this all meant. Would there be more killing to come? He was unsure and so, stayed rooted to his hiding spot for long moment, feeling the first tickling of fear in his chest.

Not knowing if there really WAS anyone else hiding or he was well and truly alone, Dorian decided to risk it and ventured out into the open street. His movements were slow and constant while he continually kept a sharp eye for any more of those masked fiends. When none jumped out, he trotted the rest of the way to the pile of robes. He kicked it and nearly died of a heart attack when the knife clattered loudly to the cobblestone.

Gulping, Dorian gathered up the robe and the mask. These he could bring to the authorities or at the very least show them to Garrett. The man might know something of what specific cultists wore them. He left the knife though. While the robes could be washed and seem like any other, normal piece of clothing, the knife was too flashy to really get away with. Breathing a bit heavily, he disappeared down a narrow street, feeling vaguely like a criminal.

She as not fit for this, this was not what Chroma liked to do! By the time she reached her destination, she was limping, bone-tired and gasping for breath in a manner closer to hyperventilating than natural breathing. No amount of comparisons to intense training sessions in her favorite novels or scenes of moonlit strolls flitting through her imagination could take Chroma’s mind off of the stitch in her side. Her eyes rested on the meeting as she collapsed in a shadowy corner, and even as tired as she was she let out a little whine at the sight of the bloodied robes – she had gone the other way to avoid the man with the knife!

The rest of the scene was drama-filled, and very like the books she only read once in a while, so bittersweet and beautiful it made her tear up. Her shock ingrained the words on her brain, and later she would be even more surprised to find she couldn’t remember the font in which they were spoken. A silvery tear slipped down Chroma’s face when the dust blew away, with the numb disbelief of actually witnessing a death chilling her to the bone - it was so permanent, so much more real. As the woman jumped away, Chroma wasn’t certain what would happen at the half-moon, if she would be brave enough to do this again, or 'smart' as the woman had stated, staying at home. For the first time she felt younger than she looked.

Wobbly legs raised the Child up, and Chroma shuffled over to the pile and dropped herself unceremoniously to her knees next to it. A few more tears slipped down her face as she fingered the fabric, running it through her fingers. These things really shouldn’t be left here, out in the open – it seemed so disrespectful to the Person. Yet she wasn’t so certain she would be able to lift these things which seemed so heavy.