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Thompson waited until morning to make his next move. Even though the sky was covered in clouds that almost made him nauseous, so heavy they were, he knew what little light that filtered through it was enough to drive some of the weaker undeads to the undergrounds.

"I guess I should seek out that cult thing first ..." He held back a yawn as he made his way through the ruined streets, sighing. "Dead cities are so boring. Where to look?"

"So you can talk after all." Sighed Mark. "Would you be nice enough to tell me where I could find the order of the black moon? I've been searching for a few hours, and have no idea where to go to."

Although his tone was amused, Thompson wasn't. He had been hoping to avoid an encounter so early, but in a sense, this could work at his advantage. He awaited, for the answer from a wheeler, steady, tightening his white leather glove around his fists.

"What a nuisance."

Thompson spun around himself as the wheeler lunged. For a second, bright light emanated from his gloved fist, growing stronger, blinding, until the man kneeled to punch the ground below him with all his strenght, sending the light under the surface.

Burst crack

It was as if lightning had just struck the area. The street shattered and flew in the air, taking with it the wheelers closest to Thompson. The man would lose no time in contemplating the damages, though. Immediately, he stepped onto the closest monster and pushed himself on, running down the street.

What a pain in the a**. After having turned a sharp corner in another street, then straight into an another alley, Thompson had pressed his back and waited, listening to a pursuit. Upon realizing that they had left him alone, the man let out a relieved sigh, followed by a grimace of pain. His pristine white glove was now smeared with dust, dirt and blood. Without proper defensive equipment, using arts as destructive as burst crack was dangerous for the user. Being of diplomatic nature though, Voices don't carry weapons on missions. All in all, it came down to Thompson's knuckles being quite a mess.

After all, he did just destroy concrete with his bare hands.

"Well I guess that with all that ruckus, the people I'm looking for will end up taking interest in me ..."

He could always hope.

The Voice muffled a curse and quickly brought his arms over his chest, forming a cross with them, before calling forth his thinning magical resources.

Prevention

Thompson's soul was out of the wraith's reach. Instead, the shadow would find itself sucking onto a wall of protective, purifying energy. Prevention was normally used, as it's name implied, as an extra precaution before jumping into the battlefield, but it could also be cast as a last-moment defense.

Again, Thompson was left with little options. In such a close, dark space, the wraith had the advantage over him. Quickly, the man spun onto his heels and jumped back out of the alley and resumed running down the streets.

"This ... isn't good ... I need to contact lady Rachaelle immediately."

It was pretty clear by now that humans weren't welcome nor safe in this city, and that the undeads weren't of the peaceful kind. Although he wished he had done more exploring and recon to make an approximate of the necropolis' population, Thompson decided it was better for him not to stay much longer in this damned place.

Finally, the man stopped running. He was back in front of the clock tower, in that empty space where he had met that lich. A faint breeze was flowing down south, just what he needed.

"Lady Rachaelle." He whispered, standing still, eyes closed. "May the Voice of the Holy Purge get to you over the distance."

"The undeads here are strong, numerous, and clearly not pacifists. I will need a team as soon as possible to investigate further, it is too dangerous alo---AGH!"

And he fell. Damn, that had been the worse day of his life.

By now, Thompson had a headache. The tapping wasn't doing anything to help either. The man spent a moment wondering why the ground suddenly went bye bye under him, or why he hadn't gone splat upon landing. The memory was somewhat hazy, but he could tell it had been a long fall.

Thompson painfully got to his feet. His uniform was now covered in that sticky substance. The cleaning fees would be taken off his paycheck, if he did find a way out of there.

What now?