Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s 2:45 in the morning, and John Egbert is standing in Rose Lalonde’s kitchen. 

The shades are drawn, slender lines of cold light against the linoleum, and the gentle breeze of air conditioning carrying the scent of lavender around the room. Rose’s slender form is outlined in the faint warm light of the hall. John shifts uncomfortably, feeling he’s too boyish and bright for his surroundings.

It’s been a long time since they talked. In person at least. John fidgets, one shoe pushing a speck of lint across the floor, as Rose prepares the tea she’d offered. He feels at once barely present and hopelessly intrusive, his eyes resting uncomfortably on every surface visible. The curiously crowded front of the fridge, the overflowing cabinet of mugs, spilled over onto the counter, the clean white emptiness of the ceiling. Rose’s tired violet eyes, heavy bags making the late hour all the more unnecessary. Her jaw is drawn tight, worry betrayed in her rigid shoulders.

“Do you remember the issue I told you about a few weeks ago?” Rose asks, her voice heavy and deep with portence. John blinks, thinking back to the one-sided conversation they’d had, seemingly just a few days ago, the last time he’d been out.

She takes his pause as an answer.

“The reality of this universe isn’t as stable as it should be. If you recall, I had initially been concerned about the rate of decay, or lack thereof, that I’d noticed around us,” She gestures to what seems to be a perfectly normal bowl of fruit sitting on the counter beside them, and John suddenly recalls that she’d said something similar when he’d last been here, apparently with the same bowl of fruit, “and now I believe the fabric of our reality is disintegrating, without the grounding support of the canonical events we went through in the game. with, ah, without the support of canon, we’re starting to lose our sense of time; I believe our very sense of selves may come next.”

He wrinkles his nose, remembering the horrific twisted versions of all of his friends he’d seen in that egotistical snot’s ‘masterpiece’. “Yeah, that doesn’t sound good. What do, um, what can I do to fix that though?”

She frowns at that. Turns away towards the hall by a few degrees. “Not much. From what I can tell, there are only two ways forward, and-” She cuts herself off, a conflicted expression flitting across her face briefly. “Well, as of now, we really only have one option. Escape.”

When she turns back to him, John feels like he’s caught under the full weight of the pressure she’s been under for so long, for just a moment.

“Our canon, the cosmic arrangement upon which our reality lies, is failing us. Dwindling, day by day,” Rose continues, as if John hasn’t been staring at her for the past few seconds, contributing all of nothing to the conversation, “Logically, the best way forward is to replace it, to latch onto an alternate reality, one which has a more sustainable basis. preferable on a newly spawned earth, where we can slip into place without issue.”

John nods as if he understands. And he does, sort of. The urgency, the method of what she’s saying makes sense. he’s just still not clear on the actual 'how’ of the solution.

“John, there’s a complicated set of paths before us, an almost imperceptible multitude of ways this could work out. And I can't…” She frowns, moving to stir the no-longer-steaming mug of tea before her, and prompting him to sip his own too-bitter mug. “I can’t see the path to any of them, past a certain point.”

John frowns, suddenly the situation she’s describing looks all the more dire; if Rose’s powers are waning, the rest of theirs are probably not long to follow…

Rose draws his attention back to her with a faux cough, folding her hands together with a finality that feels almost picturesque.

“what I’m saying John, is that we have to become cowboys.”

"Rose, I hate this." Dave "You know that right? That I fucking hate this?"

Rose rolls her eyes, not looking up from adjusting the collar on Kanaya's outfit, "Yes, brother dear. You've been quite vocal about how much this pains you."

Dave wrinkles his nose at her tone, but doesn't complain yet again. Adjusts the angle of his hat back again, pushing its brim out of his eyeline. The cartoonish outfit Kanaya’s picked out for him is almost torture for the texas-born man, bright red waistcoat clashing with his black plaid flannel.

From across the room, Karkat groans, pulling at loose threads around a hole in his black serape with impatient claws. "I still don't understand why we have to go through with all this bullshit!" The crimson of his thick work shirt is more subdued, and matches the dark brown of his chaps nicely.

Rose sighs. Kanaya puts one hand on her shoulder, reassuring her, and then turns to address Karkat herself. "We really should wait for Terezi to arrive before we start going over it, shouldn't we?" She hums, imploring him to stop picking at her meticulously chosen outfit with a less-than-gentle expression. The dress Kanaya has picked for herself is long and elegant, a dark shade of emerald with puffy shoulders and a flared collar. The waist is highlighted by a dark red ribbon, and the tight cut of the sleeves seem to be giving her some trouble if the way she keeps adjusting them is any indication.

Rose shakes her head. Turns from the pair, righting a loose strand of hair that has peeked out from her lavender bonnet. She’s chosen a more period-accurate outfit, colors aside, with the neckline cut to show her collarbones while covering her shoulders, and simple droopy sleeves tied tight at her elbows for elegance and ease of motion; the bottom of her dress is pinned to reveal the white petticoat underneath. "Actually, she's meeting us in-universe, since that will be easiest from her position. We're going to have to pass through the medium again on our way through Paradox Space anyway, and ah..." 

She's interrupted by Roxy waltzing back out of the house, dressed in vibrant white and bubblegum pink, tassels and sequins dripping from every spare inch.

"No." Rose growls, even as Kanaya eyes the ensemble thoughtfully. "Roxy I don't think you understand what 'subtle' means."

Roxy huffs. Gives her sister-mother only the briefest of glances, turning to show Calliope the silver pattern adorned on her seams, matching the cherub’s heather gray gown, simple and ruffled, with white gloves crashing with her jade-green carapace. "Rosie I don't think you really understand what 'cowboy' means!"

Before Karkat can start into another outburst about how convoluted all of this is, John leans over and gives his take. "Pretty much we're going to piggyback off of a different Sburb session, I think. So we can get an earth that isn't haunted by Caliborn, or whatever." John’s outfit is a little simpler, a denim waistcoat paired with a long white shirt underneath, a bright blue kerchief tied at his neck for flair.

Rose sighs at that, rubbing her temple with one hand. "It's not 'piggybacking'. We're going to insert ourselves into their game as exiles, and hopefully guide them through whatever complications they'll have to deal with. This session in particular is very unstable; they have no ectobiology to speak of, so there is no scratch session to rely on." She scans across the room, not wanting to explain it a fourth time. "Furthermore, the players are much older than Skaia typically allows, so their connections to Prospit and Derse are far more tenuous. Thus, there's room for us to come in as guides, as far as I can tell."

At the mention of ectobiology, Dave gives a huff, not looking up from the track he’s making in the dirt with his foot. "What, so being being their own grandparents isn't good enough for them?" He runs one hand through the back of his hair, absently. Ignores the brush of Karkat’s tail at his side in favor of meeting Roxy’s fist bump.

Roxy chuckles, pushing back against his knuckles, but Rose doesn't give him more than a glance of acknowledgement. "They're also a very large session, with two space players instead of the standard one. With a bit of, well, guidance in the right direction..." 

"You mean manipulation," Jade grumbles at the same time Jane rolls her eyes. It’s almost strange to see the dog-woman hybrid dressed in something so elegant, her tall, curvy frame emphasized by the flair of her corseted waist, short sage train matching the burst of fabric folded at her front, contrasting the daffodil yellow color of the rest of the dress, dark furry ears flopping out from under her wide, flower-rimmed hat.

Rose gives her a look at that, but she's distracted from addressing the issue properly by Kanaya's thoughtful realization. "They could both produce viable frogs, allowing us a new universe independent of theirs, and without sacrificing anything on their part."

"Wait," Dirk looks up from fiddling with the buttons on his jacket, "How many players do they have again?" Predictably, the prince has chosen an ostentatious combination of a very dark blue pair of pants and umber tailcoat, striped white shirt and black suspenders peeking out from underneath.

Without missing a beat, Rose replies. "24." 

Then she corrects herself, "actually, 23, one of them isn't old enough to count, I believe."

Jane wrinkles her nose, "and we can look after all of those with just the ten of us? I know some are bound to be less important than others, but that’s a lot to expect from everyone." The heiress is wearing a surprisingly homely ensemble, light blue skirt hanging straight from her frame, with a simple white button-up blouse on top.

Rose’s head turns to address her, but before she can do more than open her mouth to respond, Dirk interrupts. "That's why we're heading back through paradox space. To pick up more hands for the keys."

John frowns at his wording, but doesn't argue. Adjusts the fit of his jacket, trying to get comfortable.

"So what makes this different from the bull-fuckery we did with your session?" Karkat grumbles. "Didn't Vriska get John fucking killed with her shit?"

John gives Rose a plying look at that, silently saying ' he has a point, Rose '

Rose sighs. Turns her attention back to the shorter troll. "John died because Vriska thought she could skip around an essential part of Skaia's process. We, on the other hand, are not introducing anything inorganic to Skaia's nature. The odds of anything disastrous are extremely low, as far as I can tell."

A pause at that. With a shock John remembers the other issue that had come up during their talk the other night. Decides to move a little closer to Rose so he can discreetly ask.

Unfortunately, he's not fast enough to stop Dave's impatient needling.

Namely, the knight picks up on Rose's careful wording, and doesn’t care for her implications. Gives his sister an almost acidic look. "Wait, what do you mean 'as far as you can tell'; don't you always know what’s going to happen? Like that’s your entire deal, isn’t it?"

She frowns at that. Pauses, trying to find the right way to word things; the least alarming way of putting it. "I... We may have to do without any connection to our aspects, for a short while."

The group shares a shockwave of distress at that, but she continues, without giving any chance to interrupt. "At least, once we enter the second medium, until i- we can establish a connection to the Green Sun; or whatever source of power it has.“

A pinched look at that, but before Dave can give more than a syllable of retort, their conversation is interrupted by a loud, primordial screech; instantly recognizable to both Jade and Calliope, sending a bolt of terror to their core, and ice down the spines of the others.

 No explanation is needed.

“Alright, guess we’re done bickering….” John huffs. Reaches into that deep well in his core, that sharp, secret thing that makes him feel like himself, and pushes his hand out of Earth C’s reality, and back into Canon. Reaches for Roxy’s hand, and grunts in surprise when she latches onto him instead, arms locked around his middle. The group makes a human-and-troll daisy-chain, and then John pushes off into the Void, back into the waste of Canon left from Lord English’s rampage. 

The space feels oddly cramped, ghosts and constructs pushed to the dark patches of sky between spiderweb cracks of light. Above it all hangs the spectre of culmination, the impossible cosmic weight of the Green Sun, unmistakably larger and dimmer than when last they saw it. With his attention turned elsewhere, Lord English’s presence is muted, and the Alternate Calliope calls to him from her contructed form, whispering her will in shades of pitch. 

John grits his teeth, fighting the sudden urge to go find him. Finish off this chaotic rampage, or at least aid the fight. Turns to Rose instead.

“Now what?” He grunts. Feels just a little woozy from the trip, head full of cotton, and Rose’s dry exasperation isn’t much help, shimmering chrome throwing flashes of white and red and green over her bustle sporadically.

“She should be here in a moment…” She hums. Scans the nearby area, irises growing bright with , and quickly overtaking the rest of her eyes. “There.”

She points towards a spot towards the edge of the nearby cliff face, and just as she does the troll in question comes strolling out, cane hovering an inch or so off of the ground comedically. Perhaps. It’s never really clear with her.

“What the actual fuck are you wearing??” Terezi, brash as ever, gives a squawk that makes human ears wince, when she smells the hues of their shoddy fabrics. Goes to poke at Jake, his forest green sleeve thick against her claw. “Did you run ass-first into some sort of fabric-consuming bleat-beast? That ate all of your less stupid clothes?” The page humphs in response, pulling the front of his work jacket a bit neater, straightening the bright orange tie at his neck.

Rose wrinkles her nose. Ignores Jake’s indignant protest, and goes right into the heart of her problem. “No, it’s not anything like that. We, ah, we ran into a bit of an issue involving the whole… Timeline issue.” A gestures to her frilly, if monotone outfit. “This is the compromise I foresaw as least problematic.”

The troll sniffs. “Yeah sure. That makes sense.” A nonchalant roll of her head at something behind her, and she sniffs, gesturing with the cane. “You’re gonna have to deal with these losers though.”

The cane comes to rap against cold stone, and before she can be argued with, a crowd of ghosts start filing into view behind her, a variety of heights and frames all shoved together, though all are trolls. John doesn’t recognize all of them, but the flash of what he can make out in the crowd is assuring enough that they’re familiar. “I think they’re the alpha timeline versions?? Can’t be sure though. It’s like, barely even relevant at this point.”

Rose nods, but before she can say anything, the ghost she’s been dreading meeting again most of all pipes up, pushing out from the middle of the crowd as if just now realizing what she’s being rounded up for. “How the fuck do you think this is even going to work, by the way? We’re just going to wander up to this babyass session, and get rid of the losers in it without everything going to shit again??” There’s something… off about how Vriska phrases, the question, like she’s not certain how she feels, somehow. Although, that could be the added difficulty of having to blend her half-shaved hair into the late 1800s.

A frown. Rose doesn’t speak for a moment, gathering her thoughts. Is apparently too slow for the troll, because she interrupts, throwing a hand in the air as she gestures to the gathering of trolls she’s just crawled out of. “And! What is the point of bringing all of these pathetic idiots! Are they seriously supposed to be useful in whatever dumb scheme you have planned?”

She’s cut off by the almost deafening lurch of Lord English, half a cosmos away, unleashing another roar of umbrage, pure cosmic energy and preteen rage forming a beam of destruction. Reality, crumbling around them at an almost glacier pace, seems utterly suffocating, suddenly.

Rose raises one eyebrow, ready to explain (again) if she has to.

Is, thankfully, met with  silence.

“Alright, let’s get going then.” A pregnant pause, and then first her, and then everyone else’s attention turns to John.

John who stares back, nervously, not entirely sure what he’s meant to do. “Uhh….”

“Just reach out and…” Rose sighs, one hand at her temple, as she prepares to gaze once more into the future sliding from view. “Do your bullshit thing, and get back out into the Horrorterror’s domain, but not back to Earth C. We have to go further.” She moves closer, eyes alight with both concern and fortune. “Once you get us out, I can guide you from there…”

He frowns at that. Nods, and does his best to reach in and grab ahold of the void . Has a bit harder time finding it, with all of the eyes on his broad, unsteady form.

Still, after a few seconds, and as the soft murmur of conversation that is definitely not the nosier members of their group grumbing over his inefficiency, he gets a grip on the core of his being. Slowly, unsure moreso than usual as to just what he’s meddling with, he pushes against the thick membrane of their reality. At Rose’s insistent look (perhaps imagined), he pushes harder, until the thin fabric yields against his touch.

The cold emptiness he feels outside is harrowing, goosepimples rising on his arms on instinct, and he has to fight back the instinct to pull his hand back, trembling as he stays put. Trembles at the sudden, unavoidable sensation of being Seen .

Whatever this looks like to the others, there’s no whisper of anything now, no teasing or telling him to hurry up.

Rose gestures to both Vriska and Jade, coming close and guiding them to put their hands on John’s trembling shoulders. “Okay, now we have to get everyone ready to move. John can pull us out of this reality with his malarky, all we have to do is push him somewhere other than this, or one of the one’s English has destroyed. Somewhere not centered on all this mess.”

Vriska wrinkles her nose at this, but doesn’t protest for whatever reason, and John is in no position to question it. Just holds on, trusting Rose to guide him.

“So.” He manages, turning to give her a look. “Just like before?”

She nods, amethyst lips pursed tight in concentration. Jade offers him a goofy grin as she squeezes his shoulder reassuringly. Seems to be psyching herself up, following Rose’s lead and holding it tight. Wraps up the others in a tight bubble of the surrounding plane, and then shrinking that to the size of a marble for ease.

Before he can notice anything else, the Void takes him. And the battlefield, the endless field of black wrinkled with fractures of unbearable brightness, the myriad of dreambubbles and the occasional past version of their ship spread out into the sky, skaia at the center with English and his mindless carnage just beyond, all of it vanishes, before the Breath can be sucked from his lungs. Before he can so much as flinch to prepare himself for the onslaught.

Instinct takes over, Canon flexing to his will, and in a dizzying twist, he’s out . Between realities, entire self in that liminal space only meant for a fraction of a glance. Unspeakable terror lies just beyond his sight, and the sheer knowledge that they’re here, potentially reaching for him fills his body with ice. Whole and vibrant and wrong.

Darkness threatens to take him, panic, and then the blinding realness of it all starts to flicker. Dims, and then dies out entirely. A dark, hollow void, with no sense of anything at all. 

John, the concept of John, a shoddily crafted shape of trickery and pluck, holds steady. Feels the almost painful grip of his sister-aunt at his shoulder, the tight pinch of whimsy and wisdom at his elbow. Vriska, distant but no less grounding, clinging to his forearm with steely resolve. Or simply her steel fingertips. Before him, [around him, all encompassing the reality enfolding him] is that same edge of reality he’d felt a second and a lifetime ago. A familiar, if horrid portal to somewhere new, smooth and hard to get a hold of, from this side.

Before hesitation and comprehension can make him reconsider, John acts. Reaches out with one hand, touching it’s cool, marble-like surface. Spreads his fingers, his palm, along it’s smooth breadth, and then like the pop of a soap bubble, the surface tension breaks.

Reality itself suddenly surges out and around them, sucking them in and then churning them back out.

Out, and into the harsh light of a new dawn. John trips on the endless staircase of reality that he finds himself being thrust toward, and is suddenly tumbling over and over himself, hurtling to wherever it may lead- with no signals to warn him. A forest spreads before him, young saplings and dapplings of shade covering stone and thick moss. 

John tumbles down to the dust, spongy moss cushioning his fall enough that nothing breaks, the girls hurtling down behind him, and collapsing in a heap of tangled fabric and limbs. Just in the middle of a break in the trees, sheltered cave just beyond the ridge. Just before the hasty barrel of a gun.

Chapter Text

Arthur Morgan stares blankly at the figure before him. A boy, not much older than twenty, tumbled straight out of the sky to land at his feet. And, just as the revolver pulls up instinctively, another pair, a couple of girls that collapse into the dirt alongside him. All lying in a heap, seemingly from of nowhere.

As soon as he realizes what’s going on, the age of the kid before him, the gun goes back in its holster, though his hand doesn’t leave it’s vicinity yet. He doesn’t see any weapons on any of them, but that doesn’t rule out the potential for danger just yet. The deer he’d been sneaking up on is long gone, but there’s no time to bother figuring out where it went; he can find another one later.

It takes him a moment to collect himself, figure out what he wants to say, and eventually settles on helping the kid up to his feet.

“You, uh,” he gives an uncomfortable little chuckle, nodding to the women behind the boy as much as the boy himself, “you folks doin’ alright?”

A snort from the taller woman, who’s dusting off the olive bustle of her dress. Her long curly mess of hair has come entirely undone from however she’d had it fixed up, but she pays it no mind, sliding the brim back out of the way and refitting the side of her corset in an altogether unladylike manner.

The other girl, a peculiar little thing in lilac and clean white, is still sitting on the ground staring up at him, and Arthur ignores the thought that he’ll muddy the pristine shine of her gown just by touching her. Just dusts his rough old hands off on the sides of his thighs and bends down to help her up too.

Her lips purse into a wry grin, as she gets to her booted feet, and Arthur fights with the thought that he’s fallen into some sort of trap for a second, until she speaks.

“Good afternoon.” Her voice is a gravelly pitch, and despite being nearly a foot shorter than he is, she seems to loom over him somehow. “You must be Arthur.”

He blinks at that. Again his hand strays to his hip, thumbing the cool metal, but he holds back. Frowns, expression guarded.

“It’s alright.” She hums, smoothing out the side of her bustle, bright purple fabric- silk he thinks, catching in the sunlight. “We’re not here to harm you, or anyone else. In fact, we, ah-” A glance at the tall, thinner girl, who’s attention seems to have been fully captured by Blackberry, for whatever reason, and then the young man, who’s made it halfway to the trees, looking for something. “In fact, we have something of an offer for you; one I think you’ll find quite advantageous.”

Arthur huffs at that. Slings one arm, then the other, over his chest, and fights off the cough building in the back of his throat. He’s lived long enough now to know when he’s being sold to. “Well, miss, that sounds real nice.” With a shake of his head, he moves to the side just a bit, keeping an eye on the other woman’s approach, though she seems far more interested in petting the stallion’s mane than his saddlebags. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re fixin’ to get a piece a’ things.”

A chuckle at that. Something in her expression, the snarky cut of her lilac lips, reminds him of the smug way Dutch would grin when a job would fall into place, and Arthur feels something faint in his stomach grow cold. “I suppose that’s… Not too far off a read of the situation. If premature, I fear.”

He shrugs away the urge to close himself off before the girl can pry any further, before he can think better. “Suppose you know, if you’re so keyed into things, that I ain’t exactly the person to be talkin’ to bout changin’ things up right now.” Not anymore, and especially not with the way his future is looking. “And Dutch ain’t really in a mood for talk these days. Least not anything that don’t figure into his  plans ...”

She gives a knowing nod at that, gesturing for the boy to get back out of the tree-line with a hushed call. “Mn, I suppose that’s one way of putting it. From what I can tell, the matter is more that he’s lost control of which thoughts are his, and which are fed to him.”

The girl looks up at him, nearly a foot shorter than he is and a full decade and a half younger, and yet something in her appraising gaze has Arthur frozen, paralyzed like the first time he’d been caught by the law. The first time a gun had been set in his trembling hand.

She nods, as if whatever she’s seen had been to her liking, and then turns away, curt and precise as if she hasn’t turned her back to a wanted killer. “In any case, I have little doubt we shall meet again, Arthur.”

~

It’s a long, complex dance, to the heart of things.

From Rose and Terezi’s combined visions, the Van Der Linde gang is at best, unstable and one wrong move from tearing itself to shreds. Exactly desperate enough to consider the outlandish endeavor they need them to, but also quite likely to lash out and lay their frustrations into the unknown party instead.

It’s a perilous situation and, frankly, Jake doesn’t fully understand the scope of it. But then, he doesn’t have to. He and the esteemed miss Kanaya are put to convincing the matron of their quarry that their proposal is indeed ship-shape enough to follow through on. Or at least not shoot down immediately.

With a dismissive huff, Jake follows the pensive troll through the gloom to a glade just outside of where the gang have set up camp, where a woman sits on the ground, surrounded by a myriad of laundry, and seemingly no one else around to do them.

The tall, imposing troll (more alien features hidden behind a rather ostentatious hat and pinned under her dress, pale, glowing skin carefully painted into a facsimile of human shade, though to Jake it’s application looks quite heavy, thick gloves obscuring her pawlike hands, and thick contacts change the apparent shape of her pupils, to the detriment of her vision) moves slowly, deliberately trodding on several small sticks, so that they can’t catch her off-guard.

Enough, at least, that Jake’s can see the glint of some manner of rifle the woman grabs, on the ground beside her, from where she’s kneeling. And good on her, for the apparent heft of its barrel.

“Excuse me, madame,” Kanaya hums, stopping a fair distance from the woman. “May we speak a moment?”

A disgruntled huff at that. Her head doesn’t turn from her work, though she does give them a brief glance. 

“You’re not exactly giving me much room to say no." She gruffs, her voice sharp and just a touch tense. Jake finds himself toeing at the ground, but Kanaya is undeterred.

"We would be happy to make ourselves of use." She hums. "In exchange for just a moment of your time." Her honeyed voice is nearly genuine, and just stern enough to indicate her own stress.

A sigh. The woman grumbles something under her breath, Jake catches just a few syllables of the complaint, and then she gestures them over. Her hand doesn't move from the suspicious shape hidden under her skirt.

"Come on, then." The woman sighs. "These linens aren't going to wash themselves."

With a curt nod, Kanaya follows where directed. Removes her gloves, though Jake moves faster to get to the barrel of sudsy water first. A rather rough chap he might be, but he’s not about to allow her to bother herself with this while he does nothing but watch. Not to mention the heavy cultural implication receptacles such as this have in her own society! Without a word, Jake grabs the washboard first, raking one of the nearby dirty articles of clothing, a threadbare pair of pants that has clearly seen better days, against the harsh metal surface. It’s rough going, and not at all anything he’s used to, but an adventurer makes do, after all!

And, oh drat. It seems while he was occupied in the assignment at hand, the real task they’re here to accomplish carried on without his notice.

The older woman is giving a sharp bark of laughter, mirth in her cold eyes. “You’re very mistaken, Miss Maryam, if you think I have the sort of authority to just, change things around like that!” The line of her lips is drawn tight, as if she’s reprimanding herself as much as Kanaya.

“Misses,” Kanaya corrects, with only a faint sharpness. Her hands are occupied with another frayed garment, though she’s sewing the patch with expert efficiency, eyes glancing up occasionally to the other woman. “And, be that as it may, I’m sure you know what good a reminder of your opinions can do, from time to time. Simply give a… hint, as to your feelings.”

She adds, long delicate fingers pulling and pulling thread through thin fabric rapidly, as she finishes up the stitch, handing the shirt over for inspection. “I’m afraid I simply must ask, Misses Grimshaw, even if it is futile. My darling is quite hung up on this.”

A snort at that. The other woman frowns, scrutinizing the fabric with a keen eye, giving only a hum to note her satisfaction, handing Kanaya yet another torn, bloody, article. “It’s Miss, Mrs. Maryam. And trust me, I understand your trouble, more than you’d know.” She sighs, teeth catching at her lip just a moment. “I… I suppose.” A pause as she sees to gather her words, and from the corner of her eye, she catches Jake watching her, motionless. “Hurry up now! After you’ve finished with those linens, you can help me get them up to dry!”

By the time the pair leave Miss Grimshaw behind, the heavy stack of laundry has all been washed, repaired (with quite a few errant seams reinforced for good measure), and hung up to dry. Jake’s hands feel quite sore, and Kanaya’s have begun to tremble just a touch. And, hopefully, they’ve given Miss Grimshaw quite a bit to think about.

~

“This is, like, the worst way we could be doing this.” The troll whines, throwing one arm dramatically against the bough of a nearby tree. “I mean seriously. I’ve looked, this is downright idiotic.”

Jade huffs. Rolls her eyes, fighting the urge to twitch her poor ears. “Oh shush. You’re just lucky Kanaya had an extra outfit ready for you, so we don't have to totally abandon things.”

“Yeah.” Terezi dead-pans. “Lucky.”

The poor woman is stuffed into a late-victorian walking-suit, complete with it's tight, laced collar, and delicate fan strapped to her side, should she need it. The fabric is a rich sapphire and stiffly starched, wool scratchy and unenticing to taste. There are shiny black buttons running down its front, frills and contours along the sleeves that need to be paid attention to, and a bustle at the rear that emphasizes the scrawny troll's nonexistent rear and provides ample cover for her tail. Her short hair has been hastily pulled up and (with the aid of a last-minute extension that feels like it's been glued to her scalp), formed into a tidy bun, which helps to hide the shape of her sharp horns and the majority of her ears with one thick braid. Dark glasses, shaped in the troll's typical teardrop shape, obscure her burnt-red eyes, and a blue, black, and gold rendition of her usual cane completes the outfit- at once eye-catching and highly restrictive. Not something she's looking forward to potentially having to fight in, ultimately. 

Before either of them can snark any further, their target comes tromping through the underbrush, nearly rushing past them in her hurry. Sadie Adler, vicious, unrestrained, and one of the last vestiges of sense in the van der linde gang. Someone they very much need on their side, if this is going to work out.

“Hey!” Terezi calls, catching the woman‘s attention and making her halt in her tracks. The woman turns to look at her, eyes dark and predatory. There's a fierceness to her expression, desperation in the tightness of her jaw, and it makes Terezi's grin widen. "Hey bulgebiter!"

One long pistol comes to point at the troll, and Terezi simply cackles in response. Tastes the hot mustardy fury with keen tongue, before Jade dives in front, divine body shielding from the potential bullet.

“He-ey!” She grins, overly cheery as she tries to defuse the situation. “Alright, we didn’t mean the name!” She turns, giving Terezi a look. “Right?”

Terezi shrugs. fuckery is readable in her smirk, but it’s doubtful that Miss Adler will take the blind, scrawny girl for a threat.

“Look, we, ah, we’re not really trying to ambush you…” She sighs, turning to see the suspicion in the woman’s eyes. The gun still pointing at her. Flashes her teeth in a quick grin, forgetting the fangs that won't do a thing to reassure her. “Is there any chance I could, erm, convince you to hear us out?” 

A frown at that. Slowly, she reholsters her gun, but keeps her hand comfortably on the colt's handle. Progress.

With a bit of confidence, feeling not unlike she's handling a feral beast, Jade nods in response, backing off just a step and holding her hands at her sides, lack of weapons evident. "It's just a little favor, I promise."

At that, the troll snorts, shifting her weight to lean on her cane and snickering again. "C'mon Harley, we're not here to fondle any fucking nubs here. She's not a little wriggler, she can decide for herself what she wants to do."

Jade rolls her eyes at that. Ignores, again, the twitch of irritation pulling her tail to raise. "Miss, ah, Miss Adler, right?" She knows she's right, of course, but the hesitation is good; makes it look like they're not chasing her. Which they kind of are, technically.

When Miss Adler nods wordlessly, Jade pushes on, giving a fangy grin and lifting her shoulders, absently. "Okay so, we have, uh, a bit of a proposal in the works for you." 

"Not for you, specifically," Terezi pipes up, catching the mistake before Jade can correct herself and circumventing. "More for the whole group. And this isn't even the proposal really. We just need your support so we don't get shot down when we're ready."

A sharp look at that. Miss Adler blinks, barely giving them a moment of thought. "I don't know who's talking to you, but I don't really get involved in Dutch's whole mess; if you're looking to get his attention you're better off looking for Mister Morgan."

Terezi erupts into a fit of laughter before Jade can react, and pushes forward, pointing at the woman for emphasis- though the effect is nulled by her aim being a good 30 degrees off. "No shit, nookpan! Yeah, we're talking with him too, and a couple other chitin chunks, but thanks for-"

"Tuh- Miss Pyrope, can you please," Jade interrupts, before her tirade can go any further, "Stop flirting. For like 5 minutes here."

The troll goes quiet at that, mouths a rebuttal, but doesn't say it. complies, allowing Jade to continue with her hesitant thesis.

"Like my compatriot said," Jade sighs, turning back to Miss Adler, who's starting to look antsy. "We're looking into a lot of angles right now, just trying to cover our bases- From what we've gathered, you have a lot of sway, and we just want to have all of our bases covered when we bring this up with the group." She exhales it all in one breath, and then shoots another fangy grin. Waits a few seconds, for Miss Adler to realize what she's looking for and hesitantly nod in agreement "So what we need from you is..."

~

In a bar, not far from Annesburg, Dirk and Karkat sit, across a table from one of the more unstable elements of this whole endeavor- Micah Bell, slumped back in his chair as if disinterested in the whole thing.

The tension in the air is thick enough to taste, even as Strider leans back in his seat, long legs unfolding before him. Karkat sneers, ignoring the threat entirely. His wide-brimmed hat is drawn low over pinprick-sized pupils, ears tucked underneath it's crown, and his tail is cramped in the leg of pants. It's uncomfortable and irritating, and the whole mess is frustrating enough as it is.

“It’s not fucking complicated.” He grunts, scowling at the wary look Bell gives, like he wants to leap over the table and crack his jaw. “You dickwheels are trapped with all the shit you've gotten yourselves in, and we have the way out.“ Discreetly, he glances at Strider, half-convinced the insult will be meaningless to the archaic man.

“How convenient.” The outlaw growls humorlessly. “And you’re doing all this out of the ‘goodness of your hearts’ I suppose?” The snivelly voice Bell uses to mock them drags in Karkat’s ear-canals, and he fights the urge to bare teeth in response.

He opens his mouth to sneer back something derisive, but Dirk interrupts. Stands, one hand on the hilt of the sword at his waist. “Not quite  that  generous, but. Yeah. Pretty much.” A cold grin, like he’s playing up his character. “Not that  you’ve  got much room to complain. Think of this as... A sale's pitch."

A snarl at that, and Karkat can barely pull his seat out of the way before the man is on his feet as well, gun drawn. He opens his mouth to snarl something, but Dirk is faster, drawing his blade just in time to catch the word with it's cheesy 'schwing' sound.

A loud flash, and like the grubfuck of an archetype he's been acting like, Dirk reaps the reward of being a bulgelord with nothing but a spurt-artery knife before the flaysquad, or however the human expression goes. What patrons remain in the bar, boozy and stupid, come alive with panic, crying out and climbing over each other to get away from the danger. The bullet catches Strider right in the windpipe, meal tunnel a bloody mess of meat, and the youth slumps back into the seat he'd abandoned.

Still slumped back in his seat, Karkat just snorts in disbelief. Drama queen.

As the small crowd calls outside, alerting whatever passes for population-control here, Bell sneers down at the corpse, before turning to Karkat. Meeting his bored gaze with almost disbelieving malice.

He turns to leave, only to be stopped by a cool, calm voice behind him.

Shot in the ignorance shaft by a nibble-vermin over an argument is hardly a  heroic  death, after all. There is no Just-ness in making yourself a walking advertisement, whether in godliness or sheer stupidity.

“So, as we were saying.” Dirk continues, getting back to his feet and smoothing down his shirt with a disinterested expression. Grunts, as the bullet is ejected from rapidly healing flesh. “There’s not really a way to fight this. Not really a reason to, either, with the perks.”

A gesture at Karkat, who shoots him a grumbled insult, but Strider, characteristically, doesn’t respond. The pair make a swift, discreet exit, as Bell stands there frozen, taking in the proposal, the threat that has just been made plainly clear.

~

It’s late, and the sky has turned to dazzling shades of pink and blue.

It’s late, very late, and John is starting to worry it’s going to be morning before Miss O’Shea comes out of the bar.

“Relax, John,” Roxy huffs beside him, nudging his shoulder with her elbow. “Give a girl a little space, y’ know?”

They both ignore the slight tremble to her smile, and the memory of the look  Jane had given them, when Rose said where they were headed. The promise she’d made Roxy give, before they left.

It’s easier to wait out here, where the air is cool, and the scent of liquor and vomit is faint enough to be ignorable. Sunset is turning the sky a lovely color, after all, and John can't remember the last time he's taken the chance to just enjoy the scenery. And if any trouble happens to find them, it wouldn’t attract too much attention, to use the Breeze here to get rid of it.

John nods, settling back on the bench. Pulls the frayed cuff of his sleeve back to his wrist again, and gets comfortable. Tries to, but then the raucous laughter from the building has him jumping again, looking to the door expectantly. It's going to be a long while yet, seemingly, and it's already quite late.

Eventually, as Roxy’s shoulder, pressed against his, starts to droop, the door to the bar swings open again, and this time the person stepping out is a stunning redhead in a vivid green dress. Disheveled and stumbling over herself, but still dripping with class. Just the woman they’ve been waiting for.

Slowly, wary of alerting any onlookers that would get the wrong impression of their following, the pair trail the woman out of town a bit, just to get away from prying eyes

“Heeey, 'scuse us!” Roxy calls, getting her to pause mid-step. And make John jump in alarm. “We gotta few questions for you, missy…”

She freezes at that. The minor amount of light available leaves her with little in the way of assessing the situation, and the woman trembles, seemingly unable to turn and look at them, or run.

“I-It’s fine, we’re not going to hurt you!” John is quick to reassure, realizing the way this is coming off. The dangerous life this woman lives, even if she looks fairly removed. “We really just want to talk, Miss O'Shea, maybe get your opinion on something?”

He gestures to the storefront not far from where they’re standing, a safe retreat if she needs. “If it's too much for you right now we'll go, we promise."

A sniffle. She turns, looking to them with watery eyes, and John can see that she's seen through the fact that he's been dancing around. “What would it matter? I-” She sniffles, and then huffs, collecting herself a little. “Very well. If you think it'll be worthwhile..."

John nods and, slowly enough that it won’t look like he’s trying to startle her, moves closer, reaching to help her when he notices how she wobbles. He can hear Roxy teasing behind him, but it’s ignored in favor of keeping hold of Miss O'Shea's fine silk dress, fabric soft and sleek under his fingers.

When they’ve got Miss O’Shea settled in on a comfortable enough fallen log, Roxy takes a moment to fuss over her appearance. “Your make-up is a mess, girl,” she huffs, helping smooth over the smudges, and for her part, Miss O’Shea doesn’t protest.

“So umm,” John starts, as Roxy moves to start fixing loose strands that have pulled free of her braid. “We really just wanted to, uh, bring up this idea with you. Ro- Uh, I mean,” He fumbles for words, as he tries to boil down the heady concept. “Rose was pretty certain you’d be… The best person to bring this to, before we introduce it to the whole gang.”

He pauses, looking to Roxy momentarily for futile guidance. This is a lot of complicated stuff to be throwing on someone from the late 1800s, not to mention a woman who’s been drinking for several hours, and from the sound of things, isn't at her best right now anyway. The rogue gives him a shrug in response, just as lost about how to proceed as he is.

“There’s… This game.” He finally decides to start, lamely. “It’s… It’s sort of about the end of the world?”

Without thought, his hand comes up to the back of his head, threading through the short hair, and he paws at the ground, looking down from her confused eyes. “And if you play it- we did, me and Roxy-” A gesture to Roxy, who affords a reassuring hum, still involved in fixing the woman’s hair. “I-If you play it, and make it all the way through,” Here he stumbles again, knowing this sounds like a load of shit. “You can, ah, sort of… Start a new world?” His throat gets thick of its own accord, and John forces himself to clear it. “It’s hard to, ah, explain, we should-”

He trails off, unsure if this is making sense at all to Miss O’Shea, only to be interrupted by her polite nod. “No, I’m not- I understand a little bit of what you’re trying to say." She insists, and then scoffs, settling back to smooth the wrinkles in her dress, and pushing Roxy’s hands away. “A new world. As if this one is any better than the old. I’ve come all this way, and…” She huffs. Her lips are drawn in a thoughtful frown, and her gaze seems… Lost. “He’s always going on about finding some brand new paradise, in any case. Dutch that is, you’re trying to get him in on this, right?”

John nods, biting his tongue. 

“Alright.” A grunt and she shifts in her seat, giving herself a reassuring nod. “I don’t- I’m not…” A huff. “You’re saying… You have a game you want us to play? And if we do it right, we get... some sort of land, then?”

“Something like that…” John shrugs. It’s not… quite right, in the spirit of what's really entailed, but it’s close enough. Enough, at least, that he doesn’t feel like he’s misleading her.

“It’s really hard, tho,” Roxy pipes up, from her new seat on the ground. “Lotsa people die. And there’s a real complicated mess y' gotta get through to get it right.”

Miss O’Shea smirks at that, and despite the fact that they're very much taking advantage of her in this, John gets the impression she’s worked him somehow. “And that’s what you’ll be wanting out of this whole thing, I’d wager. You’ve failed this whole… Game thing yourselves, and you’re hoping the lot of us will be stupid enough- desperate enough- to go through it in your stead and get you the prize at the end.”

There’s a viciousness to her logic, and though she’s wrong, technically, John finds himself nodding. It’s true enough, in a vague sense at least.

A nod. She tries to rise to her feet, only to quickly flop back down unsteadily. Shrugs off the help Roxy offers, climbing up to stand by herself, slowly. Gives John a bright grin, and for a moment he doesn’t know whether things are going the way he'd meant or not.

“Alright then.” She nods. Her chin is held firmly, and she has a determined look in her eye. “We’ll see what Dutch has to say about it. The pair of you have a horse, then?“

~

The small, threadbare campsite Charles’ set up, just a couple minutes' walk from the side of the river, is cozy. A simple lean-to, with Taima free to wander and graze as she likes, and a humble fire to warm up by and cook the fish he'd caught earlier. Just a little somewhere private to gather his thoughts, before he brings himself back to the raging chaos that is the gang lately. Normally, when he does this, it’s a nice, relaxing experience.

Then again, normally things aren’t so uniquely stressful.

So when the strangers wander up to his camp, chatting like they're already acquainted, Charles' hackles are already on edge. Rise to his feet, one hand on the hatchet he’d been splitting firewood with.

He hesitates just a moment when the young woman strides out of the gloom and into the glow of his embers; dark blue and white dress pristine despite the wilderness, make-up thick and polished.

Behind her follows a tall, lean boy wearing loose, dark flannel and an open waistcoat, glasses reflecting the light of the fire so that he can’t quite read his expression.

There’s another figure, taller still, but Charles can barely make them out in the dying sunlight. His grip on the hatchet goes slack, but he doesn’t let go yet.

“Hello, dearie!” The young woman chimes, and Charles grits his teeth at her sugary-sweet tone. “We’re here to help you with the resurrections!”

The boy nods at him as if they've already spoken. There’s a sword strapped to his back, bright white and larger than it has any reason to be. “Dutch sent us. I’m Dave, by the way. This is my stepmom, Jane.” 

Charles nods but doesn’t back down. They might be young, but he's not foolish enough to leave himself entirely defenseless just because Dutch's apparently placed his trust in some strangers. “I don't know anything about any, uh, 'resurrection' job. Did Arth- Didn't Dutch send you with anyone, or am I supposed to just trust that this isn't a trap?"

A blank look at that. She looks to her companion furtively, and then the woman gives him a shaky smile. "Well, ah, no. There wasn't time for that, I'm afraid, and everyone was rather busy. But this is, erm, a time-sensitive operation, you know, and we were under the impression you'd already been informed of the task. Meant to meet up with you earlier but, well, you know how it goes..."

A disinterested shrug from Dave, who's expression seems at once distracted and laser-focused on Charles, thanks to his dark lenses. "For what it's worth, my guy, there's not anything dangerous about this whole thing. It's not even, like, illegal, as far as I'm aware."

"Well." The third member of the group speaks up, having emerged from the rocky riverside while Charles' focus was elsewhere. "Not dangerous for you."

She's tall (though not as tall as Charles), lean and undeniably inhuman. Has a thick mass of hair, half shaved as if she'd given up partway through. Wears tall crimson boots, dark leggings, and short, thin jeans, rolled up to her thighs. Her shirt is barely an article of clothing; ripped at the shoulders and showing her dark undergarments on the sides, bearing an M-like symbol on the front. There's a dark blue anchor tattooed on her shoulder, and gold rings piercing her lip and eyebrow. And, most peculiar of all, her entire body, head to toe, is an ashy grey color, and her eyes are milky white, with dark vertical pupils that narrow as he looks her over. Her ears are long and tapered, flickering out to investigate the surrounding area, not unlike that of a horse or deer, though angled wrong on her head for that. She shifts, and he can see the thin, similarly grey tail curling behind her, long and ending in a burst of dark fur. Bright orange horns protrude from the sides of her head, tall, sharp, and forked, and if he looks closely, Charles can see that her mouth is full of fangs, tongue bright blue against their off-white, and her hands are strangely shaped, stubby despite their length, and ending in sharp claws.

Charles finds himself balking before he collects himself. Assesses the level of threat she realistically poses, and then distances himself, emotionally and physically. Decides to ignore the questions she raises, for now- although throwing around words like resurrection while traveling with someone who looks, for all the world, like an actual demon doesn't do much to reassure him. "What, exactly, are you asking me to do?"

At that, Jane pipes up again. "It's very simple, dear! All we need from you is to take us to the, er, resting places of your comrades, and then we'll have them good as new in no time."

The stranger snorts at that but doesn't argue. Gestures for the group to get going. "I mean, maybe not 'good as new', but yeah, pretty much. Something at least, and they can sort themselves, once they're back in the game." She doesn't give so much as a glance, assuming Charles is already following. "It's not like being dead is the worst thing, for the record." The humans, by contrast, seem to be almost antsy, while Jane hurries off, seemingly to collect Taima (though she hesitates as if she's afraid of the animal), Dave steps closer, muttering in an almost secretive fashion.

“Look man, I’m gonna be real with you.” He grunts and Charles gets the impression that he's studying something in his expression, despite the fact that his gaze is hidden. “This is gonna be some gross ass shit. Like ‘wow everything I knew about myself is different know' shit. ‘Might need some serious eye bleach’ shit. Are you sure you're down for all that? Cause there's not gonna be a place to stop once things get going.”

Jane seems concerned at this but doesn’t speak up. Has a guarded expression, as if there are personal issues lurking below the surface.

Charles is silent for a moment. Collects his thoughts, weighing the matter seriously. He's never been naive about death, never really been blindsided by the possibility of it like most, but something's been... different of late. The past few months- since that ferry job in Blackwater, really, have been more harrowing than even he's used to. But ever since bank job in Sain Denis went sour, Charles' felt like he was emotionally running on his reserves. And now, with the tensions rising with the wapiti, the ominous fate awaiting them all...

Still, there's work left to do, and if it keeps him away from the storm brewing in camp, keeps him occupied and useful, it's worth the day or so it'll take him from his companions. He nods, schooling his expression into something close to impassive, and shrugs off the concern. "Give me a few minutes to pack up camp, and we can head out."

~

The campsite is dark when John, Roxy, and Molly stumble up to it’s poorly defended perimeter. The fires are burning low enough to be more embers than flame, and nearly everyone has retreated to their tents

Neither of the trio has a horse, and Miss O’Shea seemingly had no thought as to how to get back when she headed out to town, so they walked, the two gods neglecting flight without a word out of deference to the intoxicated woman. Come strolling up to the cave where everyone is, apparently, waiting, Miss O’Shea’s steps growing bolder as she becomes more sure of where she is. Of what lies ahead, however treacherous.

And, as John eyes the small group that peeks out at their approach, treacherous does indeed seem like the right word.

He can see the signs of the others around the area; Jade's ears peek out from the bough of a nearby tree, and Kanaya's bright purple fabric gives Rose little room to hide (not to mention the bioluminescence of the seamstress herself). Draws in close to Roxy reflexively, preparing to get out of sight as well, before stopping, as indiscreet shuffle-cursing in a nearby bush tells him they're going to come out of hiding instead.

Despite the intrusion, Miss O'Shea calls out, as soon as they reach the mouth of the cave, grinning in anticipation. "Dutch! Where've you gone to, we've got something to tell you!"

All of a sudden the fact that she's spent the evening drinking for a  reason  hits, and John sighs, shoulders slumping in frustration. Fixes the man that comes out of the cave at her call a nervous grin. Works through what he's been rehearsing in his head the past hour and a half one last time, only to be interrupted by none other than Rose, stepping out calmly from behind Roxy, as if she'd been there all this time.

"It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Dutch van der Linde." Her calm, tranquil voice is a relief to hear, if just because it means John's not going to have to go into all the details and impossibilities of this by himself. She grins wryly up at the slightly-disheveled man, who fixes her with a scowl. "I believe your girlfriend has been informed of our venture?"

His mouth opens in hostility, only to be interrupted by Roxy's incredulous snort. "Wait, girl,  he's  your bf?" The chit-chat she's been having with Miss O'Shea suddenly comes back to the forefront of John's mind, and she gives the older man a dismissive once-over. "I thought you said he was, like, sexy?"

Skillfully emerging at Rose's side without notice, Kanaya gives an appraising hum. "He's not...  Un interesting, as far as humans go." A squeeze at Rose's hip. "Though, darling, do go on, I believe we are quite ready."

A nod and Rose gives Dutch an apologetic look. "I hope you don't mind, we didn't have time to introduce ourselves properly." She gestures, and he looks to see the others appearing from their hiding spots, with less successful presentations.

The snarl that Dutch has been holding in incredulity is directed at no one in particular, wordless as he struggles for a scapegoat. "Who- Bill, why are there  children  ambushing us!? How did they get passed your  infallible  vigil?"

From behind him, Miss Grimshaw appears, stepping in front of the man in question's sheepish attempt at an explanation. "I allowed them in, Mister Van der Linde. These (fine young ppl), have something of a  plan  for you, as I understand it."

"Yes, indeed." Rose hums. Moves to the side, out of Dutch's direct path. "Now, about that..."

At that, Roxy gently pushes Molly forward, giving her a conspiratory grin. "Oh it's cool Rosie, we already gave Miss O'Shea the whole shpeel."

A single note at that. Rose's entire expression tightens, and she gives her mother a blank look. "I see. I suppose we're all a bit ahead of schedule, aren't we? In any case," She sighs, turning back to Dutch. "I'll let you look over the whole matter yourself; we'll be right here if you need any more details."

John snorts but doesn't bring up just how vague an explanation they gave- instead pulling back to the hollow where the others are gathering, at Rose's insistence

The older man rages, quietly, but doesn't do more than sneer in annoyance, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Of  course  madame. I'll  consult  my people, right away."

The slight is ignored, Rose turning to join the others under the trees. "My name is Rose Lalonde, by the way." 

With that, she retreats pulling her wife to follow, giving the gang time to close ranks and discuss the matter in relative privacy.

Or, well. Scream and blame is more accurate, by the sounds of it. 

Almost as soon as he's out of sight, they can hear the prince begins to shout, berating subordinates who dare speak their minds. "Traitors!" can be heard echoing through the clearing. "Ingrates!"

Rose looks to Terezi with muted concern and occupies herself with the snacks being passed around, at her wife's insistence. The matter is thoroughly out of their hands now; a simple matter of fate as to who, if any, will defy the set Alpha Path.

In the pauses of Dutch's tirade, if one strains their ears, can be heard much softer protests. Miss O'Shea's gentle, but enthusiastic pleading. More convicted, if clipped objections, as Miss Grimshaw maintains her position. A simpering whine that wheedles about not looking a gift horse in the mouth. 

Miss Adler's hoarse insistence is the only that comes close to rivaling Dutch in volume, though he bellows enough to drown her out several times, voice cracking in intensity.

When at last the argument goes quiet, and she can be reasonably certain that decisions have been made, Rose rises again from the circle of gods and mortals, disturbing John from the brief nap he'd been lulled into Strides back to the cave mouth with slow, careful movements.

"Well?" She hums, after waiting just a moment for the gang leader to reemerge. "Have you reached a verdict?"

 Dutch doesn't respond immediately. Moves, calling one man, Micah Bell, over, the man hurrying to his side with a snicker. "I think you have quite a bit to explain Miss Lalonde, before I-  anyone, " a sharp look behind him, to the impatiently pacing figures, still full of discourse, "comes to a decision."

Placid and emotionless, Rose nods. Moves to take a seat at a nearby table, gesturing for the fuming man to join her. "Of course. What can I elucidate?"

He does as directed, sneering with barely contained fury, outlaw silent at his side. "This...  Game , your people have mentioned... Is that some sort of joke?"

A calm nod at that and Rose offers a near-condescending grin. "Yes, I understand your confusion. Sburb is more of a... Trial of sorts, than a game really; though it's not off-track to couch it in such terms. A test of character, and mental fortitude. Nothing terribly daunting, I'm sure," She nods to emphasize her focus, "For a man of your stature."

"And this business of immortality?" He snarls, without pause. "Is that part of this  test of character ?"

A moment's pause. Her eyes do not flit to the eagerly watching group of her teammates, though she gives them quiet reprimand. "It may indeed. Though that depends on your team's individual composure, more than -the process itself."

She adds, before he can do more than squawk in protest, "I must warn, Mr. Van der Linde, that giving you more information than that may contaminate the process, and result in an unfortunate leveling of the playing field. Know that this is a harrowing journey that stands to test your very identity, and we will do all we can to guide you through its perils, to our best ability. And, Godhood is not entirely off the table, should you merit it."

Silence at that. The crowd behind him ripples in curiosity, while his sycophant snarls and murmurs something about fraudulence under his breath.

Rose ignores the entire dilemma. She's given the proposal as best she can, under the circumstances, and they'll have their answer, soon enough. There is still so much that needs to be done, and sitting here walking him through it will only waste precious time.

With a quiet murmur of reassurance, Calliope moves to shadow her, offering moral support, and Jade joins the small group after a bit of prompting, spectagoggles lighting up as they start the entry sequence.

"Do use some haste in reaching your conclusion, Mr. Van der Linde." She states coldly, as if entirely disinterested, as the trio leave the table behind. "Entry is imminent, after all."

~

“Hello, Arthur.”

The voice, familiar as it is jarring, startles Arthur, distracts him from the rabbit he’s skinning, and makes him damn near fling it into the nearest tree instead. With a disgruntled sigh, he goes to pick up the carcass, earning a raised eyebrow from his intruder.

Stifling a cough into his fist, Arthur turns, giving the young woman a flat look. “Evening, miss.” He’d be a bit more astonished at her reappearance just a few weeks ago, but the time it’s taken him to get used to his diagnosis, to get cozy with his imminent death have brought with them a sense of weary tranquillity, and his gaze is level. “I don’t think I’ve caught your name, ma'am.”

When he looks, the young woman he’d met nearly a week ago is standing before him, just as prim and composed as before; now with a tall, gangly shadow following her. The person- Arthur can’t distinguish anything specific about their sinister form, enshadowed and barely visible as they are- has a simple silver dress draped over their frame, loose enough to show their skeletal form, and seeming not quite to fit their tall body. Their skin is notably darker than even hers, seeming an almost inhuman hue in the gloom and almost… green? It’s hard to make out their face, hidden behind a light green bandana, and dark gambler hat drawn low over their features. In any case, they loom threateningly over the short girl, almost like a measure of protection of some sort, and gaze over him warily.

“Indeed, I may have neglected a few niceties when we last spoke.” Her eyes crinkle in joviality, and she gives a curt smile. “My name is Rose Lalonde,” she adds, after a bare second of hesitation, “And this is Miss Calliope.”

“Arthur Morgan,” he grunts in return, instinct running before sense can stop him. He shakes his head in embarrassment, and thankfully she does little more than purse her lips in amusement, though an oddly childlike chitter of humor sounds from Miss Calliope.

“It’s good to see you again.” She hums, moving a bit closer, casting a passive eye over his tent. “And meet properly. Tell me, have you had any time to think over the offer I mentioned?”

Arthur shakes his head, giving a chagrined chuckle and ignoring the cough building up in the back of his throat. “Miss Lalonde, I haven’t had time t'get a damn bath, with all the runnin’ round I’ve been doin’ for everyone here.” A shrugging gesture to the rest of the camp. “Not to mention the run-about the law’s been giving us.”

He s, closing one flap absently, half-nervous about the idea of a lady, not to mention whatever Miss Calliope is, seeing the mess that is his living space. “I have to be honest, miss, I don’t see us being much use to anyone the way we’re goin'.” Especially not to such a bright, young woman, with clearly big ambitions of her own. “Won’t be long before all this ends, one way or the other.”

A nod at that, grave and dire. “No, it certainly will not. Still, I was hoping this could be a mutually beneficial arrangement, no undo trouble for either party. Escape for you, and a fresh... Perspective for our part.”

He scoffs. Arthur opens his mouth to shoot back that there’s no way the military won’t follow wherever they go, at this point, but all that comes out is a deep hacking cough, setting off a nasty fit that earns a low note of sympathy from Miss Callie, who looms just a bit closer.

Rose bites out a syllable, almost certainly a question he's heard all too often lately.

“It seems,” She adds, once he's collected himself, no small measure of concern laid out in her morose tone, “You don’t have the time to argue.”

A dry rasp of amusement at that. Arthur shakes his head, despite his incredulity. “No, I don’t suppose I do.”

With a precise nod, Miss Lalonde leads him away to -, where an arrangement of strange machines has been set, somehow without his notice. Explains, with swift purpose, what each does, complex specifications that make Arthur's head spin, and hands him a few thick, firm papers that will, evidently, help things along, apologizing as she does that there's no time to explain further. With a quiet nod, he follows along, trying to commit each complex word to memory; Alchemiter, Cruxtruder, Captchalogue. Turns his attention to the strange devices she’s laid before him, the imposing heap of perfectly polished steel and complex displays stuck in the ground before him. The platform, with its mess of pipes that attach to nothing. The enormous and vaguely sewing-machine-like device. It’s all a bit to take in, and the instructions Miss Lalonde'd given blur in his mind; but when he turns to run what he thinks he's meant to do by her, there is no sign of her, nor her strange companion.

Well, the start had been simple enough. Just open the lid on the first machine.

With a grunt, the outlaw climbs up onto the 'Cruxtruder', handkerchief tucked back in his pocket hastily as he reaches for the control valve. Simple enough, though the damn thing is a struggle to turn. Arthur heaves, eaking out barely half a turn on the wheel, just enough to realize that nothing is happening, and the mechanism seems stuck. Perfect.

With a grunt, Arthur reaches up to see if he can pry the stubborn thing open, to no avail, of course. In a desperate bid for some sort of effect, he hops off the narrow platform and shoots at the damned thing in frustration. Expects nothing, only to be met with unexpected progress when the lid clicks down and then seems to slide right off of the device, somehow.

Before he has time to curse the convoluted contraption, a dark blue cylinder comes flying out of the top, landing in the grass at his feet, followed closely by what looks for all the world to be a bright blue ball of pure light.

The sphere pulses, vibrantly flashing white and indigo in a way that makes his eyes burn, so Arthur looks away after just a second. 

“Fairly intuitive, huh?” He grumbles, coughing into the meat of his hand, before picking up the semi-clear chunk of… something up from the ground.

A ‘blank totem’ she’d said, and, well, he’d rather that be this than the head-ache inducing figure floating around him. It's cool to the touch, perfectly smooth and semiclear like some sort of precious stone.

He frowns, tossing the rabbit carcass from the convenient surface he'd set it down on, and putting the blue stone in its place so he can get a better look at it. The orb of dizzying light zips around at his side, and, before he can estimate the angle of his toss, careens into the dead rabbit with a near-purposeful intent.

In a second it goes from flashing like a flame to simply glowing a deep blue and hurting his eyes significantly less. The after-image of the rabbit is burned onto its semi-transparent surface, gruesome visage glaring at him with what he imagines is resentment. Arthur offers the spectre a grumble of apology but is cut short, as he notices the numbers sitting on the abandoned device, counting down steadily in a worrying fashion.

Time to get going, then.

With a shake of the head, he turns to the device in front of him with some trepidation, eyeing the far more complicated mechanisms attached to it.

The paper she’d given him, stiff and coarse, pokes in his pocket, and with a sudden curiosity, he pulls it out, running a thumb along it’s myriad of holes. There’s a slot in the front of the machine that seems about the same size as the blank page, and hoping he hasn’t misunderstood some part of this, he slides the paper in, wincing when it gives a metallic click.

When he tries to pull the page back out it holds tight, so Arthur grimaces and hopes he's on the right track. The blue cylinder is about the same length as the platform it's sitting in, similar enough that he picks it back up, and then slides the smooth stone into place with a satisfying snap.

A low, rumbling whir starts up somewhere in the mechanism, and then a line of blades slide cleanly out from the flat surface above the cylinder. Wheels start to turn on their own, and the cylinder is spun, fast enough to have him snapping his hands back out of the way. The blades lower swiftly and glide into the hard surface without hesitation, carving smooth curves into its flat side. It happens in one clean motion, and then the machine slows to a halt, whirring stopping, and card clicking back up out of its slot. The process is, apparently, done.

Frowning to himself, Arthur moves to pick up the now vaguely vase-shaped object, ignoring the insistent prodding of the rabbit-thing at his side.

'Totem' carved, seemingly. Next is to set it on the Alchemiter pedestal and… Activate the Entry Item? What does that even mean?

Huffing to himself, Arthur strides up and, for lack of a better thought, puts the totem on the little shelf under the odd collection of pipes. Something in the mechanism clicks on at that, and with a mechanical whine, the pipes start to move, unfolding themselves into a single, continuous arm, bending over and aiming its needle-like edge at the warped surface of the cylinder.

A bright red beam of light shoots out, sliding up and down its edge, and then clicking back off. Arthur watches, as an entire meadow sprouts out from the large platform’s decorated surface, dark blue and filled to the brim with wildflowers. It pops up in a second, dazzles him for just a bit, and then seems to fade out of existence, leaving a single collection of flowers in its wake, sprouting up from the metal at random.

The timer counts down and, in the distance, doom hurtles ever closer, and Arthur Morgan finds himself reaching forward, plucking one tall, delicate flower, to inspect it closer.

~

When the thunderous boom hits, sky lighting up with the light of the enormous meteor, the entire gang starts. Everyone jumps to their feet, hurrying to see the damage, to check that everything, everyone, is alright. Everyone, that is, except for the strange new interlopers, who share a quick glance before rushing into motion. Disregarding the - itself, as if it’s normal for - to come crashing down out of the sky.

John is the first one to the scene, spotting Blackberry pulling at his reins from the post they’re tied to and feeling his stomach drop out in response. Just beyond lies a huge crater, earth decimated from the impact of the steaming rock nestled in its pit. There’s no sign of his brother, not even a hint of blood; as if the entire chunk of earth was just ripped up out of the ground itself and moved somewhere else.

“Arthur!” John cries, only to be met with the sight of a small, demure woman in a bright purple dress, eyeing him with interest.

“Arthur is fine.” She reassures, her voice a sickeningly placid tone, and John fights the urge to lose control at her calmness. “Everything is going just as we discussed, though no doubt a bit delayed. Tell me, which of these is yours?” She gestures to the remaining collection of tents, in a bare attempt to pull his attention from the smoking crater. “We haven’t gotten to setting up your instruments yet, and it would be beneficial, I feel, if we could get them positioned just right…”

Chapter Text

Arthur wakes to a gentle breeze and the scent of spring flowers. Grass tickling his cheeks, and a bug landing on the sensitive area above his elbow. A big, blue sky, and soft, white clouds, promising cover from the sun and minimal rain. 

No sign of the camp, or anything remotely familiar.

With a heavy groan, the man heaves himself upright, looking around to find himself in an open field, surrounded by dense woodland.

In the distance, he can see someone, something, moving around, and the low, squat shapes of some sort of buildings. They're a thick, nondescript shadow that looks enough like a person to be disquieting. Not a threat, but not a reassuring presence either, honestly. The constant fog of exhaustion that he's become accustomed to pulls on him, makes him reluctant to get up. Potentially get himself wrapped up in  another  fight as he finds his way back to a gang that's still falling apart no matter what he does.

:33 <Are we purrchance going to apurroach the consorts anytime soon
:33 <Or would you purrfur to take a catnap?

That thought shocks Arthur out of his languid repose, jumping to his feet with only a little groan. The gun at his hip is drawn, surveying around the nearby area, only to come up blank. There's nothing, no one that could have spoken, not so close that it seemed to come from his own head at first.

:33 <Woah, calm down, furriend
:33 <No need to be afuraid, efurything is purrfectly fine, I'm here to purrovide purricularly useful infurmation about your quest, purrmise
:33 <*AC paps your arm thoughtfurry*

He jumps again at her voice; at the ghost of her voice, echoing through his head, but doesn't reach for his gun this time, despite the vulnerability still present. There's no way those thoughts are coming from him.

"And yer," He mumbles, embarrassed to be talking aloud to someone who doesn't seem to really be there. "Yer in my head, then?"

:33 <oh nothing as impurrlite as that
:33 <Purrtend AC is an omnipurrtent ally, lending a helpfur paw as you nafurgate LoFaM

That doesn't sound right, like something that would  actually  happen to him, but Arthur doesn't question it. Doesn't have time to question it, the shadow looming closer; alerted to the flash of his revolver in the sunlight, the action of him wandering around, looking for her. Slips closer with a non-too-subtle burble.

Or well. Stumbles is a more accurate term.

The creature turns out to be some sort of giant lizard, bright banana-yellow skin coated in a thin layer of mucus, and beady red eyes brimming with excitement. It has thick, cherubic limbs, and a chunky tail dragging behind it. The - beast only comes up to his waist, opening its wideset mouth to blow and quickly pop a huge bubble of mucus as it approaches.

Try as he might, Arthur can't bring himself to be threatened by such an adorable little thing.

"Well, uh, hey there lil' fella..." He murmurs, bending down, hands on his worn thighs to meet it at something close to eye level. "You're just a cute little thing, ain't ya?"

The salamander lets out a giggle at that, startling him with it's warbled voice. "Oh my gosh, are you really an adventurer? We really could use a knight to help us out!"

Arthur balks at that, opening his mouth to explain that, no, he's not some sort of hero, and in fact is the sort of man looking to cause more troubles for a defenseless thing, but when he pulls back the creature's eyes get all misty in dejection, and he just heaves a groan instead. Stands upright, one hand on his hip, and drawls "Naw, nothin' like that, but if you need help, I'll see what I can do."

~

Shivering, John stares ahead, met with nothing but a seemingly endless torrent of ice and snow. The faint shapes of... Something rise in the distance, sharp, tall shadows falling on the impossibly deep blanket of snow. The memory of everything leading up to this is sharp in his mind, the strange blood-red orb that had swallowed up the deer antler he'd tossed at it, the way he'd stumbled over the whole process, not sure if he'd been doing anything useful, until afterward. The crimson book that had appeared, and disappeared when he'd opened it.

What seemed to be a star falling from the very sky, and now... Here he is.

Freezing his ass off, with no sign of Arthur, of  anyone  around.

Shrugging off the dilemma for a little longer and pulling the sides of his overcoat together a little tighter, John pulls his attention away from the steady storm.

Catches sight of... Something out there, something dark red and giving off great plumes of condensation with each breath, and makes a note to investigate later, if this damned snow ever lets up, retreating back into the still-bitterly-cold relief he's found, against the relentless storm; his camp has somehow found its way here as well, still set up like it was in Beaver Hollow, but the thick canvas provides little shelter from the cold. It's enough, at least, that Jack can keep warm, if nothing else, and thankfully the boy hasn't tried to leave its meager shelter. With any luck, he'll still be asleep when John finds his way back to camp, and the man can find a few hours rest in the mess of bedding.

"Some test, huh?" He snorts, to no one in particular.

OH GREAT DICK-MONGERING BEEFGRUBS
YOU DON'T HAVE A HUSKTOP. DO YOU?

And that, that has to be the worst part of this whole ordeal.

John shudders, rubbing his arms to try to preserve some warmth and ignoring the shrill voice that rings in the back of his head. Remembers, despite how much he wishes it weren't so, that it's supposed to help  guide  him, however irritating the attempt may be.

COME ON WRIGGLER-PAN, YOU CAN FREEZE YOUR NOOK OFF LATER
GET THE FUCK UP

Despite the fact that he very much doesn't want to, would much rather to anything else, really, John grumbles something dark under his breath, and then moves back from the tent. Looks around, as if to ask  'Well, what now? '

GO TO THE CRUXTRUDER, AND GET A FUCKING TOTEM, JEGUS
YOU HAVE A FUCKING SYLLADEX RIGHT? GET ONE OF THE CODES OFF OF THOSE CARDS

John blanks at that, but drags his frozen ass over to the big blocky machine with the pipe sticking out, and curses under his breath, going to pull the frozen wheel stuck on the side; mercifully it turns a lot easier than it had before, and another red tube rises out of the chute, after a moment. John grabs it, and then stares back at the void, grumbling under his breath as he wraps his arms around himself again for some warmth. Predictably, the being watching him doesn't like this.

GOG YOU DON'T EVEN
OKAY JUST
FUCK

That's all he gets, for a moment, and John groans, wondering, briefly, if he's been left to deal with his problems himself.

LOOK I'M GONNA BREAK SOME FUCKING RULES HERE HOPE YOU ALSO DON'T GIVE HALF A SHIT-SMEARED FUCK
JUST PUT IT ON THE ALCHEMITER AND GET SOME FUCKING CARDS
THEN GO TO THE FUCKING PUNCH DESIGNIX
IT'S TIME TO LEARN SOME BASIC-ASS ALCHEMY SHITSCRUB

At that, John feels hopelessly lost, but puts the cylinder on the little stand on the inscribed platform as directed, and watches as it runs it's odd red light over its flat surface. Summons a stack of thick papers, though they disappear when he tries to pick them up. He stumbles over to the odd desk, hesitantly reaching for the assortment of buttons awkwardly hanging from it by a few bare wires, but retracts. Almost instantly, the voice is upon him again.

GODHEAD, YOU ARE UNHELPABLE, AREN'T YOU
PUT THE CARD IN THE SLOT AND PAY FUCKING ATTENTION
THE CODE YOU NEED TO TYPE IS eLWbq4\Z
GOT IT BULGEPAN?

John scowls again, fighting the urge to revolt and abandon the matter entirely, but exhaustion and a desire to at least see what's so important keep him where he is. Closes his eyes, the afterthought of the harassment burned there as if to mock him, and carefully hits the corresponding buttons, halting a moment before he figures out how to change letter case, blindly holding both chunky buttons on the side. When his finger hits the return, the machine chugs into activation, giving a few thick clunking sounds, and then popping the paper back out of its slot.

GOOD JOB GRUBSTAIN!!!
NOW GET ANOTHER TOTEM, AND USE THAT CARD TO CARVE IT
AND GET THE FUCKING LAPTOP FROM THE ALCHEMITER
AND UGH JEGUS
JUST FOR THE CORRUGATED NOISE WHEEL, SINCE YOU'RE NOT GOING TO FIGURE THIS THE FUCK OUT FOR YOURSELF
YOU CAN STORE PRETTY MUCH ANYTHING IN THE CARDS, AND THEN GET THE CODE FOR THAT THING FROM THE BACK
AND MAKE A LESS PISS-POOR EXCUSE FOR A HIVE

Another groan, this time louder, though he stops when he hears something in the tent shift, not wanting to wake Jack. Does as directed, again, dragging his feet every step of the way and glaring daggers wherever he can. The longer this goes on, the more fatigue is calling to him, calling him to curl up in the tent with his son and get warm.

Still, he slides the card in the damned machine and watches dully as it slices through the second totem cleanly and efficiently. Drops it on the huge machine's platform, non-too-carefully. Yawns, as it's no-longer dazzling bream again skirts across the carved edge of the totem, and then with a flash, a curious rectangle of folded steel, almost like an enormous book with no pages appears on the platform.

Lap Top secured, John pauses, awaiting more expletive-filled orders, but thankfully gets nothing; apparently he's capable from here on. Cursing again, the man snatches the surprisingly-weighty thing up, tucking it under one arm to crawl into the waiting tent, greeted with a perceptible wall of warmth almost as soon as he opens the flap.

Kicking his boots off, he finds Jack tucked in the far corner of the tent, bundled under the mess of blankets, and the boy whimpers softly at the cold John lets in with him.

John sighs, something in his sour stomach at ease at seeing the subtle motion of his son's chest rising and falling. Whatever else is happening, Jack is alright. For now. He hasn't fucked  this  up.

The cold Lap Top is dropped to the ground first, gently enough not to disturb Jack, and then he drops to his knees, considering his options. It would be warm under the blankets, soothing, but Jack needs the warmth more than he does. Pulling the boy closer to share body heat is out of the question, at least for now. He's too tired to entertain any of the questions he's sure to have about what's waiting for them outside, about where Abigail might be, and he's not stupid enough to not know Jack won't stop at 'I'm not sure'. So instead John plops down, trying to find a comfortable enough position that still allows him to press close to the warm bundle of blankets around his son. 

Contemplates sleep for a long moment, only opening his eyes again when he realizes the mystery of the whole mess is going to hang over him and keep him up whether he likes it or not.

He lifts the steel book's empty cover, to find a bright display inside, disorienting in the fact that it's sideways until he rights the mechanism, showing a fluorescent mess of information on top, and a complicated display of buttons on the panel below, a recessed square inlaid between it's flat, blank spaces.

He looks back up to the display, and finds a small, box with the image of someone inside- Arthur, he realizes, after a moment. His brother is fighting some sort of enormous alligator, raining bullets down on the thing before dashing back a safe distance when it retaliates with a lash of its thick tail.

Frowning, John tears his eyes away from the fight. Notices the array of letters spread underneath, arranged in an almost orderly jumble. Runs his hand across the neat rows with a worried frown.

He'd seen a typewriter, once, when Hosea had lifted one from a rich land-baron years and years back; he'd been an unruly little shit back then (not that he's much better now), and hadn't paid attention to whatever lesson Hosea'd tried to get through his head. Still, it doesn't seem  terribly  complicated, if he sticks to the single-marked buttons.

Hesitantly, John types out one word, unsure if anything will happen. A-

As soon as he releases, a black rectangle flashes up on the screen, interrupting any attempt to navigate anything else. Flashes at him insistently, instructions blaring.

PLEASE DESIGNATE CHUMHANDLE

It takes him a moment to piece together the phrase, embarrassingly enough. He understands that it wants information from him, a code or something. 

Feeling like he's messing something up, John writes out a guess, and hits the wide button on the side, hoping it will function as a return.

MARSTON

The rectangle shrinks down and seems to vanish, and then reappears again, with a different message attached.

CHUMHANDLE DENIED

PRIMARY ISSUE: INVALID FORMAT⍰

TRY AGAIN

Groaning to himself, John throws his hand down on the arrangement, and the box resets. Again he's met with the request to 'designate a chumhandle'.

Frustrated, and not helped in the slightest by the fact that he's freezing his ass off, with no help at all from his so-called guidance, he hastily writes out something vulgar and hits return before he can think better.

exhaustedMarston

This time, the box disappears and returns again with a different answer.

CHUMHANDLE ACCEPTED!

Greetings, exhaustedMarston! Would you like us to show you around the Pesterchum system?

No, he very much does not. What John wants to do is find out if his brother is okay, find his wife, find someplace warm and not ever have to deal with all this goddamn snow again. But none of that is really an option at the moment, so he draws in on himself a bit more hits the enter button again.

~

As it turns out, the beast that had been threatening the little salamander's village was some sort of dragonlike monster. The beast had looked like the biggest lizard he'd ever seen, inky black skin too thick for his bullets to make more than a dent in. Three pairs of squat legs and big, deadly claws, and huge protruding teeth, below a surprisingly delicate, twitching nose. Its eyes had been cold and (if Arthur was to put sentimental intent behind them) mocking, surrounded by a crown of spikes, a pair of antlers, and enormous, almost ridiculous ears, furred and pinned upright like a rabbit's. The end of it's thick, muscular tail had been capped in a bright white poof of fur. And now it lies, dead, viscous, bright blue fluid streaming from the final few bulletholes like some kind of exotic blood.

And now, Arthur is covered in dirt and dried blue smears, trying to struggle against being led by the finger to a nearby cottage made of what looks like an enormous red and white mushroom, where the salamander he'd met earlier (assumedly) has a celebratory reception waiting for him. The trees above them are dense and their tan trunks are covered in dark marks like a birch's, and Arthur tries not to look directly at the shadow of nooses hanging from their boughs, their sinister presence in this whimsical place making something in the pit of his stomach sour. The little salamander seems not to notice them at all, pulling insistently, cheerfully pleading that "We can't be late!", and Arthur almost considers conceding, if it wasn't for the fact that he thinks he might get stuck in such a small cottage- the roof itself barely comes up to his head.

:33 <Woah. AC is impurressed with your furrosity

:33 <Bastilisks are a high-level oppurrnent, fur someone who just entered the medium

Arthur sighs, pulling his hand away from the salamander gently. Tries not to affix a weary look to the empty air he imagines AC to be standing in. 

"Thought you  wanted  me to help 'em out," He growls under his breath, before turning back to the waiting creature.

"Miss, I, ah, I ain't gonna fit in there..." He explains, wincing at the heartbroken look she gives for a moment. Then she seems to get an idea, and perks right back up, beaming back up at him again.

"Oh, of course!" The little thing burbles. "Give me a sec, I'll see if Bartys can figure something out!"

With that she bustles off, giving AC time to interject again.

:33 <Yea i furgured it would be impurrtant to purrotect the consorts furom 
:33 <I just thought skaia would purrovide a less furrocious opurrnent
:33 <Anyway! AC impurrlores Arfur to pawnder the purrsonality he purrsents to his consorts
;33 <It can be furry fureeing, to rediscofur who you are

Arthur snorts at that, but doesn't have the time to respond; the little salamander is back, with the wide, dark brown cap of a mushroom clutched in her chubby little claws; it's big enough that she seems to be having a bit of trouble carrying it. 

"Okay, I think we've solved the problem!" She chirrups and Arthur finds he's grinning despite himself. "We moved all the food outside, so we can enjoy the lovely breeze! And you can sit with us without worrying about getting stuck!"

Against his better judgment, Arthur finds himself nodding dumbly, allowing himself to be dragged off again, by the small claw pulling on his fingers. Ignores the tittering of the unseen girl  not  in his head, the embarrassment at being caught doing something so frivolous, as they move around the side of the house to see the tea party set up.

Two other salamanders, both nearly identical to the one guiding him, are sitting there, gathered around the wide curve of a flat tree stump, tea and sandwiches laid out over its ancient rings, patiently waiting for them. Or well, somewhat patiently, there are crumbs scattered around their area of the stump, and one of them swallows guiltily as they watch Arthur approach, but the little thing doesn't seem to realize they've been caught. There's a little mushroom in front of one of the empty place settings, and the little salamander goes to set her mushroom down in front of the other, looking to him expectantly.

Arthur heaves a more beleaguered sigh than is necessary, ignoring AC's teasing - again, and goes to plop himself down at the makeshift table politely. Shakes off the cheers and gratitude the other salamanders give when he does so, insisting killing the basilisk was nothing, really.

All this is too elaborate, too nice,  for someone like him, but he's been too worn down to look a gift horse in the mouth for the time being.

~

A world and a half away, Charles is standing in an open marsh in Lemoyne, and fighting the feeling that this is deeply wrong.

In just the few weeks since he and Abigail buried the pair, Hosea and Lenny's graves have already begun to feel faint to him, like something that happened years ago; distant but still painful.

The dirt above them is fresh-looking and undisturbed, not yet settled enough for the sparse grass that grows here to overtake it, and the wooden grave markers are still dark and easy to read.

He stays there a moment, solemnly taking in the way nature has begun to reclaim them, in quiet regard, only broken when the tall woman- Vriska she'd eventually introduced herself as- interrupts with a loud call.

"Come  on, we don't have all night to waste!" She scowls, fists thrown in her pockets blood-red shoes scuffing in the mud.

Charles balks at that but says nothing. They have no digging tools, no shovels or spades, so whatever macabre thing this is to be, it's not outright grave robbery. Mercifully this seems to be a sentiment shared by the others, as they give her a sharp look before reluctantly stepping closer than is respectful.

"Alright then, how are we to proceed?" Jane asks, cheery demeanor dampened by the macabre scenario, though she still gives the pretense of a grin. "I'm not very keen on smooching a rotten cadaver, you know."

A grunt from Dave. The young man has thus far proven to either be aloof or unexpectedly verbose if a bit tricky to decipher.

"Yeah, I don't think anyone  likes  kissing dead bodies, Jane." He snarks, dropping his sword to the ground and flipping his hands out dramatically. With a demure flicker, what look for all the world to be records spring into existence, poised just-so under his fingertips, with dark red gears turning underneath. "Vris, you ready? Which, ah," He pauses, turning to Charles with a pursed frown, "Which one are we goin' for, first?"

Charles blinks. Takes a moment to speak, not certain why he's being asked this  now , and apparently that's enough to turn over his say entirely.

"That one." Vriska grunts, flipping her bright red nail to gesture at Hosea's wooden gravemarker, as if the choice had been barely a thought. "Start there, get to the other one later."

Charles purses his lips at that, but Jane wastes no time, squatting and spreading one hand on the soft dirt as if divining some dark message from the corpse itself. Nods approvingly, as she stands back upright, wiping her hand off on a napkin procured from... somewhere. 

"Yes, that will do quite well!" She hums, earning a sardonic look from Dave. "He was getting to the end of his lifespan, from what I can tell, and quite ill, I believe. Should be quite a fair bit of practice, as it were." As the words come out of her mouth, she seems to realize what she's saying, nose twisting up in regret. "N-Not that, ah, not that we're taking this matter lightly, of course!" She gives Charles an apologetic look, gloved hands twisting in anxiety. "It's just that, ah, we haven't done this quite before, and it'll be.... better, to have a bit of a challenge, starting with someone who was, ahem, a bit closer to this fate to begin with."

"No shit." Vriska grunts, dead white eyes lighting up gold as she moves to stand almost directly on top of Hosea's grave, nearly pushing past Charles to get there. "You having second thoughts, Crocker?"

A harrumph from the woman, who shakes her head petulantly. Gestures, and the other two seemingly get to work, though what they're doing, Charles can't hope to guess. The not-demon's eyes close as if deep in thought. Dave flicks his wrists, gears stopping in place and records spinning in response, hands blurring, moving faster than Charles can follow, and time itself seems to slow, just a beat. Charles is suddenly aware of the sensation of his body working, his heart beating in his chest, the damp marsh air held in his lungs.

The air has an almost oppressive quality to it, and then Vriska opens her eyes, expression raw and hungry. She reaches forward, into the blur of Dave's brisk, impossibly slowed gestures, slipping into the space around them and leaving everything feeling cold and hollow in her wake.

The woman scowls, cursing and tensing her arms as if she's holding on. Seems to have found what she's looking for, because the weighty searching look to her gaze turns sharp and vicious.

She suddenly retracts, to drop a bloody and still very much dead Hosea on the dirt mound, though his body is still warm, and lax. Nothing like the stiff, bloated thing it'd been, when Charles had stolen it from the coroner. It's fresh still, somehow, blood still flowing from the gunshot at his back.

Still, Miss Crocker bends down to kneel beside the man, as if nothing has gone wrong at all. Tuts, murmuring under her breath, "And I still feel that having Egbert here would have negated two whole steps of this mess," and lifts his head to place a chaste kiss on the corpse's lips.

Behind her Dave whoops, earning a sharp look when the woman pulls back.

She stays there, skirt pooling around her in the muck, for a moment, and then his fallow chest starts to  rise . The man, the months-dead corpse, starts to  breathe  again.

"There!" Jane grins, giving a rather proud expression. "That should be good as new, then!" She practically beams, standing back up and attempting to brush off the dirt marks on her fancy blue dress.

Hosea coughs, eyes slowly sliding open, and Charles startles into motion, bending down and helping the man sit up with a shaky hand, though the somehow-former cadaver pushes further, climbing shakily to his feet after a moment to collect himself, collapsing under the weight of bones that have lain still for so long, and without thought Charles lets him crumple into his chest, for just a spell.

"'Sup." Dave grunts, from somewhere behind Charles. "Got a job for you from Dutch."

Chapter Text

Sain-Denis is a miserable town. One moment, Hosea is lying his way along, in his element, Abigail at his back, feeling that tension of a job close to either fruition or ruin, and the next he's standing in the middle of a street, gun to his back. No way out, nothing to do but plead against all reason. He hadn't had time to say more than a world, and then it'd all gone cold and dark.

What came next, whatever cramped plot in hell he'd surely earned is faded and impossible to recall, over the weeks spent rotting in some swamp, only to get dragged back into the living world by Dutch's insatiable ambitions.

Everything past that is a whirlwind, too fast to commit to detailed memory, and too urgent, seemingly, to push back against the intricate matter. There's practically no time to stop and think about what's being asked of him, what grand scheme Dutch is disillusioned about (if indeed this is his doing and not yet another deception, though Charles' quiet, grounding presence argues against that notion). It feels not unlike that ill-fated job on the post station, though the old conman doesn't have more than a moment to dwell on it.

There's no sign of the others, no one familiar here in this miserable swamp but Charles, though he's not particularly scared by a trio of children armed only with a sword and a possible number of concealed defenses; most likely knives. Instead, Hosea finds his mind running, again and again, to that damned bank job apparently a month and a half passed. The endeavor had been disastrous, clearly, so much so they'd abandoned that mansion in the swamp immediately. More dangerous than they'd accounted for, and so much so that he'd found his way to this shallow grave, and not to mention the fate of poor young Lenny, at the very least.

Hosea can't get the notion out of his head that the travesty had claimed others, as well.

When he asks, in passing, as the children are busy setting up... Some manner of equipment for him, Charles is cagey about the gang's current situation. Dutch isn't handling his loss well, that much is clear. John is distant, seemingly on the edge of heading out on his own again. And Arthur...

When Hosea asks how Arthur has been, knowing having to watch him die, helpless, had surely been upsetting for the boy, Charles' defensive seems to go up. He'd deflected, murmuring something about not being sure- having been occupied with his own matters of late, which Hosea knows is horse shit.

Arthur and Charles have been pining about each other for months now, with all the subtlety of a couple of dew-eyed teenagers, and neither had seemed particularly quick to grow bored of the dance, in Hosea's opinion. He has no doubt that Arthur would confide with him, in that reluctant way he does, would tell him if he wasn't handling things well. There's no doubt in his mind he would at least stay in touch enough to let him know how he is. That Charles doesn't know, doesn't tell him a thing, says something all the more sinister.

Namely, there's a growing dread in his gut that Arthur never made it back that damned bank job at all, and the man is simply misleading him to spare his feelings.

It's a dark thought, one that makes his grip on the moment grow faint, draws his thoughts back to that hollow spot in his heart where Bessie had once been, where the memory of her still pervades, and he carefully gathers it up and places it aside for later. For now, there's work to attend to.

~

Somehow Arthur had thought that the tea party would have been a one-time thing. That after he'd indulged their need to thank him, the salamanders would just go back their odd little lives, leave him to sort his own affairs. A damned fool.

The 'Bastilisk' wasn't alone, apparently, in its terror on their little village, and he takes up vigil on the edge of the village, gunning down the rogue bands of inky black demons.

Finds himself visited, every so often, by Miss Cannellini's cheery little presence, a cool glass of ice-cold water or a gel-wet bandage for some minor wound he hadn't yet dressed clutched in her chubby little claw. Little time on his hands to ruminate, but a heavy weight seems to be lifting from his chest. He hasn't had one of those miserable coughing fits in the whole day and a half he's been here, and somewhere in a remote part of his mind, Arthur quietly begins to hope.

Through it all, that nosy little spectre is a constant thorn in his side; having reappeared from its barely notable absence to prod at him, seemingly endlessly.

When he asks AC, the voice is uncharacteristically cagey. She, reluctantly, informs him that it's meant to be some sort of guide and protective spirit; that it needs to be given a second item (though the flower, pencil, and leftover scrap of elk hide found in his satchel he'd reluctantly offered it hadn't been enough, evidently), and  soon  by the sound of things, but won't give him any more information. Arthur has half a mind to call out to her again and demand more information, but before he can do more than open his mouth, he finds himself surrounded by the sounds of a non-too-subtle troop of yet more assailants.

The little gremlins are the same inky black tough-skinned type of creature the Basilisk had been, armored skin too thick to be pierced easily by normal rounds, decorated with rabbit ears and deer antlers, among other adornments- one bears pitch-black feathered wings, and another has completely transparent skin, revealing the vibrant blue and purple gel that has gushed from each one of the creatures he's downed yet. Several are wearing what look to be ladies' garments and others bear faded leather hats and flannel, though none of the outfits quite seem to match. They threaten him with sharp fangs and bared claws, only two weapons to be seen amidst the whole number, and both little more than pocket-knives and against himself, Arthur feels himself growing just a bit cocky- that is to say it's a familiar enough challenge that he feels confident unholstering the brand new pistols waiting in the thin air near one him, instead of his well-trusted colt action revolver.

After the admittedly charming little tea party, AC had sat him down to explain some of the more esoteric aspects to his confounding machine's abilities (apparently having been urged to do so at the word of one of her colleagues- the first Arthur's heard of anyone else since that dark night in the wood with Miss Lalonde), then left him to explore beyond the basics by himself, leaving him near-entirely in the dark as to the scope of his options.

Right now, that means he's crafted a number of odd-looking weapons for himself, most foolish in nature, though he feels less self-conscious about his decisions with only her to see.

The revolver he draws on the imp is unwieldy but light in his hand, a garish fusion of one of his more elaborate writing pens that he hadn't been able to bring himself to toss when it's nib had gotten too jammed to be functional. It's all black steel and decorated iron and smeared faintly with ink at the muzzle, with the pen's gold nib jutting forward sharply at the end like some manner of a crude bayonet, and his bullet leaves a dark stain on the tree he fires his warning shot into, ink coating the round somehow. It matches the equally over-designed mess of feather, bone, and intricately carved steel currently sitting atop his head.

:33 <Ooh! AC is impurressed with your inspurration!

:33 <well, she's more impurressed with your resoursefurness, given how boring most of your  materails  are

:33 <stil, she appurroves of your outfit impurrovements

Arthur fights the cheeky grin at that and against his better judgment singles the winged beast out, hanging about near the canopy with a sneering grin, and gives the barrel of his fancy new revolver a showy spin, before pinning it to the nearby tree with three shots in one smooth motion almost at the same time as he jams the sharp blade of its nib into the exposed meat of a second, bursting through the thick carapace after a moment of effort. He moves choppily, aware, absently, of the specter's faintly humming presence at his heels.

Just as he heads 'round the corner, though, his fool-head comes right in swiping distance for the glass-like imp hanging from one light noose, and he's met with a chittering jeer, sharp claws shredding through the worn fabric of his shirt and into the meat of his shoulder. With a howl of pain, Arthur ducks, grip on the revolver slipping and causing it to twist back at him, blade slicing into his forearm and splattering the ground below with thick globs of his blood. He curses, balance failing him and shooting wildly to scare off the damn thing in a blind bid.

:33 <Arfur are you okay?

For just a second, silence rings in the hollow, as he climbs to his feet with a groan, assessing the damage with his uninjured hand, wincing at the feeling of his forearm split open a good quarter-inch; he'll be needing stitches for sure, and there's no thought of asking the little miss for help, uncoordinated as she is (dainty as she is, no need to get her tangled up in his foolish mess).

"Now you gone an' done it," an all-too-familiar groans in his place, the ball of light and mangled rabbit flaring brighter than he can bear, form shifting without reason. "Acted the fool, and ended up paying for it. What a surprise."

Arthur gapes, thankful that the pack of imps seems to have been scared into retreat either by his erratic shots or the specters sudden, impressive change in size because he damn near drops the gun in shock.

He's met with his own ugly mug, blood-red and grimacing as if in as much pain as he is, with twitching nose and long, drooping ears. The being gives him a dour, repugnant look as if daring him to argue, and Arthur can't bring himself to give more than a few syllables.

"Uhh," He manages eventually, staggering back from the visage, tongue thick with shock, one hand still pressed tightly to the open line of his flesh, as his throat grows harsh with the need to cough, all of a sudden. "whuh's goin' on?"

~

It's only instinct and dumb luck that keeps Bill from burning to death almost as soon as he sets foot in the medium.

Almost as soon as comes to his senses, he's met with an insufferable wall of heat, and a near-constant (clockwork sounds). A fire rages seemingly somewhere far off and yet everywhere, and the worn work shirt on his back is already soaked through in a fine layer of sweat. He takes all of one step and the ground underfoot shifts; the gear he hadn't notice begins to turn. Bill about falls on his ass overcorrecting his balance, throwing one hand out to catch on the hot (but not painfully so) metal.

Just where he'd been standing, a hole opens up, and some sort of lizard, yellow and huge enough to startle him dashes out from wherever it'd been hidden, ducking inside before the turning gear can cover it up again.

WOW TH1S PL4C3 1S A R34L SH1tSHOW, HUH

Everything in him freezes at that. Bill halts, breath catching in his chest.

Then he sneers, and pulls back. Ignores the voice that is  not  ringing in his head, proving he's really gone and lost his mind. Scowls, kicking the copper cog and trying to get another look at the creature that'd disappeared behind it.

Y34H TH4TS GONN4 G3T YOU WH4T YOU W4NT

M4YB3 THROW 4 B1GG3R T4NTRUM, LOL

His shoulders lock up, and Bill finds his body trembling. Continues  not  hearing the snickering voice, and runs one hand along the side of his forearm, already outright dripping with sweat. The heat bores down on him, and the endless ticking drones on and there is no one, no one to help him, tell him what to do; the ghostly specter that had swallowed up his own hat without pause is momentarily forgotten.

J3GUS WH4T D1D 1 H1T A N3RV3? YOU LOOK L1KE YOUR3 FUCK1NG LOS1NG 1T

4R3 YOU GUNN4 CRY??

His throat locks up. His feet refuse to budge from the relatively safe patch of ground. This isn't happening. This, all of this, is just... it can't be real.

With a muffled whimper, Bill gives in, folding in on himself and trying his best to keep himself from crying, to keep the sounds from getting loud enough to overhear. The harsh, nasally voice whines on, and he squeezes his eyes shut against it.

OH

OH FUCK

H3Y POM3GR4N4T3 D1CK-FUCK 1TS 4LR1GHT

1M NOT 1N YOUR H34D 1 W4S JUST FUCK1NG W1TH YOU

YOUR3 OK4Y YOUR3 NOT 1M4G1N1NG TH1NGS

SHOOOSH

FUCK

~

The storm passes, eventually.

It's still cold as shit, but the sky is clear and the sun is a harsh glare keeping them pinned still, in the snowy cave, if no longer frigid outside of the tent. It's warm enough that, bundled up in as many layers as John can get his hands on, he lets Jack out to explore, so long as he stays in the relative shelter. Sets to work clearing out the worst of the fresh-fallen snow, uncovering what looks like some sort of mineshaft, carved into the dark blue stone. Hastily, John covers the entrance with a half-empty (and entirely frozen over) rain barrel that had crossed over with them somehow and makes a mental note to seal it off more efficiently when he's fixed up the rest of the area.

Loathe as he is to admit it, the abuse the mysterious, aggressive figure had hurled on him last night comes in handy when he gets around to following its brunt instruction. The extra blankets he summons are a welcome addition to the small camp, along with copies of the small assortment of crumpled flowers Jack had had crammed in his pockets. John tells himself that it's to keep the boy busy, give him something to occupy himself with, and stay out of trouble, but he can't deny that it's calming to see the boy sprawled out on the uneven cave floor, now cleared of most of its snow, carefully ing out each abused plant, before beginning to weave them together as he's become fond of doing.

Arthur, also, seems to have gotten comfortable in his - somewhat; he's sitting awkwardly on the ground in some grassy field, when John looks in on him, feeling again as if he's intruding, legs bowed awkwardly before him. There's a strange, unfamiliar thing sitting before him, drawing all of his attention and earning some amount of disdain evidently, resting on almost insect-like legs, and glowing, softly.

He still hasn't found a way to talk to him- the system had given him a nigh-incomprehensible string of lengthy terms when he'd tried to type anything, and he hasn't found time to mess with it yet. 

It's a peaceful scene that is, until the monster comes shambling up out of the mineshaft just as he's getting around to dealing with it again.

John has, by now, encountered a few of the shadowy creatures wandering out in the snow, easily dispatched with his pistol, and as soon as he spots the sinister shadow thrown into the room by some light behind it, he yelps for Jack to get back, drawing his gun.

Turns, to find his son already swarmed with the damn things.

The creatures are bright red alligators of some kind, standing upright on stout hindlegs, eye-line coming up to just under John's chest. Their snouts are narrow and flared at the end with wide nostrils shooting out thick white puffs in the cold, and their beady little eyes fix on him with curiosity. Despite their nearly childlike frames, John doesn't have a moment to spare and aims his pistol. Only to hesitate, fury thrown off-guard when the infernal thing opens its craggy mouth to speak.

"Greetings, fellow disciple!" The creature has a scratchy, nasally voice as if it's not entirely accustomed to the act of speaking. "Are you awaiting the advent of the Rogue as well? We're in luck to have found you!"

One of the other alligators, one that has Jack's hand held delicately in its claws, speaks up at that. "So warm and vital! It is no surprise you weathered the tempest' fury!"

He frowns at that, but doesn't threaten further, reluctantly holstering the pistol- Jack seems unharmed by the creatures, and they haven't posed an actual threat yet.

"What is- where are we?" He grunts, hoping against hope that the beast will have some sort of useful information. "Have you seen my wife?"

A blink at that. The alligator stares at him a moment, words passing through its mind sluggishly. "Ah, you must mean the Rogue! Yes, we await her return as well, when she will free the Land of Cathedrals and Mineshafts from Ainos' wrath!"

John nods at that, not certain as to what it means. There have been no Cathedrals that he's seen, unless you count the tall, slender shapes off in the distance, more clear now that the storm seems to have passed.

He's pulled from his confusion by a sharp squawking sound from one of the creatures by Jack; its snout is deep in the mess of clothes waiting to be washed, and its fat little claw has gotten squished under a falling box of supplies. Before John can do more than open his mouth to show, the alligator in front of him gives a sharp squawk in return.

"Alright acolytes, we've cleared the area!" It declares, earning a dissenting bark from one of the others, but none move to contradict. "It's time to be moving on."

With a disappointed squawk, the others reluctantly collect themselves and follow the apparent leader out, and John pretends to not see the flower crown one of them drapes unfittingly over one eye. As the small troop heads back down the mineshaft, one of them stops to give John what almost looks to be a grin.

"You know, fellow disciple, you and your spawn are welcome at communion, come next snowfall." The alligator barks. "It is truly an enlightening experience, and we would be beholden for the added warmth."

With that, the creature turns and marches into the dark, and John is left pondering what it'd meant. Contemplating what he'll do to more permanently block off this path.

He turns to instruct Jack to stay away from the passage, only to find no sign of the boy- that is until he sees his boots peeking out from the thickly reinforced tent, soft light of the lap top glowing faintly.

"Jack." John sighs, crouching down to climb in with him. Any attempt at scolding fades, as he finds the boy curled up, tapping ungracefully at the keys "You can't just go running off without telling me..." 

"Look, it's uncle Arthur!" Jack smiles, giving no indication that he's heard, turning the screen around so he can see. His brother is again crouched in front of the squat beast-like machine, this time scowling at whatever it's showing him, and slowly typing something, and John finds himself inexplicably homesick.

"Yeah, ah, it's like a little sort of a magic window, like in a building." He explains, laying down beside the boy and ignoring the thought of the work left to do, for just a moment. "We can check in on him, but he can't really see us back."

At that, the boy rolls his eyes, and points insistently at one of the boxes cluttering up the screen. "No, look we can talk to him!"

There are a few lines of cobalt and crimson already there, and he can sense the anxiety bunching his shoulders; worried he's going to get in trouble, and John frowns but doesn't move beyond angling the screen a little better.

acanthaModerate  started pestering  exhaustedMarston

AM: JOhn just what fool idea got in your head there? If anything at all, I mean.

AM: You may as well have named yourself 'Pinkerton Target'

EM: Oh he is not here right now.

EM: I do not think he was trying to hide himself though

AM: Jack is that you?

AM: Is everything alright?

EM: yes, he's talking with Inspector Bumble

EM: We were playing with some flowers and then the Scouting Party decided to pay us a visit

EM: They are a bunch of alligators but I think they are nice

AM: Jack do you and your father have anyone else over there?

AM: Alligators? are you sure that's safe?

EM: i am not supposed to talk to strangers

AM: Jack it's uncle Arthur

AM: are you sure your father is okay?

EM: oh uncle arthur

EM: dad was worried about you

He grunts in shock, and can't bring himself to speak, yet. Just reaches for the keyboard, hands resting awkwardly on the keys. Pauses, not sure what to write.

EM: Arthur, is that you?

~

Normally, Karen would be panicking, given that she's just been shoved in the way of some sort of falling star, and woken up nowhere familiar.

Normally, but right now, she's found herself in the middle of some sort of party, and that means liquor.

The already tipsy woman giggles, accepting the glass offered by a nearby salamander... thing with a murmur of thanks. Finds the drink delightfully bubbly, if a little weak for her taste, but that's hardly a thought just yet.

you just shored up, and you're already salmon em back? damn

u codda be squidding me, gill

A snort at that and Karen freezes, looking around to find whoever's preaching and trying to ruin her fun. Finds no one, the slimy amphibians all occupied with the party. With attending to all of the other guests, and getting stuck in what look like boring and tedious conversations, but the music is nice.

Just my luck, I'd get shucked with the doofish

Can't escape that beach's shellfish floundering

Before she can investigate the disembodied voice further, Karen is interrupted by the silent, glowing figure of her supposed guide. The matronly creature is a stern shadow, having absorbed the pinched hairpin she'd tossed at it at that snippy little girl's insistence, and taken the shape of its former owner for her trouble.

The silhouette of Miss Grimshaw frowns at her disapprovingly, face entirely devoid of features, though her hair is completely present. The (broken) locket she'd tossed at the thing, hoping to appease it enough to sneak out from its watch had given it big, round spectacles, and a more elaborate dress, no less stern. Both articles shine on its plum-colored skin as if resting on top, not part of the being.

The ghostly visage stares at her, arms crossed. Says nothing, seemingly unable to speak at all, though it doesn't need a syllable to give her chills.

Karen is thankfully fuzzy enough that she couldn't be fucked to listen, even if it could scold her.

"What? It's a party, isn't it?" She whines into the shadow's blank visage. "I'm allowed to unwind a little, it's been a tough day..."

As she complains, one of the nearby salamanders wanders off, caught in the steadily heating discussion between a high ranking socialite and her lower-ranking handmaiden.

Carp gurl. even your prawnsorts are moray focused than you

The voice returns, unbidden, and Karen rolls her eyes. Empties her flute, and snatches another, abandoned on the table beside her. They don't understand, none of this matters.

~

When he next gets a chance to pause, Hosea finds himself almost lost in a fantasy of idealism and sugar.

Everything around him is soft and gentle, and the air smells faintly of sweets. The ground around him is a bright bubblegum pink, marbled with swirls of soft green and blue. and the distant hills are a deep chocolatey brown. Far beyond sits a soft white castle, like something out of a fairytale, save for the way the gentle sunlight glints dully on its gilded surfaces. And the figures he can see floating around it; bulbous, nondescript blobs with long noodle-like tendrils trailing down underneath. Completely alien and incomprehensible, and yet as he watches, Hosea swears he sees one turn as if to regard him, it's bloblike shadow back-lit by the flicker of a torch.

A horrendous and vaguely terrifying challenge that is pushed aside for later. For now, there is work to do.

The surrounding grove is assessed with swift efficiency; no sign of danger or anything to spook, and no little gremlins wandering around, ready to strike. Nothing familiar at all, save for the ghostly half-horse visage.

The cyan specter had been a curious matter some hours ago; dodging the book and stolen wedding ring he'd tossed at it, only to absorb the random horseshoe he'd found in a back pocket, tossing at the mischievous creature on a whim. Now it hovers near him, bright and largely nonthreatening, and offering only the occasional nicker of guidance. It resembles Silver Dollar currently, horse legs hanging uselessly a foot and a half from the ground.

"Alright, now where did I leave that device..." Hosea muses to himself, knowing full well it can't have gone too far. The brisk lesson he'd gotten from the tall, exceptionally rude woman had been an enlightening, if confusing endeavor, and now he's curious as to how much will be useful.

With a groan, he pulls the wide, black, metal book Mr. Strider had been insistent he take; it's wide, smooth surface offering little in the way of familiarity.

With a grunt, Hosea sets the thing down on a nearby boulder, settling down on a tree stump near enough to perch on the edge and reach it, and opens the lid. Reveals a set of keys not unlike that of a typewriter, and gets to work, eyeing the curious little window of John with little regard.

It looks terribly cold, in that snow-dusted cavern, and he can't imagine it's at all pleasant for either of them to be near-exposed to the elements so.

The complicated rushed explanation he'd gotten in the back of his mind, Hosea brings up the array of command, swiping his thumb across the depressed square under the keyboard in an ungainly manner. Selects the 'Revise' option in the glaring orange bar, and then moves to find the 'wall' option.

Oh wow, you really know what you're doing, huh?

That, the intrusive voice grating at the base of his skull, causes Hosea to pause. Tense, aware of the pistol sitting comfortably at his hip, even if he doesn't make a move yet. His gaze flits across the small clearing, searching for anyone who could have spoken.

No no, don't get spooked

I'm just popping in to check on things

See if you need help

Hosea grunts and, noting that the spectral visage of Silver Dollar seems not to react to whatever is speaking to him, whatever is  watching  him, forces himself to relax if only a touch. Clears his throat, willing shoulders to go lax.

"And you're, one of those young fellows with miss Serket, are you, miss?" The oddity that had greeted him, all fangs and bright eyes shining in the lantern light would certainly explain some manner of this encounter; the young woman had screamed eccentric and unnatural with every fiber of her being and seemed not one ounce uncomfortable in it.

Oh uh

lol

a long, drawn-out pause, broken only when the voice again returns to his thoughts, Hosea wonders, briefly, if he'd imagined it after all.

Yeah, that's me

Just here to give you a nudge if you need it

totally a girl

hehehe

A raised eyebrow at that, but Hosea doesn't question the oddity of her phrasing. He's had enough issues for one day, and if it's not an issue, he decides to set it aside for later.

You can call me June by the way

haha

Don't let me distract you though

With that, the voice seems to subside, the impression of its presence going faint, and Hosea grunts. Mentally throws in another layer to the amount of spectatorship he's going to have to deal with and then focuses back on the task at hand. Selects a small line around the perimeter tent sitting in the middle of the cavern, surrounding it with thick, insulating walls- seemingly the sort that will keep out the worst of the cold.

After he lays down a few pathways, wary of the depleting funds present in the screen, Hosea moves on to lay out a bit more of the homestead. There's no sign of movement from the tent where he figures John and Jack are currently- sleeping perhaps, so he presses on.

After reinforcing the perimeter of where John's likely set up his home base, Hosea moves on to arrange a small, compact kitchen, a little dining area. It's therapeutic somewhat, to place windowsills and plot out areas, arranging the home he'd always imagined his sons getting to live in.

Only to be brought crashing back to reality when he comes up short on one final expansion. The new homestead lacks one of it's most crucial features; a front door (or any leading outwards, for that matter).

Well. There's not much more he can do, having spent all of the funds John's worked hard to gather in a shockingly swift amount of time, and Hosea reluctantly closes the lap top again, feeling horribly guilty and telling himself they at least have windows to climb in and out of. Shivers, the cool night air bringing with it soft clouds that threaten rain, and the reminder that he is, again, without more than a bedroll for shelter against it- not even at the moment. All the better reason to start making his way to the gilded castle then, and see what fate lies ahead.

~

The soil of the dank marsh is soft, turns quickly, and starts to swallow you up if you're not careful.

The muck squelches under Crocker's dainty boots, and sucks on Strider's heels, but vriska is seemingly unaffected.

Potentially, this is because she, too, is a god, and can simply raise herself above the mud, expending the effort where the others won't. Potentially it's because she grew up, hard and coarse, on the wilds of Alternia, each passing sweep a triumph of will.

Or potentially it's some unknown effect of being undead, a rejection of the soil itself, and the deep sleep it brings.

Whatever the reason, the lone troll glides above the muck, candy-red boots barely scuffed by it's dark touch. She strikes, reaching into the hole in spacetime Strider carefully offers up. Blindly fishes for her target, feeling the vibrant strand of capital L Life brought to brutal end in that dark street.

Takes it's Trueness for her own, pulling back and stealing away the corpse's reality, unbeholden to the natural flow of time. Drops the second dead body in the slick muck, a sharp blade throbbing through her chest in commiseration.

Feels hollow and almost absent, as Crocker kneels down to kiss the corpse's cold lips.

When she watches breath return to the man's still body, she feels almost nothing. Robbed, if anything, of that simple little bubble, out in the vast, unseen corner of spacetime; a chance to be simply her. And not Her.

She steps back, watching the tender way Smith eases him to his feet, powerful arms a vice against his skinny form, asking and asking again if it's really him; if he's alright. If he's certain he's not in pain.

Strider steps forward, an explanation already on his tongue, and vriska simply hangs there, lost.