Chapter Text
Wordless. The laboratory shakes as dust and loosened concrete fall to the floor.
The Cultists in full body robes stopped their advance by the entrance of a specific part of the laboratory, the room where their greatest prize was stored, and supposedly paralyzed, their directive, stopping the Intruder with the odd weapon and wear, turned into their legs trembling, eyes locked to the dazed, yet most likely vengeful pale haired woman.
That fool free'd her.
The Ægirian woman, the force responsible for the shake. Her body only ran through pure instinct, responding to the presence in-front of her. And now, everyone in this Laboratory was bound to become nothing but a decorative mush.
That presence, so entirely different compared to the filth that scampered around the Laboratory she was bound in, it was a tense presence. Though powerful.
No other thought was present in her mind other than to be the weapon she was built to be, the sheer amount of Originium present in her body dulled her rational thinking, her only purpose was to lunge herself at any target she deemed strong, or dangerous, but the latter wasn't necessary.
An artform of pure battle instinct.
Bloodlust emanated her form, immobilizing the Cultists, even as their own guts screamed to turn back and run, every step from the woman meant a silent command for them to still to which they belligerently answered, she wore a single layered gown, the clothes back exposed with a slit V-shaped window to reveal her bare back with the Originium outlined spine, done for the convenience for the robed researchers inside the laboratory, her red crimson eyes dug into the blurred silhouette of the woman in black.
They weren't injured, not to the point where they'd be writhing on the ground, nor they slumped, forcing breaths, no, they were very much alive - and well enough to stand straight and stare her down.
The Ægir flashes her shark teeth with a gleeful smile.
While her weapon was gone, her fists were more than sufficient, tools for the unsure war that rendered flesh asunder. The hunt begins.
Sometimes, when faced with the utter joys of the people, and the splendid colors they exuded, I'd often reciprocate with nothing but empty hollows in my eyes and straight lips.
Is the greatest curse upon oneself not of the rage for every waking moment, but the all encompassing gloom of surrender, letting nothing but the wind guide them?
Though, there remains hope in my spirits, often instead, I'd reciprocate their light. Yet, now as time continues its march, the hollows consume my heart more.
A figure stands by a plain full of flowers, painted by the serene white moon's light, with a lantern on hand, it illuminates a small patch of the area with a lavender glow, the woman, Mithi, stares by the flickering flame with a somber expression.
If obedience is demanded for gifts. To live a good, normal life is to walk into a cage. Shut my own heart, be given things without mind and blindly follow a path laid before me, to never question, to never look back for myself. Then do I puppet nothing but a corpse without a soul? Am I.. selfish for wanting for nothing more, to live how I wish? To rattle and leave this cage, if I am but a doll to be dressed by the whims of voices and move how they wield my strings, a hollow vessel, then can one truly tell themselves they’ve lived as themselves? Or lived at all?
A white circular table accompanied by two seats not far away, present on the surface was a tea set, the two saucers and cups, the kettle on the middle still giving off steam from its heat, the table was given shade by a lone large old sweetbay tree.
What makes a strong person, with a strong will? Is the individual only strong willed when there's hope? What if there's none? What makes of the individual? What if, that individual is truly destined to—
A home, clothes and food. Yet it felt so suffocating. I could not stare into a mirror with the clothes given to me. To shave off my skin, to sever my ears, gouge out my own eyes, to scream and shake my cage pleading for freedom. This future handed to me is nothing but a personal hell, playing into the whims of people to please their hearts, born with conditions to fulfill what could be called love, ignorance, prejudice born into inhumanity, forced to endure needles puncturing against my heart if I choose to reach out of this cage.
This place was her greatest comfort, her greatest desire.
I’m not much of something of the person I'm told to be, and.. I just don’t care anymore, again, and again, I shall pursue that wish, endlessly, my heart torn from the affection I so desperately wanted from the person I should have loved the most and cared for me, I claw, I claw, for the unconditional love I was promised.
One chair was pushed back, placed was a rook chest piece, on the top is a lavender pearl.
But nothing beckoned, for all my calls, despite how hard I tried, like a cycle I wished to be different, I was only hurt, and such, I shall fill the silence, I shall save myself.
I have to.
.. I need to walk.
Often when darkness reaches midnight and the sky offer the view of its stars, I’d frequently catch our guest, ‘Mithi’, straying from my home always keeping their lavender lantern held taut, moving to the forests of Primavera, whether it be concern, or curiosity, sometimes it would overtake me and I'd follow her while my child was fast asleep.
And there, she wandered by the groves of the woods, shone by the moon, lantern held high, its given light shining even brighter than before, what was most consistent was the solemn look on her eyes, pursed lips and what seemed to be fireflies, sometimes butterflies accompanying her form, passing by and circling her figure.
I water these ‘flowers’, may they bloom into butterflies.
Her voice would be forlorn for the departed, tending to what was the dead and past.
The Invisible bell rings upon seven pleasant rings.
Moderate brown skin, circular glasses strapped with a black lanyard to keep the frame stable by her nose and ears, Mithi looked to be of a woman no younger than her 20s, she wore a gothic bonnet that accentuated the dark curly hair that extended past her shoulders.
Clad in a long sleeved frilly black dress that covered her ankles, its sleeves notably layered with ruffles and frills, red rose wrapped ontop of the right hand that held the lantern, laced corset on her waist, what stood out the most were the numerous ribbons decorated by the cloth, the same colored gem worn by the neck ribbon.
The outfit concluded with the same colored dark knee high socks and heels. With Mithi’s tone of voice and mannerisms she looked to be a grim reaper one would tell of, yet she didn’t look to be the part.
The entire outfit was entirely different to the usual attire she wore around the city, a more befitting outfit than something so eye-catching. And it looked especially expensive, the cost of the fabric near discernable from a glance, tailored from presumably Victoria? with its gothic motifs, a Victorian, the guess added by their accent.
Lament, bring Remembrance.
To avoid complications with the possibility of getting caught, I'd leave after a few minutes, though, I’d hear Mithi conversing with the air before that, her tone and expression, it’d always be the happiest, most earnest and calmest I'd see of her.
Run down and decrepit. That's what one could describe Primavera, its once sleek, beautiful white stoned homes smudged black with age and partly taken by nature with growing moss, its people cursed with clouds over their heads and hunched backs, barely any care was placed for the city's maintenance, and what effort could have been was drowned in alcohol.
Any hope was sapped out of this place ever since the Golden Age was swept away by the tides, and the Inquisition were not of any help either, any supplies given to them were sub-par at best to hazardous to Iberian health at worst.
Their water supplies were questionable, any attempts for harvest returned with rot, and the sent meat were followed by flies and or discolored.
And the Church. Oh the Church of the Deep.
Her head moved to one of the members offering supplies by a darkened corner, and another accompanied the supplier: while faint, they could be told to be offering sermons by the Church.
The thought made Esteban, an older liberi woman shiver, and she quickly looked away, she was with light blonde hair and subtle wrinkles, she wore a modest brown dress, she was but part of the many who lived day by day in Primavera.
“I’m stuck at an Impasse.” She says, hand on her forehead. Groaning out of frustration, she walked by the streets of the city, the Penal Battalion had strengthened their surveillance of the place to counteract the Church, and now they're only waiting until they gather a warrant to seize them dead.
The Inquisition was not kind, especially to the Church of the Deep, nor was the latter any better, much worse. Life here was horrible. And she regrets caring for her child here, to force them to endure a life like this one.
At the very least, some people made it more bearable.
“Mithi?” Esteban calls, opening the door to her home, it wasn't any better than the homes here in Primavera, its only sources of light were the windows, and for warmth, the billowing fire of Mithi's lantern.
Never swayed by the wind, it continued to move by its own accord, to the darkened corner of her home by heavy preference, Esteban first thought she was a High Inquisitor, especially with the lantern, but her ignorance of the place, accent, and looks disproved that. ‘Despite the lantern you offer it's been colder than ever.’
Esteban looked to be double of Mithi's age, old enough to be her own mother.
“It's the afternoon, Anita is asleep like on schedule.” Mithi answers, present on the table with crocheting a ribbon, the door closing shut as Esteban places her plastic bags on the table. Mother had a strict hold on Anita’s safety, rationally so considering this hell of a place. “She’s embracing Mirasol rather tight, she loves the stuffed animal. It's cute.”
“How's your headache?” Esteban doesn't take long to move, grabbing cloth and warming a kettle. Mithi is a recent, welcome presence.
“Better.” Leaning back against the wooden chair, Mithi looks at the bags. “It's been less frequent after a week, less painful too.” Her tone softens to relief. “Real miracle, not sure how much longer I'd be able to take it.”
“A compress would still be welcome.” Esteban offers, and she's rewarded with a smile. The younger woman hums of relief as the warm cloth is pressed against her forehead, she keeps it held by her hand. “You were practically bedridden when we got you, wouldn't want that again would we?”
“Yeah.” Mithi nods, the gem, the same color as the lavender orb on her ribbon from the gothic outfit, on her ring finger glowing dimly in response. “To be fair, you saw me slumped and unconscious, more less than me coming here and you saving me.”
“Speaking of miracles, this month's rations look better than ever. Is the Inquisition finally giving us more than crumbs?”
“They wouldn't care that much to actually do that, this city is below putting more than just what's needed.” Esteban says. “The meat they delivered was just as subpar, their bread stale, but it just got better all of a sudden, no flies, color doesn't look spoiled, bread actually has taste.” Esteban's view moves by the kettle. “And the water supply looks like it won't give my child a disease.”
“But I'm worried.” The mother pauses in thought. “Good as miracles can be, I'm afraid the Church might use this as a way to expand their influence on the city, as deep as it is already.”
“Right.” Mithi nods, looking down to the crocheted ribbon, half-done.
“Thank you, again. For caring for Anita. The frequency of missing people has increased, leaving the scraps of this city to attempt leaving its borders hoping for some kind of luck, or.’ She doesn’t finish her sentence. “Now I tell her to always stay by you, she can’t play with other children, you’re really her only company.” Esteban then purses her lips in thought. “When are you planning to leave? I doubt that a traveler would be incentivized to stay in a place like this, as incremental as the improvements may be.”
“Soon enough, but no decision yet.” The younger woman answers, putting down her hook. “I still have much to repay you for tending to me.”
“It's the least I can do really. No need.” Esteban attempts to wave away the flattery with her words, yet, Mithi doesn't relent. “You really ought to leave sooner or later, Iberia doesn't take kindly to foreigners.”
“I still have errands to do, Miss Esteban.”
“Make it quick.” Esteban answered quickly, she didn't question the particular errands, it was obvious what it was. “I know young folk usually are out of depth in regarding death but please, don't tarry the line, not in these parts.”
The possessed vigor the younger woman had brought bad memories, there was always a thin line between bravery and a stupendous attempt of throwing one's life.
“You're not part of the Battalion, and you're especially not a high Inquisitor with that lamp of yours.”—“Really, I feel like you're asking for trouble when you carry that around. If I didn’t know any better, I would have frozen straight for much longer when Anita first saw your unconscious body.”
Her own husband tarried on such a side, and paid dearly.
“.. I'll finish the crochet, then I'll help with home chores. I may be a Guest but you don't need to offer that much for hospitality.” The chair slides backwards as Mithi’s form slacks.
“I'll be out by the week ‘kay?” Then, silence as Mithi looks away. “You're really treating me like I'm your own daughter.” A flushed look painted her face, red blushing on the tip of her ears.
“Anita's reaction to you made me comfortable, for someone so young, she reads people well. She likes your presence, besides, youth, especially for a young woman like yours, don't deserve to be rot away. It's my responsibility.”
“You sound like you're the one getting hurt, you're afraid of my bravery yet.. Leave it to the adults, you should bloom.”
“I'm one myself.”
“Dear, you don't even look like you're old enough for alcohol. And I'm twice your age.” Mithi’s cheek is squished. “You have a real baby face, your Mother ought to be lucky to have you.” Their cheeks were especially soft, plump and easy to tug.
“Haha, yeah.” The tone immediately dissipates, leaving an awkward silence. Before Esteban could apologize. "Id prefer not to talk about my Mother, if possible." Mithi says, bluntly, and as polite as possible. "Sensitive topic."
Esteban nods in understanding. “I just choose not to drink.” Then, Mithi continues on. With the cloth having cooled, it's placed on the table. “I don't trust myself. I've seen what it can do to people.”
“That's a relief.” Esteban pulls back, a look of guilt in her face, but she doesn't prod, nor push. “Quite the trend with children, doing things they shouldn't. Drinking one of them, no matter what I do to tell them off they'll just..” Esteban shakes her head, clearly irritated. “Now..” The subject is immediately switched. “If your headaches eases enough, then you better help me around the house. I'll be preparing dinner.”
“Yes, Mom.” Mithi says jokingly in the tone of a rebellious teenage child, though her tone does ease with the final word, and, Esteban pauses from the given title.
As the moment sinks, Mithi's head moves to Anita's room, mind taking note of the passing time. “I’ll be asking for Mirasol, hopefully Anita won’t kick my ass for it.” Its about to be night.
Walking. It always helped me tremendously in calming my mind, such, becoming a Magical Girl to travel around the city for the sake of my duties was a great benefit in that sense.
A lone spirit points - at the edges of the forest laid a church: its state just as decrepit as Primavera itself, its previous purpose, that of worship of Laterano’s religion, now wiped away to the past like the Golden Age of Iberia itself.
Mithi nods to show her thanks. “Do you wish for company? Before I make my leave.” She murmurs, gifting the spirit, an older liberi man, a rose, light purple in color. “It often gets lonely being all alone.” In her right hand, she held a notebook, and other, a pen.
He nods. “Been wishing for nothing more than that.” And so he slumped by the tree, rose on hand, his spiritual body swaying like smoke from the winds of the forest.
Mithi could only stare as she sat down in return, on her knees as she stared at the older man, a face of regrets, and symptoms of what she now knew as - ‘Oripathy’ - it was wordless, but it was enough. Company wasn't something given to the infected. They deserved companionship, that's something she knows as much.
“The final egress of life. For when one closes their eyes, and they find themselves in a heaven of clouds, that's what I've been told when I was younger.”
She starts the conversation, hands on her lap. “What do you believe in?”
“I wasn't religious.” He simply responded." “If I were, I'd curse whoever got me into this mess.” Mithi could only listen, she could see the man's lip seethe, boiling rage that needed to be let out. “I lost everything to this disease.”
He lowers his head. “.. That paradise above the clouds. Do you believe in it?”
“An afterlife surely exists. Though, higher powers? Mixed.”
“Really now kid? With your get-up, and your estranged job?”
“Ironic I know.” She chuckles, watching the man stroke the rose on his hands to soothe his mind. “Oripathy.” She repeats.
“Sounds like you don't know much considering your tone, sheltered girl?” He waves it off. “Sounds impossible, you see it everywhere you go.”
“I suppose my parents were just really good about it.”
“Hard to believe.” Yet he shrugs, not wishing to pry further. “But the world's huge. Still, it'll hit you eventually.”
The spirit falls into silence, to contemplate. “You don't hate me?” Their tone says in surprise.
“Why would I?”
“You really are an idiot.” He points, though there wasn't any venom laced in his words, it was more of a scolding than anything. “This disease ruins people, lives, it shuts down every dream you have. It infects people you love.”
“I'm a damn risk just being near you, the prejudice gets to people.”
“You're a spirit, I don't see how it'd..”
“Right.” The man relents, remembering. “Just habit.”
Contractors. Magical Girls. Though they aren't strictly girls. She just loves calling herself one.
Selectively chosen Individuals who were offered a contract with the world in turn to be granted a singular wish, these contractors are alternatively named as Purifiers, or in Mithi's preference: Magical Girl, or Witch, acting as the final stitches of life's cloth that complete the cycle of reincarnation, guiding spirits who were unable to ascend, the same spirits responsible for haunting the waking world as a form of infinite purgatory, now granted conclusion as they're brought into the afterlife.
Week. One full week Mithi had to grow accustomed to a world she was so scarily unfamiliar with. And still, she's so ignorant of where she came to. Her only information from spirits who roamed these lands, and Esteban herself.
“Now I shouldn't distract you.” The man stands, rose held quite tight. “You're throwing yourself at that church right? Church of the Deep. Give em’ hell.”
“I will.” Mithi pats her dress, standing too. “Im in the condition to actually fight good enough for the first time here.” And ponder too. Oh how her heart strongly beats at the thought of being here.
Even with her unfamiliarity of the world's rules, her duty calls. Yet the information given to her was enough to get a grasp, but it was still a grip done by the tip of her nails.
“Thanks.” The man's voice softens. “Needed that. I think I might just be able to move on a little.”
“I'm grateful.” she smiles, her body slacking, her once straightened posture having relaxed with the conversation.
“How frequently do you do this?”
“Every night.”
“You hear lots of stories then.”
“It's hard to remember them all. But I do my best, I keep notes.” She squints, almost embarrassed. “Especially since I'm rather forgetful.”
“Admirable.” The spirit leans back against the tree, his eyes moving to the church by the distance. “.. You know of the Golden Age?”
“Partly. It's what many tell me, they often give me tales of the great tides that swept Iberia.”
“We never recovered. Changed everything. Royalty died out.”
“Inquisition rose.” Mithi finished.
“.. How many scorn the inquisition? The dead you speak to.”
“.. I haven't encountered much yet, but coming from the people, they aren't highly regarded.”
“Distracted.” The man reminds, and she places a hand on her mouth in embarrassment. “And you're not speaking in oddly big words. Mask slipped off, theater kid?”
“Right, right, sorry.” Her cheeks shoot red, more than she's counted compared to the week staying here. “That.. detail isn't of importance. I'll be leaving now.”
She moves on quickly, giving the spirit a nod. And he fades soon enough. “She didn't follow today.” She comments, looking over her shoulder, closing her notebook.
While she was responsible for the ascension of lingering spirits, it was of great importance they took things at their own pace giving the dead company before they choose to depart is just as important, not everyone chooses to move past the living world just yet. For some chose to stay for the sake of watching over brethren, or, their feelings lingered, binding them. Love's greatest, most twisted unintended curse. Yet, love also acted as one if not the greatest blessings.
As a Purifier, fighting living people was often taboo, lest it be in self defence, they dealt with spirits, not people. Yet, this wasn't her world. So she shouldn't be shackled by such rules. Nor was it enforced by the world anyways. The hypnotization attempted against her mind was ineffective, blocked and flicked away by the gem on her ribbon.
Best she be wise, between her fingers, blue particles shimmer into cards, its front side fine art of varying pieces of clothes, and her gothic wear which stuck out like a sore thumb shifting into a more, discreet outfit, though still as stylish, a black, sleek suit with a ruffled collar and tailcoat. Another card between her fingers, she slides it downwards from her forehead to her chin to mimic dawning a mask: concluding in a dark, pure black oval-shaped mask that completely covers her face.
Her lavender lantern disappears into the air, and along with any trace of any suspect of the very person responsible. Provoking them while spilling out her identity would mean endangering Esteban and her child would be the most unideal, keeping her abilities used to a minimum would be for the best, while disrupting the Church's operations. Despite the night, a Choir still underwent, ejaculating its sermons for its people to follow, though hushed. Even for how old and abandoned the church was, an organ still played— amplifying the strength of the mind control being played. Mithi opens the large wooden church door, with a loud creak they grant her entrance, and while the organ still plays, the choir pauses.
“And what brings someone so young, so late, into our church?” One of them asks, his face, paled and wrinkled hidden with a generous side by their robe. The tension was tight, Mithi’s wear not leaving good first impressions of a friendly individual.
‘It looks like a traditional Catholic Church.’ Mithi thought, her lips wincing.
The Lateran Church's architecture was grand, though now ruined by time, any semblance of its bright whites and polished brown floors now stained, its pews, for all its use was smudged by dust and cobwebs.
Whispering gossips can be heard, and as the large wooden doors close with a loud thud, the church stills. The Church had already rooted itself deeply into the City of Primavera, and all under the Battalion's notice, they moved with nimble silence.
“Child, be wise.” One of them negotiates. “Who sent you? The Inquisition?”
Even slowly gaining the City's favor, with their slowly increasing displeasure with the Inquisition that provided scraps, they gave sermons, and conditioned the people with better supplies in return for worship.
A brief tolling of bells can be heard, an ode, a sign.
‘There's no time to prod, nor ponder about the coincidence.’
With her expressions blocked, Mithi squints. Twirling her hand, she immediately manifests her weapon, a handgun, but instead of the expected BANG! It's but a calming, almost rhythmic Ding. A bright white muzzle flash with petals flying about.
The body falls over, and as they squirm. “You—!” Their eyes dart to the supposed dead brethren, and find them clutching their forehead.
No wound.
“I didn't feel anything.” They recount, the victim being a young woman with a scar on her cheek. Her head shoots to the black masked intruder, its handguns barrel instead emitting white and black roses rather than smoke.
A Laterano? No, they lacked both wings and halo.
Life could be sensed below the Church, bustling with activity. From the machinery's vibrations to the thumping of feet, one that's near unnoticeable lest it be from those which could pick apart the smallest of details.
Though, Mithi wasn't that, she could sense emotions as part of the Contract, that's all.
“A strong gust of the wind.” She compared it to, immediately rising as the Church’s cult members move to defend themselves. “Need not fear! That weapon is just an ornament!” Their knees buckle for a second before they stand tall, the cause, just from the impact of being felled temporarily. The Cultists weren't particularly intimidated by the handgun's appearance, not after its seemingly harmless effect.
A silver-white finish, a long 10 inch barrel, Mithi's silver pistol ‘Penumbra’ was a large double action semi-automatic handcannon of a weapon, its long slide and imposing look making Mithi's own hand appear smaller in comparison.
More of Mithi's targets fell, but they only rose shortly after, without physical injuries present.
With each fire, a ding follows, unlike the firing of a normal gun, it wasn't an ear piercingly loud bang, but an appropriately sounding ding! Like the ringing of a bell to signal one's entry, each pull of Penumbra's trigger was of Mithi's lament, her grievance and gloom.
Dealing with the dead didn't mean always interacting with docile spirits after all. And most often, it wasn't a purely peaceful duty.
With each fire the slide moved backwards, and Mithi adjusted her arm as the recoil spread from her hand to wrist, a rough kick as the force tempts to wrench the weapon upwards when held with bad form, despite not firing bullets, it surely held the recoil equivalent to larger rounds like a .454 Cassull or a SW .500, it was a noticeable push, painful even, that without proper hold could easily shatter her ‘wrist’.
A Cultist blocks a few more shots when they slam the pew down for cover, before flinging a tentacle at their target, turning to her side Mithi dodges, twirling her other hand and pointing another handgun to retaliate.
It's not that Penumbra was a harmless weapon per se, its damage was unconventional. With the scarred woman's buckle, it revealed its effect. Penumbra targeted the mind.
Then Umbra, the handgun with the black finish she pointed with, traditionally targeted the physical plane.
With two shots, the weapon breaks through the old wooden pew, its material pulverized in two and sending splinters, the second shot blooming roses squarely at the intended foe. But again painless, the flowers lingered on their body, some blooming into butterflies. Running to attempt taking cover, their legs noticeably limp.
Penumbra and Umbra don't fire bullets, they're 'hitscan' weapons, blooming roses to where the guns point. The Magical Girl's favorite when opting for a simpler and more straightforward way in dealing with the more intense parts of her custodian duties.
Umbra's appearance followed much the same as Penumbra, other than its jet black finish: both their appearances in the style of modified M1911 pistols.
With each fire of Umbra, it announced her silent, boiling wrath. With each fire, her trigger finger on umbra twitched, becoming more erratic, the use of her weapons meant acknowledging the emotions they brought, and she was especially good at it. For it was hers, and her heart was more than open.
Then, the slides back fully: Umbra had run out of ‘bullets’, with both akimbo pistols holding 10 rounds respectively.
Through the handguns they acted as a medium where Mithi willed her magic into roses and petals, she could adjust the lethality of her weapons, and for now she only aimed to maim, or disable temporarily.
The empty magazine falls to the floor, accompanied by the bullet casings from earlier. As Mithi reloads, a bell chimes to with a lingering ding to designate her will.
The Cultists were durable, but slow, they were easy targets. If one targeted the mind, and the other the body, they collectively chipped at the individual's soul with each shot, and if fired at continuously without time to mend, would deprive the soul of the body, leaving it as a lifeless vessel.
Piercing herself through the torrent of Cultists weren't of any particular difficulty, though, she had to hold her weapons ire. Making it to her desired location, that of a powerful, beating force that exuded life.
It was of a woman, with eyes closed and full of grace even through her sleeping form, white long hair, and fair unblemished skin, the woman wore a single layered gown; the appearance being similar to a hospital gown. Kept inside a large glass tube, embracing herself in a fetal position.
Quickly. Make Haste.
The Cultists have yet to reach her, she's free to use her spells without the risk of leaving a trail on herself. The last thing she wanted was to have Esteban's home stormed. The vibrations from upstairs intensify, they're nearing.
‘Laurentina’— was the designation of the patient inside the tube.
“Funny.” She says. “An ironic twist, a jocular coincidence.” From her pocket she produces a rune, placing the marked side on the glass panel. “If she acts like how I imagined, she's not letting me brush this by.” A lopsided smile, her lips tight, Mithi watches as the rune encompasses the glass tube with a membrane like texture, the magic doing its work, the tube forming small fissure like cracks.
One part, the lower side, yields as it expands into cobwebs. It doesn't take long for the glass tube to gently break, Laurentina's fetal position saved as Mithi catches her fall. The retaliating Cultists then finally reach their destination.
Reloading, Mithi racks Penumbra's slide forward and it audibly clicks, pointing her weapon, what she meets was not their immediate advance, but the intuition of a fist coming to land on her cheek.
Instinctually, her forearm shoots out to block the blow, her magical reinforcement focusing solely to the point of impact, winds scatter and and the force spreads throughout her body, and to the perpetrators, Laurentina's, surprise, the Witch did not yield, have their lungs desperately breathe for air, their squirming body writhe to stay alive, nor did they crash against a wall and be rendered unconscious.
They took the blow, while only taking a few steps back, they took it well.
“H—!” Mithi immediately silences her voice, she can't speak, not with them here.
With Cultist's on her back, having to ensure won't escape, a hysteric opponent on her front whose strength lays unknown to her, while also having to scramble for information.
Even with her expression black and silenced, one can read the loss of control and the tensed form as their head darts around front and back, their thoughts sprinting to regain any semblance of control back.
She can sense the Oripathy sending Laurentina to a manic, bloodlusted frenzy and she concludes one thing, lest she wish for things to go awry, being occupied dealing with a powerful opponent would mean easy escape for the Church, their recuperation wasn’t an option.
‘I’m bound to use a trick or three after all.’
Laurentina, an artform of pure battle instinct. While her weapon was gone, her fists were more than sufficient, tools for the unsure war that rendered flesh clay to be molded, sculpted by her fingertips. One of the Witch’s great trials, sunk asunder to the pale-haired hunters seas, with her strings pulled, she must dance to the Shark’s will.