capeandcowllogs | Where your eyes don't go a part of you is hovering

Where your eyes don't go a part of you is hovering

WHO: Everyone who's signed up for the Shadow Märchen plot and the people who get involved with them.
WHERE: All over the City.
WHEN: February 1st through February 9th. Specify the dates when you tag in.
WARNINGS: Probably a lot, since this is a festival of dark sides.
SUMMARY: The City plays host to a twisted theater of the mind as numerous imPorts become darkened, monstrous versions of themselves.
FORMAT: To be chosen by the thread-starters.

The start of a new month shouldn't mean anything special for the City--but this time, it does. Even if it's only because of an accident.

The pull of despair within each victim might come from nowhere, or it might seem like the most natural extension in the world of their current circumstances. However it manifests, the results come quickly: one living shadow all too eager to broadcast its nature far and wide, attached to a monstrous witch that warps the world around it in order to feel at home.

Where once there was an ordinary building, there now might lurk the entrance to a distorted dimension controlled by one of those witches. Where once there was a friend, there's probably now a monster. Can't find the friend that's become this monster? Don't worry too much about missing the chance--the familiars of their witch roam the streets looking for those who can be dragged into the labyrinth.

But take heart: what's within is still the same familiar person...in its own way.

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It's unusual for things to go unnoticed by Nill, except when they happen to her.

She had been in the church, penning up Schnitzel for the morning. The dog had started whining out of the blue, tail between her legs and ears flat against her skull. The thought to sooth her had come and gone in an instant, replaced by the simple desire: Shut it up. She reaches out. The dog growls, barks. She grins, teeth sharp rows in her mouth. Another sound (a mouse maybe, she hated mice, they were vile) distracts her and she turns, abandoning the beast with a wide turn of her wings.

The change had been almost seamless.

A choke of air escapes her mouth as she floats down the aisle. Talons drag along the stone floor of the church, leaving scratches beneath the trail of dark feathers falling from her half skeletal wings. From the waist up she is Nill, aside from the sharp teeth and rotted pinions. And, of course, the eyes that had flooded from soft blue to bright, garish yellow. She still has the petite nose and mouth, the blonde hair and fringe bangs, the delicate shoulders and arms.

But that is where the similarities end. Half of her has become a monster, more unnatural than anything the scientists had whipped up in their underground labs. Rough feathers and hard scales replace slender legs and soft flesh. Huge talons, wicked and curved, keep her from walking. Flying is a necessity, but also something in which she takes pleasure. Why should she have to walk anyway?

She reaches out with small fingers, touches one of the wooden pews. Mine. The warp starts there and spreads; black bars of iron climb up the walls. Crumbling city streets crisscross the area that has suddenly expanded to thrice its normal size. Ugly signs advertising brothels and bars light the way with glaring neon colors. Where her feathers had dropped, familiars spring forth: skeletal birds with heads too large to possibly be supported by their tiny wings but flying all the same; mangy dogs with mottled white-and-grey fur and burning red eyes. They follow her, whining and chirping, desiring her attentions.

All mine.

She rises, headed towards the center of her labyrinth, at the top of the cage. The door is open to anyone who might find her.

[ooc; i have no idea what i'm doing but think fury or harpy.]

Edited 2013-02-02 16:13 (UTC)

After being let out of the asylum, Connors returned back to his room at the MAC. How idiotic of him, staying in that place for as long as he had. Poor Curt Connors, looking to be the martyr for something he had barely any control over. As he shut off his communicator he frowned, looking at the thing. None of those people really knew. They didn't know what it was like to be weak, helpless, to be less than everybody else.

It was the straw that broke the camels back.

He hastily suppressed a scream as his body began to change. Scales erupted across his body, mottling his skin. With one violent gesture he tore off his glasses, revealing golden eyes with slitted pupils. The glasses crashed to the floor, shattering into pieces, as a tail started to grow, and his clothing started to rip. But more importantly, and this was what really mattered, his arm started to regrow. A few scales fell off as Connors slowly changed more and more. He wasn't the Lizard completely-a few traces of his humanity showed through: half his face remained skin, his teeth remained normal, his blonde hair still remained in pieces. He became a hybrid, a monstrous amalgamation of Connors and the Lizard. The scales mirrored Connors's change; turning into abnormally large lizards, mouths stretching into abnormally large rictus grins.

This was what he wanted. This was the power, the strength that he needed.

The room itself changed with Connors as well. The temperature sharply rose, so that it felt like a sauna or a jungle. The lights started to dim, illuminated enough to show the dilapidated makeshift laboratories every few hundred feet or so. A faint aroma of chemicals started to spread through the room. Connors turned to his little lizard minions, voice warped and changed thanks to his new, stronger body.

"Find sssome prey," he hissed, turning towards the lizards. Nodding, they scampered off, ready to infiltrate the city.

Peter was changing behind a Soho dumpster, shivering in the cold -- he really needed to get out that Spidey down coat Nathan Seymour had made him, though who even knew where it'd disappeared to since the move -- when his spider-sense went off. It was barely a tingle, but he whirled around instinctively, flattening himself against chilly brick while trying to hold up his unbelted pants with one hand. If someone saw him maskless --

There was, however, no one else in the alleyway, unless you counted the tiny green lizard, staring at him with unblinking black eyes.

"Hey, little guy," Peter chuckled, feeling foolish. If someone had seen him maskless here in the City, they probably knew of him already. And either way, the psychic blindspot would protect his identity. There was no need to go jumping at shadows, or innocent reptiles, as the case might be.

Reptile. Outdoors. In January.

"Did you escape from a pet store?" Peter knelt on the ground, wincing as the chill permeated through the knees of his jeans. The lizard cocked its head, but remained unmoving even as he reached out a hand. "Runaway from an NYU student's experiment, maybe? I'd better be careful, for all I know you're carrying some kind of lizard superbug --" He stopped, his train of thought catching up with his banter.

"Oh, hell." He pulled out the comm he used as Spider-Man, dialed a number from memory. "Hello? Yes, hi, I need to leave a message for Curt Connors, I understand he's a patient there -- he checked out? Today? Did he say where he was going -- no, I understand. I'll, uh, try to reach him through his old number. Thanks very much. Yes, you too."

Peter shut off the comm and rolled back on his heels, hands grinding against his forehead in frustration. "Argh! Damnit, Curt, what are you up to now? You were doing so well..."

He huffed out a breath. "Okay, fine. You," he said, pointing at the lizard, "are coming with me. I don't know what your boss wants you doing, but I'm not leaving you out and about in the City to do it. You can come the easy way--" he lunged forwards, his fingertips just brushing its tail as it scuttled away-- "or, fine, the hard way." A flick of webbing and it was safely cocooned in a web-pouch, wriggling slightly under his fingers.

A few moments later and Spidey had changed back into his suit -- his civilian clothes hadn't even had the time to warm up -- and launched himself into the sky, pouch tied to his utility belt. After circling the block once to pick up some momentum he headed straight back towards the MAC. It was as good a place to start looking as any.

As Peter swung closer to the MAC, he could notice more and more lizards, as if they're coming from the MAC and are looking for people, for anybody to pull into the labyrinth. The door to Connors's room is slightly ajar-though the change in temperature and smell of chemicals can be noticed as soon as you reach the hallway.

When you step in Connors's room, it's obvious that something strange is going on. The room is larger than normal, bigger on the inside. It looks like someone took the dark, dank tunnels of the sewer, turned up the heat and somehow crammed it in a small room. Tables, the walls, the floor, all occasionally have a large claw marks in them.

Connors skulked around the room, completely oblivious of how close Peter was to his newfound lair.

It's a normal thing, on Saturdays, for the Mayor to be at his desk working. He always worked, honestly, that was all he did. The reasons left for others to only speculate about. On the outset, he said it's because he wanted the voters to get what they cast their votes for, because he hadn't been voted to have fun, but in all honesty, what else was he going to do? Go out?

That was the crux of it. The Mayor was fucking lonely. He had been for some time. Since hell broke loose in 2005, and further, when he'd finally buckled down and tried to run for president, he'd lost everyone close to him, and never replaced them. Maybe it was his mother passing, or the mess with Suzanne (which really could be just the same event) but in all actuality, it didn't matter. What mattered was that crushing darkness, hanging over his head and shoulders with the ever-present press, reminding him that he'd done it for a reason. He'd done it because he didn't know what else to do. How else was he going to handle what he had to watch out for? Nobody but him could do it.

Nobody, and hell, he didn't even know if he could do it himself, but he had to try. He had to do it himself. Alone.

And that's where it starts, really. The ever-crushing darkness that he forever kept locked away, the knowledge that he was doing this alone by choice, but the loneliness, the lack of knowledge, all of it coupled and rounded together in a mess that he feared would answer the question he'd first answered with 'I don't really give a shit'.

How did he know which kind of Mitchell Hundred he was talking to? Which one was he? Maybe the darkness was too much, and that's how it started, warping and creating an even larger space than he'd originally had. A pocket of dimensions in a pocket dimension, far-removed from the purview of his benefactors, and yet still he was closer to them than ever before. Steps that were soft, soles stepping on the floor quickened and multiplied clattering loud soon, like metal scraping against metal.

He didn't need to send anyone, or anything out to pull others in. He didn't want them, not really. He was alone, and he wouldn't hear of it. The clack, scrrrrch, clack of metal drug across a metal flooring, pulling deeper inside. Around echoed the soft hiss and pop of devices moving, pistons gathering and releasing pressure, the whisper metal scraping against metal a symphony of noise that humans went by not appreciating, a song that spoke on another frequency unheard by most ears. The dark was punctuated by the occasional flicker of light dull yellow most times, like an old, soft lightbulb. Occasionally it flared white, bright white, like the kind that seared into one's brain, sharp and deep, wiggling it's way in, trying to find purchase to spread a message, maybe of light, maybe of something else.

...and Dirk Strider found himself regretting trying to use the bathrooms at City Hall opposed to, say, going down the street to the burger place, biting the bullet, buying a soda so he was a customer, and doing his thing there. On the bright(?) side it wasn't like he was a stranger to weird shit spontaneously happening, so his reaction was less of an oh my god and more like an oh god, not this again.

Even in a City where 'oh god, not this again' was a much more common reaction than 'oh my god', there was a lot to be said for the landscape that Dirk found himself in. It was metal, all of it was metal, walls lined with a landscape of simple and rudimentary machines, each one seeming to move as they went about their business. Pistons continued to pump back and forth, a line of gears, each one in succession, a standard line, one turning the others, lining the wall up, and then a spiral bevel to change the direction, and then lining the ceiling only to repeat itself again at the juncture of the wall, it ended up like the frame for the structure, repeating itself every couple yards.

There was steam, too, from somewhere, soft hisses that released it, like relieving pressure that had built up, and the further he'd walk into it, the more steam that would rise, leading him further in, lights occasionally flickering between the bright, sharp white and a much duller yellow, occasionally locking in when looked on fully.

The further in Dirk would go, the more frequent the machinery, until he'd find himself dipped into pitch when the lights died, when the hallway finally expanded.

DOOM.

Somewhere over the roof of the MAC, the toll of a distant bell sounds out, deep and ominous. As it does, the air darkens and thickens, taking on an unhealthy greenish hue.

DOOM.

And from nowhere, a tower of crazed and jumbled architecture reaches upwards into the sky. A true labyrinth, a maze of dark and twisting passages that turn back on themselves and seem to change when no one is looking.

DOOM.

The bell tolls thirteen times, and then goes silent. Inside the labyrinth, though, there are other sounds - sourceless voices that echo through its halls.

"It's all your fault..." A young man's voice lashes out, edged with panicky anger. "You had that thing inside you and didn't even know it... You raised it, dammit! This is all your fault! So you should do something about it!"

"I didn't ask for any of this," Minako's voice sobs. "I didn't know!"

"Shall I remind you of your commitment?" An old man's voice bites the words out with terrible, pointed emphasis: "'I chooseth this fate of my own. free. will.'"

"How was I supposed to know what that meant?" Minako's voice cries.

"...it's up to you." A very different voice now - part that of a young man, part something else entirely, resonant and inhuman. "You're the only one who can make this decision. Now, this is your last chance. Tell me your answer..."

"Don't ask me!"

The voices subside.

Don't stand too long in one place. Thick red fluid spatters the walls and pools in places along the floor of the maze; the deepest shadows can reach out with grasping hands. Somewhere far away, if you stop to listen (don't stop to listen) there is a slow, rattling sound of dragging chains.

At the top of the tower, under the huge looming face of a sickly full moon that does not belong to this sky, the thing that was Minako awaits - a pure white, doll-like figure with a blank mask covering her face, arms stretched out to either side across a golden gate, bound to it with barbed wire.

Edited 2013-02-03 20:00 (UTC)

He had thought that he too would have resisted what had been happening around the City. Larsa, for the past few days, had been fighting a small cough attributing to the residual of whatever it was that Klarion had. Magical or no, he had assumed that the panicked cough was due to his worries about school or Zatanna or even Mitchell himself.

Something starts to whisper, they would learn of Vayne's treachery as he walks into the library. Usually, Larsa would spend an hour or two doing his homework before going to City Hall to work, but today it seemed eerie. At first the library seems as it always, until Larsa walks past certain areas, transforming into the interior of the Skyfortress, the Bahamut. Shelves and desks, soon become adorned with the Archadian seal as the circulation desk and concourse transform into a cockpit of some kind. Every level of the library would be a repeat of this design, instead of a cockpit, battlements that show guns on the outside.

Though he doesn't realize what he's been doing until he goes outside, the library is now the pinnacle of what the Archadian military is capable of and what pride that Larsa has in his empire. But, it's also the darkest point in his life. The Bahamut would always be the time that he had to choose Ivalice over family and bring an end to Vayne and his plans. The memory overwhelms him as he tries to catch his breath as the doors close. What would have been on the Empire if they had failed that day? Was he any better than Vayne himself for betraying his own brother for the sake of peace? Gabranth's death, his ascension to the throne and what if his life here would learn of these events?

The might of the Empire brought its own leader to his knees, his body encasing itself in armor as if to protect him.

Edited (SCREAMING I AM SO SORRY ) 2013-02-03 19:40 (UTC)

Spider-Man went to Connors' window first, but found it strangely dark -- not the shadows of an unlit room, but unnatural, impenetrable black. After jiggling the lock he considered just breaking his way in, but thought better of it -- better not to go in blind without checking the other entrance, first.

One mad scramble up to the roof and down the stairwell later, he stood at the threshold of the apartment, feeling his skin break out in sweat as hot air washed over him. He reached a foot forwards, then yanked it back as one lizard, then another ran right underneath. Absurdly, the thought of Luke Skywalker entering the cave at Dagobah popped into his head; he took a moment to fervently wish that today was not the day Darth Vader got ported back into the City, and stepped inside.

"Dr. Connors?" he called out, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. "I know we're doing this a little backwards, what with me stepping into your parlor and all. But I've been seeing a few of your scaly friends running around, and sue me, Doc, I got a little worried. You in here somewhere?"

He heard that voice. Peter Parker, the one who tried to stop him, the one who made him less than this, who "fixed" him back home, who put him back to pathetic little Dr. Connors, the one-armed cripple who couldn't do anything, not the man he was now. That wasn't going to happen again. He grinned a maniac grin, human teeth showing through the semi-scaled face.

"Peter Parker." The voice reverberated throughout the warm, concrete area, despite the fact that Connors was at the end of the longer than expected tunnel. It sounded like Connors's voice, except for the slightly reptile-like hiss to the words. "Pathetic Peter Parker. Come to ssstop me again? Come to return me back to the pathetic little cripple I wasss?"

No. This was different. Now he was different (even if part of him wanted to call out, to yell to Peter to run away, get out of here, he was dangerous, you shouldn't be here.)

Klarion had spent the past day doing what he normally did: goofing off and not doing anything of note. Specifically, all his time was spent on the Tumblr website that Larsa had introduced him to. And, after encountering a slight problem with the website, his obvious solution was to find Larsa and ask for help. Putting one hand to his temple, he gestured with the other, to try and find where Larsa was.

The results were less than satisfactory. He managed to work out the location of the library but inside was...different. There were guns, there was a seal, there were all these things that obviously didn't belong in a library. Klarion sighed, moving his hand. This was not good. Turning to Teekl, he held his arms open, and grabbed the cat as he jumped into them.

"Come, Teekl. It seems there is trouble."

With a wave of his hand, Klarion vanished, reappearing with a shine of blue light where he thought the inside to the library was-but where the battlements and decks of a fortress stood. Wind from somewhere blew in Klarion's hair as he looked around the area. What he knew was that Larsa was in here somewhere-and as his brother, he needed to find out what was going on. He set Teekl down on the ground, and looked around. Well, there was only one way to go. With his cat at his side, Klarion started to walk through the Skyfortress, looking for Larsa as he did.

John was outside getting some lunch and a few other necessities when the change occurred. It's not unusual for his mind to wander during this time, especially when he's bogged down with clinical paperwork on a long, boring Sunday afternoon. So when it strikes, it consumes him entirely, seamless as it dons him like an old comfortable jacket.

For a man who craves excitement and adventure, the tedium of these mundane tasks can take its toll and he swears, loudly and suddenly, spooking some nearby pigeons into flight and attracting the attention of people walking by him. Instead of ducking his head and issuing an apology, he confronts them with raised hackles and bared teeth.

"What're you looking at?" He demands hotly, heat creeping up his neck and into his face. Foul, vitriolic thoughts begin swirling around in his mind and pouring out through his heart; an organ bloated with compassion and sentiment and emotion. Resentment. Blood pounds loudly in his ears and he flicks his wrist with a loud crack, flipping the bird at the people watching him. "Piss off!"

Turning on his heel, he strides back towards the clinic, becoming lighter as he begins to transform entirely. By their own design, hospitals are natural labyrinths to people unfamiliar with them and this is his environment, his battlefield.

His shadow slithers out from beneath him and flips open his communicator. He has a little announcement to make.

The small book store that the witch had taken over was certainly an appropriate setting. The familiars, gruesome courtiers without heads, roamed the streets surrounding it, pulling in any unfortunate bystanders.

Within the labyrinth, a maze of bookcases and high school lockers hardly helps any traveller feel at home. If, however, they are traversed successfully, the corridors begin to grow smaller and smaller, until there's only really room to crawl. The walls take on the appearance of cardboard, before reaching a grand hall formed entirely out of the material.

And there, on her throne, is Queen Daria. Her glasses are oversized on the already oversized head, her eyes glaring behind them. Her body is nothing but black ooze, shaping itself in the form of a large Elizabethan dress. Sadly, she won't be happy that anyone has come to visit her.

Larsa had absolutely no idea that there was someone inside looking for him. He stood out on the fake balcony, fighting what was happening to him. Even if the armor creeping up was winning, Larsa refused to to submit to the hidden side of him.

The moment that Klarion had entered, the demons had taken form. Imperials started to file in as an alarm is raised that someone found him. Larsa always danced around a particular subject and the labyrinth would reflect it so; hallways that would disappear and reappear so that no one could ever really find the real way to him.

Klarion frowned, quizzically looking at the Imperials. Well, this was odd. Odd and a wonderful challenge for him! Laughing to himself, Klarion gestured at the Imperials, pushing them back with his magic. Grinning madly, he scampered down a hallway, aiming to make a left turn-which suddenly vanished in front of him. Skidding to a stop, Klarion let out another laugh. What fun!

But there was something wrong about all this. Larsa couldn't do anything like this. He knew his brother well. Despite his fun, something had to be wrong. Perhaps someone had trapped Larsa in an illusion? Perhaps someone's magic had gone wrong (certainly not his.) Klarion paused, taking his glimpse off of the vanished hallway for a moment-which quickly reappeared behind him. Turning back around, he noticed the reappearing hallway. Something was definitely wrong.

"Larsa!" Klarion called out, seemingly in vain. After all, he had no idea if Larsa could actually hear him or not. "Larsa, please tell me what's happened! I can help, you know!"

Shinjiro had run out of the building as fast as he could to look for Minako, but as soon as he opened the front doors of the MAC, the sounds were much more vibrant and clearer. Standing out in the street, he turns around and looks at the very top of the building.

It's not exactly the same, but it's the only place that looks like the towering hell that is Tartarus.

He rushes back inside the building, resorting to the steps. He doesn't know at what floor the distortion starts, and getting stuck on the elevator could be like walking into a death trap.

"I'm coming...don't die on me..."

Guard duty at City Hall on a Saturday was boring at the best of times, but Bradbury was used to it by now. For once, he had something better to do than twiddle his thumbs and fill in the crossword while he patiently (or on some days, not so patiently) waited for Mitch to finish up whatever work he'd somehow deemed so important it couldn't wait until next week (which as far as Bradbury could tell was everything). He'd spent the morning getting Nelson's office set up, or as much of one as he was going to get, essentially little more than raising a partition in Bradbury's existing office and moving all the file cabinets and the like to Nelson's side, along with getting a fresh new desk brought in.

He didn't expect Mitch to surface until late into the day, but even Mitch had to eat sometime. Usually, leaving food somewhere where he could grab it without really thinking about it, kind of like how you'd feed a cat that came and went as it pleased. This time, because he'd decided he was due a decent meal for a job well done, he slipped out to grab some Chinese, taking it back to Mitch's office and knocking at the door. No response, and it was unusual enough that the door was closed, but when he tried the handle, it opened easily enough, and he stepped inside.

Into somewhere that... was definitely not the Mayor's office. The blast of cold air that greeted him sent goosebumps prickling along his arms, and he suddenly regretted having shed his suit jacket, because he could have used it now. His grip tightened on the handles of the cheap take-out boxes he was still somehow carrying, and his free hand itched to reach for his gun, but he didn't, not yet.

Even knowing what was already likely to greet him, he turned around anyway, not surprised in the least to see the doorway gone. He had a feeling it wouldn't stick around.

"Fucking perfect."

After talking to Minako, Mordin has had much the same thoughts as Shinjiro. She has called out for someone to save her, and that's exactly what the Professor intends to do. That is why there is now an alien climbing the steps behind Shinjiro, confused and muttering to himself.

"Tower appearance inexplicable. Where did it come from? Can't be coincidence. Linked to Minako's condition? But how? Lunar appearance also impossible. Wrong time of month, wrong location, doesn't make sense. Need more information. Possible illusions? Holographic constructs?"

The Doctor is more than a little out of his depth in the world of Shadows, and it shows. He's so focused on his deductions that he hasn't even seen that there's someone on the steps ahead of him.

Shinjiro briefly looks back at Mordin when he feels his presence closing in. Who is that? What is that? He looks like he stepped out of one of Junpei's video games. The stranger carries himself with urgency, but doesn't seem to realize that Shinjiro is there.

Did he say Minako? Minako's condition?

Alien, monster, whatever. He's not afraid.

"Hey!"

Mordin's head snaps up when Shinjiro calls to him, black pupilless eyes focusing on the young human, apparently just a civilian. "Ah, hello. Didn't see you there. Dangerous event taking place. Recommend you head back down, exit building until it's safe." He inhales and looks up, past Shinjiro.

"Have to help a friend. Believe she's at the top."

"That's where I'm headed."

A friend? Minako sure has a lot of ties here. It's admirable, and reminds him of how amazing a leader she is, able to get along with all types and all walks of life.

If the top really is taken over by shadows like Tartarus, then he's certain this guy has had no experience with them.

"...You'll need my help."

The alien tilts his head at that, deducing rapidly. "Friend of Minako's as well? Fortunate. Admit to being puzzled by present situation. Tower, emotional shift, cryptic references, all confusing. Need more information."

He sniffs. Mordin is not used to circumstances that his intellect can't comprehend quickly.

Things around and about had started to get a little weird, so Sanji took to extending his jaunts between his two homes in order to take him past where people he knew - friends - might be hanging out, in case the weird had started to overtake them as well. He still had a few things to pick up back at the MAC, that was his handy excuse for wandering off his usual routine in the first place. Today's wander took him past the church where he knew Nill still hung out, and as he approached there was no question at all that the weird had certainly come to roost, here.

He stopped and looked, wishing once more that he had his haki so he could feel out and sense whether she was there, whether anyone was in there with her. No, all he had was eyes and ears, nose and wisdom, to tell him what was going on. It was extremely strange, the change that came over it, and there was a scent he didn't like on the air. It was hard to identify, but had the curious effect of sparking a small memory, of the dust-choked corridors and zombie-infested stairwells of the mansion on Thriller Bark. Sanji never liked to remember that place. But memories couldn't stop him, not anymore. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it as he walked toward the door, looking all around him. Better check on Miss Nill. I hope she's not here, but somebody messed with her church. That's never a good sign...

It was too late by then, Larsa had rejected that other side of him that seemingly screamed that he should accept that he was afraid of losing the ones he loved, or his trust being shattered.

"Leave." The voice boomed throughout the library, "You are not welcome here."

Was it because that even this side of Larsa acknowledged Klarion as family and did not want him to perish here? Or was it the automatic response of an intruder upon a fortress? It was perhaps both. The soldiers move down, honing in Klarion's position, eager to dispense of him from the labyrinth.

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Where your eyes don't go a part of you is hovering

6 february

February 2

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February 2nd.

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~February 1 - 3

feb 8 - 9

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february 3rd

3rd february

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