Celestine’s Wednesday morning odd encounter(Celestine)

September 4, 2025

Date: 2025-09-03 11:42

(Celestine’s Wednesday morning odd encounter(Celestine):Celestine)

[Wed Sep 3 2025]

In Doctor‘s Office/span>/spanThis office has been restructured into what, for the modern day, might be considered a rather old-fashioned means of physical storage for various records of patients within the city. Various filing cabinets line the walls, and a cluttered desk sits on the western side with a computer and printer.

It is about 55F(12C) degrees. The mist is heaviest At High and Franklin/span>/spanAnnabelle look bed

(Your target discovers a ghost bound to an old music box at an estate sale. The ghost desperately wants to be freed but can only communicate through manipulating the melody – and releasing them might have unforeseen consequences as they’ve been trapped since the 1920s and don’t understand how the modern supernatural world works.)

Annabelle sits on a desk in the room, dancing her legs forward one and back the other as her fellow nurse leaves the room. She sighs out her nose, blowing a lip trill. She looks down to shouting Shia on her shirt, face planted like an Annoying Orange. “..BE DREAMS.” She repeats of her slogan.

“Be Dreams?” What the hell does that mean. Maybe Celestine would know. Irregardless, as the other nurse leaves… Annabelle notices that she seems to have forgotten something on her desk. Glancing over her shoulder… the nurse is already long gone. Dearly departed. The frantic shuffling of her quiet footsteps hurry down the hall at an almost desperate pace that Annabelle can hardly seem to relate herself to. She has far more personal things to be dealing with… and the potential frustration of a fellow nurse had become very low of her list of priorities.

Ding… dingding-

Musical notes begin to ping soft melodies through the air as the nurse dips away from view… drawing Annabelle’s attention straight back to the desk as the music box — the unusual item left behind by that bumbling bitxh of a nurse… begins to jitter open before her without the faintest touch. The shutters open to unveil a ballerina balancing upon the tapered point of her toe… lifting herself up with flighty steps… caught in a stance as if to brace herself for an elegant leap. Arms held high above her head… She spins, as the musical notes of Queen’s ‘I want to Break Free’ begin to resonate in Annabelle’s ears.

But Annabelle doesn’t just see a music box. No… her sensitivities to spirits pick up on the presence that most people would miss. Ghostly handprints pressing upon the box’s surface… as if straining against the box… pound against the antique as if from within, as the music steadily increases in pace. The cylindar continues to rotate… faster and faster… a face screaming in anguish reflected upon the metallic nameplate, reading: “For my darling Marilyn.”

Poor Balinda. She’s a nice bitch, really-really. With her disposable gloves on, Annabelle pulls up the lip of them to get a little more sanitized before she pokes the box with the end of a scalpel. “Hai ghosts. Please be nice. I’m a good girl, which doesn’t mean you should corrupt me, it means you shouldn’t hurt me because I don’t deserve it.”

The melody sighs low, slipping down into sorrow, then rises again in a strained cry, as though pressing against unseen bars. The rhythm staggers, dragging heavy one moment, then bursting loose in syncopated leaps, restless as a caged bird testing its wings. Each phrase bends, mournful yet insistent, refusing to lie still. The music does not settle — it twists, sways, strains… its very motion a plea. There is a malevolence to the box’s aura that taints the spirit’s mists… spilling across its undulating surface like oil upon water. Of course… it is only thanks to Annabelle’s sensitivities that the spirit can even be sensed, and perhaps if it were in other hands, its fate would be ensured. Whoever dropped this off to her must have either figured she would have a better time of dealing with it, or simply wanted to be rid of the accursed thing. Regardless of the explanation itself… there was only one way to be knowing for certain.

If the spirit trapped within the box sees the encroaching scalpel… it does not seem to respond to it. Like clockwork, it slams and presses its hands upon the surrounding barrier of wood and metal… its melodies rising and falling, drifting from one song to the next. First ‘Help!’ by the Beatles. Then the chorus of ‘Break on Through’ by the doors. eventually the shifting melody begins to stay its path… settling upon the ‘St. Louis Blues’ as if falling back upon a fond memory. It clings to this song like a lover… even as the figure within presses its hands upon the nameplate in pleaading desperation.

Annabelle snatches out her phone from the pocket, setting the scalpel down on the desk and seeming to regress into a teenage girl being hurled into summer camp.

It washes over Annabelle in waves low, bending notes that ache like a sigh, then flare upward as if striking the bars of a cage. The rhythm drags, then jolts… restless, never still, like a body pacing a locked room. Each phrase twists with longing, mournful yet insistent, until the music itself feels alive — pleading, straining, whispering.

All of this serves as quite the lovely backdrop to Annabelle pulling out her phone… experiencing the briefest of moments of inner conflict before she finally makes the inevitable decision of making the call to Celestine. The phone rings, and rings, and rings… before FINALLY, thank the lord above — Celestine picks up. There is some audible shuffling at the other end of the speaker… a long and weary yawn… before finally a voice. “…Hello? Anna? Mon dieu — It has been feeling to be so long!” The response chirps over the speakers like birdsong in the early morning… Celestine’s soft-spoken tones sounding particularly chipper as she bounces these few responses back and forth. “Oh — you are having of a ghost in a box? If you are turning of the crank it will surely pop out and spook you!” A tinkling giggle spills over the speakers… and some more shuffling can be heard, along with a wordless smack of the lips. “Oui, this is being very good. You are calling of the right person, mon ami. I will be right over!”

It takes about 30 minutes for Celestine — given both the need for further clarification from Annabelle, as well as the distance to which she lives from the hospital… to finally ride over. She arrives in her usual wear… purse slung over one shoulder, shaded lenses tilted over her angular nose. She beams as she sees someone. the rising dawn reflected across her pallid features as the door clicks open, Celestine hobbles hurridly into the room with the percussive THUNK of her cane to guide her… dragging her unsteadily towards the opposing nurse until the marionette of a woman can manage to gather her into her arms, squeezing her close in a friendly hug of greeting.

“I am feeling lonely when I am not seeing of you, Hannibal!” She insists, addressing Annabelle with her ‘professional’ title. “…You are needing of hanging out with me more. Who is needing of boyfriends and of careers when we are having of the ‘homies’, as you are often saying?” A snicker spills over her lips, and she pulls away… leaning over the expanse of Annabelle’s desk to peer down at the music box in question. The shaft of her cane creaks beneath her insubstantial weight… and like a bird, Celestine cocks her head to one side… examining the antique with wide and owlish eyes. “…Right. I am seeing of a spiritual signature, oui. Is this being of a friendly ghost?”

It takes about 30 minutes for Celestine — given both the need for further clarification from Annabelle, as well as the distance to which she lives from the hospital… to finally ride over. She arrives in her usual wear… purse slung over one shoulder, shaded lenses tilted over her angular nose. She beams as she sees Annabelle. the rising dawn reflected across her pallid features as the door clicks open, Celestine hobbles hurridly into the room with the percussive THUNK of her cane to guide her… dragging her unsteadily towards the opposing nurse until the marionette of a woman can manage to gather her into her arms, squeezing her close in a friendly hug of greeting.

Being some weird sort of peppy grunge teenager, Annabelle smiles at Celestine like she’s so happy she’s high, but also reserves herself to totally non-contemporary and like.. Hating fascism (but also maybe promoting it if people are too into hating fascism).

But not wishing to follow in the foot steps of her father in grunge, Kurt Cobain, she’d probably miss anyway, she nods. “Yeah, it’s good to see you too. You’re always in Killgrove and I’m soft and chewy and the monsters like that but I don’t like them.”

She pokes at the object without touching it. “If you look at the faceplate you can see them trying to get out. But, well, I don’t really know the recourse of that. It won’t be able to harm you as long as you’re in the hospital, or possess with mal intent, but it might catch a ride on someone and decide to hurt them later where the hospital wards won’t object.” She explains, loosely, the fundamentals of her work safety program without really knowing the math of it. “Baby wants out but I don’t just wanna smash it.”

“Well, it can’t be THAT bad — surely.” Celestine muses, picking up the music box and turning the key with a pensive expression. The music box crackles to life with a delicate turn of the key, its tinny chimes catching the dim light. The melody that spills out is not sweet, not a lullaby, but the continual aching strain of the St. Louis Blues. Each note bends as though it were sighing through the bars of a cage, rising, falling, never at rest. The gears whir with a hollow insistence, the tune staggering between dragging sorrow and sudden restless leaps. “Hmm…” She reasons, turning the box over, and examining it from all angles. “We are having of a few options. But what I am suggesting that we do is to settle of our walls of light…” She gestures around the room. “…Here, rather than the building as a whole. I would be normally warding of the whole property, but I can likely be adjusting of this ritual to affect only this room here. This way it is not fleeing into the neighboring rooms. If the spirit is proving of itself to be dangerous, I can bind or banish of it as we are seeing fit. And if it is not, I will be attempting to take it under mine care, and let of it follow mine faerie light as it navigates its way towards the seashell’s smallest core.”

As she speaks, the music incessantly plays, the air thickens. The rhythm feels alive, pacing the room — low phrases like whispered pleas, sharp bursts like fists against unseen walls. The music itself seems to shiver with urgency, every chime a voice pressed flat into metal teeth and springs, begging to be heard. Even without words, the message is clear. The ghost is here, and it is crying out with every fragile note. Perhaps unwilling or unable to latch onto the conversation around it.

“I place my faith in your hand and your light,” Annabelle answer archaically. Though, where the motion of something heartfelt is, in making with the old culture of the words, she doesn’t follow. She’s just a modern teenager speaking in Victorian-equivalent prose from the old Acadian. “Let us put the ghost in this naughty room at once.”

She straps on her gauntlet, a terribly frightening, gothic piece of equipment with its own arcane runes, moving through the buckles. “You may wish to speak in your tongue if it suits you, dear. Though I do adore your voice in any case. Do you require aught from me?”

Recognizing her own tongue, Celestine grins… moving with careful, deliberate grace, her hands sifting through her bag to retrieve a number of small instruments as though each object held its own heartbeat. She switches to French, speaking with an excitement unbeknownst to her. “Oh, this is feeling MUCH better. In the right company, of course. Goodness… Where did I put my…? Aha!” Standing triumphantly with a jar of salt in hand, she first dimmed the harsh electric lights, replacing them with a ring of tall candles whose glow softened the sterile walls into something gentler. At the foot of the bed, she laid a white cloth embroidered with protective sigils, the thread casting dancing shadows in the flicker of flame. someone someone She sprinkled salt in a slow circle about the room, tracing the line with murmured words that turned the sterile floor into a boundary of sacred ground. At the center, near the music box that had first given the ghost its voice, she sits, raising an empty wooden basin up in offering to Annabelle. “Hot water. Lavender and Basil, if you have it.” She commands, clearly. Copper bells are arranged in the corners, their silence waiting to catch any surge of unrest. “Make certain that no one else comes in here. Close, and lock the door. And we can begin. Celestine then pressed her palms together, whispering a prayer not of banishment, but of tethering — calling the restless spirit not out, but inward, binding it to the walls of this room.

She sprinkled salt in a slow circle about the room, tracing the line with murmured words that turned the sterile floor into a boundary of sacred ground. At the center, near the music box that had first given the ghost its voice, she sits, raising an empty wooden basin up in offering to Annabelle. “Hot water. Lavender and Basil, if you have it.” She commands, clearly. Copper bells are arranged in the corners, their silence waiting to catch any surge of unrest. “Make certain that no one else comes in here. Close, and lock the door. And we can begin. Celestine then pressed her palms together, whispering a prayer not of banishment, but of tethering — calling the restless spirit not out, but inward, binding it to the walls of this room.

(fixed!) Recognizing her own tongue, Celestine grins… moving with careful, deliberate grace, her hands sifting through her bag to retrieve a number of small instruments as though each object held its own heartbeat. She switches to French, speaking with an excitement unbeknownst to her. “Oh, this is feeling MUCH better. In the right company, of course. Goodness… Where did I put my…? Aha!” Standing triumphantly with a jar of salt in hand, she first dimmed the harsh electric lights, replacing them with a ring of tall candles whose glow softened the sterile walls into something gentler. At the foot of the bed, she laid a white cloth embroidered with protective sigils, the thread casting dancing shadows in the flicker of flame.

She sprinkled salt in a slow circle about the room, tracing the line with murmured words that turned the sterile floor into a boundary of sacred ground. At the center, near the music box that had first given the ghost its voice, she sits, raising an empty wooden basin up in offering to Annabelle. “Hot water. Lavender and Basil, if you have it.” She commands, clearly. Copper bells are arranged in the corners, their silence waiting to catch any surge of unrest. “Make certain that no one else comes in here. Close, and lock the door. And we can begin.” Celestine then pressed her palms together, whispering a prayer not of banishment, but of tethering — calling the restless spirit not out, but inward, binding it to the walls of this room.

Annabelle looks at a Febreze canister of scented lavender in the room, but it is only a glance, and scoots off her desk as she stares at the wooden basin. “My fellows surely have some of these things. I will see if Doctor Magik is on hand.” And with that, she takes a medical walk out of the room, taking clipboard to signify she’s busy to anyone that would bother her.

As it so happens, the room they’re contained in has the highest clearance of security on the door – and only the bitch Balinda and Annabelle currently have access to it. For now.

She returns with a few plastic bags filled of the required materials, labeled in chicken scratch on the side and sets the tiny plastic baggies on the counter. Slung under her shoulder is a thermus, which opened to the air produces a steamy mist.

Thinking that she might LOVE to meet this madwoman of a doctor someday, Celestine lit the candles: four tall pillars at the cardinal points. Their flames shuddered at first, bending as if caught in a draft, though no window opened to the night. When the wicks steadied, their glow carved long shadows across the sterile white walls, turning the clinical room into a chamber of dusk. Celestine lowered herself to her knees before the music box and turned its key. The familiar melody of St. Louis Blues emerged, frail and metallic, but with it came the weight of presence — the restless stirring of something unseen.

Taking the bowl from the offering hands of Annabelle, She sets it down before her… murmuring a soft “Thank you, honey.” All in her native tongue. She lifted a sprig of lavender, dipped it into the wooden bowl, and let the scented water drip across the circle’s edge, sealing it with fragrance and cool light. Her voice rose, no longer whisper but firm invocation: “…You are not banished. You are not broken. You are bound to this place, to these walls, to the silence that stills you.” Each phrase matched the rhythm of the music box, her words weaving with its plaintive melody.

The bells began to tremble without touch, their copper mouths shivering as if the ghost tested its cage. Celestine pressed her hands flat to the floor, sweat beading at her brow as the weight of resistance coursed up her arms — like trying to hold shut a door against a gale. She steadied her breath, channeling her will into the circle, and repeated the final lines three times: “Here you remain. Here you are safe. Here you are bound.”

On the last repetition, the music faltered, stuttered, then softened into a lull, the melody no longer frantic but almost tender. The candles’ flames bent inward, their light pooling at the center of the room as if drawn into a new anchor. The air lightened just slightly, the pressure releasing, though the presence remained — a weight felt rather than seen. Celestine opened her eyes, chest heaving from the exertion, and exhaled slowly.

“Open it.” She says, to Annabelle. “Break it, if you are feeling spicy. I am ready for the worst.”

rather than with any spice, Annabelle opens the music box buttery smooth.. Or she would like to but it takes some prying with her fingers to open the box and reveal and release their trapped ghost maddened by the best of the hits without ever being able to punch back at the global record label music machine. “How many of our most celebrated authors and artists are Fae or bargain with them, I wonder? Can a human not make it in this world?” A somber thought, but if Freddie Mercury was not human how’d he die of a disease? More thoughts, and an increasingly existential expression crawling from under her medical face mask as she steps away like the box may just explode.

Annabelle pries at the tiny brass latch, the hinges groaning as though resisting her touch. The music box creaks open, its melody faltering mid-phraseone broken note stretching too long, too thinbefore silence swallows it whole. Thebn, with a hiss like a kettle spilling over, a cold breath rushes out.

The spirit rises not with gentleness, but in a shuddering swell. Mist coils upward from the open chamber, unfurling in pale ribbons that gather into the vague outline of its form — bent shoulders, a hollowed chest, arms that twitch like they have forgotten their shape. The air grows heavy and damp, every candle flame shuddering inward towards the figure, shadows spilling across the walls in frantic waves.

The melody picks itself up again, warped and metallic, as if the gears inside still clung to their duty even as they cracked. With each distorted chime the figure gains substance, a presence more than a body, pressing against the lungs of anyone nearby. It is difficult too discern between male and female when one’s body grows so distorted… but in this, IT remains. Celestine raises her head, running two fingers lovingly along the arch of the clutch of her staff, the silver owl’s eyes glowing a bright and resonant blue. Its beak unhinges… and the spirit screeches… clawing as the floorboards as it is sucked into Celestine’s cane… the music filtering through the box growing slower… and slower… until it stills entirely. “Mon dieu… At least this is being easier than expected.” Celestine muses, grasping at the clutch of her cane to push herself to her feet with trembling hands. “I will be taking of this one home, I think. In order to ensure they are being properly led along the path. The forests of the physical realm are dark and foreboding… looming even moreso here in Haven. Now you are having of a fun little music box to play with!” Celestine beams.

“And… you are knowing.” Celestine continues, waving a hand dismissively. “…Trapping of your boyfriend if he is making you feel upset.”

“Will I be trapped within it?” Annabelle wonders, both in trying to parse the figure that blinks in and out of her own Sensitive view, and also in her reticence to touch the little box o’music past.

Annabelle has an awkward grimace when she comes out of her daydream, rubbing her wrists mnemonic. “I don’t want to trap my Jakem. He is a Wonderfulw.” She pouts.

“Of course you are not going to be being trapped in it silly.” Celestine/span>Annabelle slowly comes to covet the music box away from Celestine, hugging it if only in an attempt to shield her from thoughts of an ending. “Yur a silly bitch sometimes, Celestine. I love you.” She sniffles, within her face mask, blinking. “Did you wanna hang out later? I have a patient to talk with – because she’s lonely and needs a friend. She’s scared of the full moon, so. That’s coming up.”

“This would be making me feel very happy, Hannibal.” Celestine confesses, that dreamy, distant smile returning to her lips as she moves to begin repacking her materials. The salt and candles are bust… the hospital will simply have to repay her expertise in the labor of cleaning up this mess after her. And Celestine herself will have to replace them all on her own paycheck. But as the music box is clutched close to Annabelle’s chest, Celestine only grins up at the woman, nodding quietly to herself in a sagely manner. “We will be doing of this, oui. Perhaps I will be coming over to be taking flowers to your patient and to Alaastair!” She chirps, her legs shuddering as she wobbles across the room.

Annabelle helps Celestine out tha door,

(Your target encounters a runaway from hell, with several hell-sworn military officers searching for them.
)

It is a brisk New Haven day, sixty degrees, late in the afternoon. Just post dinner, though, perhaps not for Amber who finds themselves at the irritating twilight before night falls. Still, where is it they find themselves on this seemingly day?

Seemingly normal! Even!

Amber is lying on the couch in her basement, before the entertainment center. Lillian should be upstairs, but Amber is just kind of grouchily half-browsing and trying to get through the day.

Is there something bothering Amber today or is it just the background radiation of daily annoyances?

For Lillian: It is a late evening day in Haven, brisk, sun approaching setting. She is upstairs, where Amber is downstairs in their home.

Amber has just recently been outside, burnt by the sun and just generally irritable all-around. She’s probably more annoyed by the lack of anything good to watch on TV.

“Coming up next on tonights news, five ways your copper pipes might be kill-” Click. “Samantha! How could you! He was my half-brothers, cousins, CEO of the start up they founded in university!” “I know!….He’s also…MY TWI-” Click. “And it can be yours for only ninety-nine-ninety-” Click. Nothing good at all.

CRASH! A loud bang echoes from the main floor.

Lillian has been wiping the piano in the music room on the third floor, ensuring it is dust-free. She probably didn’t hear Amber walk inside. However, she can’t quite miss that sound. She startles, practically jumping halfway to the ceiling in the process. “Holy fucking shit,” she mutters. Then she yells downstairs. “What the hell was that?” She is, of course, already moving to the stairs and down them as she calls out.

“I thought that was you,” Amber yells back up in turn, turning off the screen and slowly sitting up.

“Absolutely not!” Lillian calls back as she rushes down.

A cloaked figure has burst into the house, locks broken but the door has shut behind them as they back into the house. Footsteps obvious to Amber downstairs, and visible to Lillian. The figure does not seem to notice them, peering at windows and further into the home.

Amber slips off the couch, putting her hands in her hoodie where her weapons are as she slinks towards the stairs to go find the source.

“Oh, absolutely -fucking- not,” Lillian says in an almost-repeat. She starts to grip at the hilt of the rapier she keeps sheathed at her thigh as she continues down to get a better look at the figure. “Who the hell are you!? What are you doing in our home?”

The figure panics gazing toward Lillian, their brows raise and they shift, fumbling at their hip for something, maybe a gun. “S-stop right there, I-I don’t want to hurt you…!” Amber hears this as she steps up the stairs, armed, now flanking the figure with Lillian.

“I’d rather not hurt you either.” Lillian stops maybe several feet away from the figure. She pulls out her rapier and points it at them. “Answer my questions.” She glances at Amber only briefly in an effort not to give away that someone else is behind them.

Amber pulls her gun once she’s part way up the steps, aiming it at the figure while trying to keep at least partly out of sight.

The figure doesn’t seem to notice Amber. yet, though feminine features under the cloak begin to show as they speak with Lillian. They don’t draw. “I-I’m being chased, they’re hunting me…please, I need to…I need to run they aren’t far…you should…hide…”

Their voice is exhausted, pained, they’re bleeding from a wound on their side.

“Okay… running into a home is not exactly the best way to run,” Lillian reasons. She gives away nothing — not reacting to their wound, expression neutral and unchanging, posture with sword the same. “Tell me who is hunting you and why.”

Amber remains silent and lingering for any false moves, letting Lillian take the lead as prime distraction.

The individual would be greatful for Lillian’s advice in another moment, surely. But right now it seems more exasperating than it does helpful. Ingrate. Their eyes fall on the bow that Lillian has with them and exhales. “…Court…” they mumble. “The 63rd Legion…! Please, you have to protect me, I can…I can give intel or…” A house like this, do they have windows peering into the street?

Windows are few and far between on the main floor of the house. There certainly aren’t any that are actually letting in sunlight, considering the vampire who lives here. Lillian raises an eyebrow. “Why is the 63rd Legion after you?” Based on the positioning of the stairs, Lillian would be directly in front of the front door right now and her back would be towards the street.

Amber lingers on the upper end of the stairs down, which adjoin the front door. As do the stairs up. She continues to just try to stay in the shadows with weapon ready.

Lillian’s game of 20 questions is cute short by a hail of gunfire which rips through the windows, firing the strange ammunition common to the deomonic soldiers one sometimes finds within the mists. The figure drops to the ground and cries out.

Both Amber and Lillian manage to avoid the gunfire with a combination of quick reflexes and some careful magic. Amber was safely further back and the wards set in the location did enough to soften it

“Shit!” Lillian cries out as the shooting starts. She dodges and squirms for awhile. Her eyes glance to Amber to make sure she is in a location that is assuredly safe from gunfire, and if she is then Lillian attempts to dive atop the cloaked figure and cover her to protect her. If not, well Lillian is going to try and cover for Amber instead.

Amber likely has the cover from the stairwell. After a break in the gunfire, she pops her head up again to aim the gun at the cloaked woman. But Lillian is protecting her now. So instead, she outs herself and calls out, “Whatchu want? Fuck off, not your territory.”

“This whole city belongs to us!” A voice shouts back. “Return our property and we’ll leave you be with your lives! You have twenty seconds to send her outside!” The cloaked girl looks at Lillian with panic. “P-please….please don’t…”

They could drive them off, three or so armed figures stand in the street. They could call for back up. Or simply hand the figure over.

Lillian growls down at the cloaked figure. “You need to tell us why they want you if you want us to risk our necks protecting you.”

“B-because I’m their property…I worked at their camp, but…I found an opportunity to escape, please don’t send me back!” They cry.

“I say we toss her out if there’s no good reason otherwise,” Amber tells Lillian, though she fishes around her hoodie pocket for her magic possession doll.

Lillian hums thoughtfully. “How many are out there? It didn’t sound like a lot,” she asks Amber. She is rising to her feet, tugging at the woman’s cloak on the way up. “Give me your cloak. Don’t question it. They didn’t give me time to explain.”

“About three,” Amber answers, “Enough to go hard or not at all.”

The figure panics and pulls their cloak off, nervously, fumbling it. The wound looks pretty rough, a dark stain on the shoddy clothes underneath. They hand it over to Lillian.

“She’ll owe us if we protect her,” Lillian reasons. She puts on the cloak and pulls it tight before reaching for the door handle. “And I’m really fucking pissed about them shooting up our front door. If you don’t mind, I’d like to kick these fuckers’ asses.” She opens the door because she doesn’t have time to wait for Amber’s answer, but she does stand there, head down to hide her face, long enough to give Amber a chance to audible.

“Pretend you’re her, then. Until you’re close enough to swing. Then I chuck the doll and we go at it,” Amber suggests, shifting position for the plan.

Lillian doesn’t answer — doesn’t want to risk giving it away — and instead gives Amber her confirmation by stepping towards the shooters.

Amber’s assistance will be quite useful here!

Amber applies some blood and chucks the doll once Lillian goes loud, hoping to provide a distraction. She’s too late, but a minion is still a minion. Her left hand touches her pin, launching hexes and wards as her right fires wildly.

It’s a difficult task, three demonic soldiers. They realize what Lillian has done, and the violence begins immediate. It looks back, until the possessed doll steps in! It’s a little frought at first but soon Amber and Lillian turn the tide! The girl introduces herself as Maia, and thanks them profusely for their help! They don’t know much useful but they learn some generally useful intel, numbers, and staging sites, that the Court can surely use. The Court even helps repair the damages when all is said and done!

(Thanks for playing!)