When In Rome(Alice)

July 20, 2025

PlotLog

Date: 2025-07-19 18:20

(When In Rome(Alice):Alice)

[Sat Jul 19 2025]

On The Streets of Trastevere/span>/spanTrastavere. Nestled close to the heart of Rome, this artsy district emblemizes the chaotic, ever-living aura of the Eternal City. Cobblestones beneath your feet are uneven and time-worn, lending an ancient character to every street and hiding centuries of whispered secrets in every crack. Ochre and terracotta buildings loom all around you, ancient in construction yet modern in affect, with neon signs advertising shops and flashing lights pointing the way to pharmacies, restaurants, and more. A variety of decadent aromas fill the air: rosemary, garlic, and the rich, acidic tang of simmering tomatoes drift from nearby restaurants, while the smell of clean, drying laundry wafts from nearby apartments.

The streets are winding and confusing, with hills and alleys traveled by chaotic, seemingly-random traffic. Lights and signs are suggestions, here, and although natives cross with ease, tourists can be seen practically clinging to lamp posts, waiting for a signal to walk. The small, European-style cars which fill the roads give heed to pedestrians, but it seems as if every few seconds someone honks or slams on their brakes, yet no one is ever struck, a certain art to the chaos.

It is morning/span>/span76F(24C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey clouds. It’s raining. The mist is heaviest At Hawthorn and Blackstone/span>/spanThe mirrorgate travel takes but a moment, and spits you out into a small, dank room somewhere beneath the Trastevere bus station, a basement window letting sunlight and – ostensibly – moonlight stream through. It takes but a few moments to exit through the door, finding yourselves in a maintenance hallway, and then to find your way up and into the morning sun, the balmy Mediterranean weather agreeably warm, but unpleasantly wet.@line
The city is alive with the hustle and bustle of the morning: traffic is, for lack of a better word, insane, tiny european cars zipping this way and that through the streets as people just seem to walk across at random. Signals are but a suggestion, here.

The mirrorgate travel takes but a moment, and spits you out into a small, dank room somewhere beneath the Trastevere bus station, a basement window letting sunlight and – ostensibly – moonlight stream through. It takes but a few moments to exit through the door, finding yourselves in a maintenance hallway, and then to find your way up and into the morning sun, the balmy Mediterranean weather agreeably warm, but unpleasantly wet.

The city is alive with the hustle and bustle of the morning: traffic is, for lack of a better word, insane, tiny european cars zipping this way and that through the streets as people just seem to walk across at random. Signals are but a suggestion, here.

“Quite warm for weather like this,” Diego agrees, reaching up to loosen his tie before he takes a sniff at the competing aromas of Authentic Italian Cuisine (car exhaust included). “Alright. Does anyone see someone sprinting naked down the road, yelling in tongues? I don’t speak Italian.”

“I only know one word in Italian,” Alice manages, looking around as she starts to adjust to the chaos and fervor of the city. “And I don’t think we should say it to anyone, because it means, ‘up your ass’.” She sniffs, then checks a small map on her phone, brow furrowed. “We’re looking for a book, so… I think it might be best to start at a bookstore.”

“It could be you,” Stelle muses towards Diego before the shades covering her eyes dip lower, stormy blue eyes looking up, down and across the street for anything of particular note, “We could try euh… an antique store too, no? It is a rather /old/ book.”

“Wet,” Miles observes monosyllabically, falling in at Patience’s flank and hooking an arm with hers when they’re forced to emerge out into the morning sun or – thankfully given the weather and heavy cloud cover – lack thereof. “No habla,” he agrees with Diego, only to yelp when a probably-not-demonically-possessed Italian nearly hits him on a tiny motorbike. “Oh, oh, I know… ‘grazi’,” he utterly mangles and Americanizes the pronunciation.

“Well I know how Sofia says pizza,” Patience says but then goes ahead and says it all wrong with, “A beets. Oh and bellisimo! Is that Italian?” She nods, a half-smile forming at Alice’s one word, and then she’s slipping through the group to settle herself near the pair of Mercers, and leaning her body in against Miles’s when he claims her arm. “Or a library, maybe? They have like, special places for the really old books that you can’t check out and have to wear gloves and be in climate-controlled rooms to look at.”

Obadiah lingers at Arachne’s side but doesn’t interject into the conversations with Patience and Ambrose, falling mostly silent until he is questioned around being able to speak a foreign language and just shakes his head, makes a fist with his thumb between his index and middle finger, shakes it, and then puts it away before the group gets jumped. “That is as much as I know.”

“We should probably have recruited someone who speaks Italian,” Diego concludes, side-eyeing Stelle as she makes the first of her two suggestions. “Antique store sounds like a fine idea without anyone crazy giving things away.”

Arachne delicately pinches the bridge of her nose with amusement while she listens to Patience and Miles showcase their linguistic abilities. “Surely we can just use one of those language apps if it comes down to it,” she extends in helpful recommendation toward Stelle from her place at Obadiah’s side. “Perhaps utilizing one of our contacts to might be a good idea too, see if they might know any special markets or auctions where grimoires and other important books might be. Is there any unique details about the book it can be found?”

“Bonjerno,” Miles remembers another Italian word, and promptly directs it over at Obadiah. “Maybe like… a used books store,” he agrees with Patience’s line of thinking, finding a meeting in the Venn diagram between it and an antiques store, while making a face that suggests some deep-seated mistrust of places full of books.

“I hardly qualify as an expert, but I can try,” Arachne rustily tries a few words of the language on her tongue, nose scrunching as her American dialect makes for a rough work on enunciations.

Amidst the chaotic hustle and bustle of the city, there also exists a sense of quiet contemplation. Alice leads the group towards the closest of the offered suggestions, an antique store not too far from the bus stop. The walk is simple, albeit made a little more complex by the size of the group. Locals give odd looks, but it seems more like the looks they would give any group of tourists in one of the world’s most popular cities, the scourge of over-tourism made manifest.

The road drifts upward into an incline, and the GPS confusedly points towards an alley. Right next to that alley is a mostly unmarked door, with a tiny sign in a dirty window that says ‘Antichita’, and under that, ‘Antiques’.

Blinking back to as he follows along, prior to the antique store, Ambrose admits, “My Italian leaves very much to be desired.” Aside, he looks and nods to Arachne. “Similarly. But — romance languages, all that.”

Obadiah nods to Miles in agreement, “buonasera signorina due birre.” He glances back to Arachne, “I just asked for two beers.” He considers her for a moment, “But you probably know that.”

“Huh, Spanish must be close enough. I understood about half of what you just said,” Patience tells Arachne, slanting her a small smile as they walk along. “But Italian? That’s quite the fun language to learn.” She nods over at Ambrose’s claim, and once more seems content to just walk along, though Obadiah needs to be told, “You forgot to say please.”

Stelle makes sure to take plenty of pictures with her phone as she follows behind Alice, obnoxious European tourism born into the blonde woman’s blood. There’s little for her to comment on aside, her legs carrying her right to that door which she prepares to open. She only hesitates to look for Alice’s confirming glance or for a waterfall of peer pressure to come from the group as a whole.

“I’m pretty sure he just called you Mrs. Butterworth in Italian,” Miles disagrees with Obadiah’s self-translation over to Arachne. Grinning aside at Patience, he mentions that: “The book that bites is my favorite book, though.”

Ambrose holds a hand up at the wrist in the alleyway, murmuring of the antique store: “Something’s going on inside.”

“They share a lot of etymology, the languages, or so I read somewhere on the internet,” Arachne chimes in agreement with Patience and Ambrose, Obadiah and Miles earning a wry curl of her lips. “What do you hear?” she wonders hushedly to Ambrose, brows knitted as silence falls upon her and she strains her hearing.

“I always say please and thank you,” Obadiah says knowing full well he doesn’t, but falls silent waiting

As silence falls on the group, hearing what’s happening within becomes easier. It’s an argument, in Italian; the better your hearing, the more you can make out. The voices are older, perhaps past age fifty, and it seems domestic in nature. More importantly, the rhythmic whudding is almost certainly a hammer on metal, or perhaps on dense wood.

Gaze boring off into the middle distance, head cocked not unlike a dog’s, Ambrose murmurs, “… maybe a… disagreement? … fight? … argument, thumping…” But the rest of that’s apparent.

“That’s because it’s the best book and took me forever,” Patience tells Miles, but there’s a bit of bright pleasure in that moment. Then Ambrose is speaking, and her brow furrows as she turns a look toward the store with some confusion. “It’s a store?” she supposes. “Things happen…?” But clearly she’s not been paying enough attention, for there’s a muffled sound of frustration in her throat as she falls silent to listen – either to the store or to Ambrose.

Stelle holds her pause at the door, looking back to Ambrose and raising her eyebrows with a flick of her head towards the entryway and an expression that begs an ambiguous question.

Arachne knits her brows just a touch at Ambrose’s description of what they’re hearing, her chin tipped down in silent agreement. Her gaze scans over the interior of the dank cellar, outstretching a hand to draw it along the wall. “Recon?” she offers to Alice, gray eyes flicking upward once. “I can move ahead unseen to see what’s happening, and take a look around, if everyone else is alright with that.”

raises an eyebrow, looking between Stelle and Ambrose, before she turns to Arachne and nods. “I- um. I can’t really hear it, so recon might be nice. Just be careful, okay? If it’s a demon, call out and we’ll rush in.”

“Sure,” Miles whispers his assent and consent to somebody quieter and sneakier moving ahead to drop eaves more effectively. Unable to even hope to make out whatever language is being spoken, it’s the whudding that he focuses his own ear on.

“To be honest, they could just be… Blacksmithing or something, no?” Stelle asks in a hushed tone but she likewise doesn’t seem particularly reluctant to let someone take a look first.

“She is better at it than I am,” Obadiah explains even as she disappears in front of them. “And that is saying something.”

Patience rolls her eyes very silently at Obadiah for some reason or another. For now though, she just stays where she is, still holding onto Miles’s arm with an expression that’s more confusion than concern.

The door creaks open, moved by some unseen force, and a voice calls from within, “Buongiorno!” Moments later, though, getting no response, the door seems to ease itself closed.

For his part, Ambrose just remains stock-still in the alleyway, a-listenin’.

Arachne skims over the interior of the shop, allowing the unfamiliar scents to fill her nose as she navigates past the older couple inside unseen, always mindful of where her silent steps land lest she leaves prints in her wake. The new locking arm and mechanism is observed briefly before she turns, heading up the steps, testing her weight, careful to skip over any creaky floors while she searches for something, anything, to catch her eye.

furrows her brows as the door opens and the voice calls out, taking another step back into the alley to try and hide, but relaxes when the door simply… shuts itself. She whispers, “Do you think they found her? Is she okay?”

Alice furrows her brows as the door opens and the voice calls out, taking another step back into the alley to try and hide, but relaxes when the door simply… shuts itself. She whispers, “Do you think they found her? Is she okay?”

Stelle stares at the door for a long moment then looks over to the side at a group of presumably locals that she motions towards for Alice and the rest of the gaggle of mixed Orderites and Courtees. “Catching attention,” she comments with a nod towards Ambrose and she doesn’t seem to be particularly interested in being out in the open anymore. She moves her hand to test the door, entering like the world’s most obnoxious tourist if it’s unlocked.

Arachne listens out to ensure the couple remain downstairs and no one else is with her before she reaches for that burned letter, skimming it over for something more than just a name to puzzle out the nature of the ledger and what was sold. She grabs her phone from her back pocket, sending a picture of it and a text to signal she’s coming back down to Obadiah and Ambrose, one last look cast around before she starts retracing her steps.

Ambrose No. Must’ve been the wind.

Arachne makes sure her phone has signal, having texted Ambrose and Obadiah a picture of a burned ledger receipt displaying the name ‘Gary’ on it, and signaling she’s coming back down. T-Mobile and Verizon service is shit overseas.

The door opens again, creaking just as loudly as before. And this time, the “Buongiorno…” is a little bit less cheery, and the older woman of the couple inside leans around to look towards the door. The inside of the antique store is less of a store and more of a hallway, either side of it packed to the brim with knick-knacks and old, useless crap, although there’s also a nice shelf full of postcards. “Ah!” she calls, spotting Stelle, but not Obadiah. “Buongiorno! Welcome!” Her English is thickly accented.

Outside, the people who were pointing at the group start to argue amongst themselves, then wander off to continue their daily trek, looking for a cafe or a nice breakfast.

Obadiah grunts, he should have never left AT&T. He nudges Ambrose with an elbow and points to his phone with an arched eyebrow at Arachne’s group text

Immediately Stelle enters like the world’s brightest ray of figurative sunshine. “Oh my gosh this is /amaaaaaazing/!” she comments in a Beverly Hills Barbie meets Hot French Woman accent. It could probably be qualified as its own language. Rather immediately she sets upon looking around and taking pictures but when she grows close enough to the woman she asks, nasally, ‘Hi! Hello! Is this your shop?! It’s /amaaaazing/.”

Immediately Stelle enters like the world’s brightest ray of figurative sunshine. “Oh my gosh this is /amaaaaaazing/!” she comments in a Beverly Hills Barbie meets Hot French Woman accent. It could probably be qualified as its own language. Rather immediately she sets upon looking around and taking pictures but when she grows close enough to the woman she asks, nasally, “Hi! Hello! Is this your shop?! It’s /amaaaazing/.” (Formatting)

Patience must have missed Ambrose’s gesture, but it seems her help wasn’t needed for the onlookers to go away. Either way, after a moment, she flips her wet hair back and turns to slide out of the rain and into the shop with Stelle. She doesn’t make the slightest effort to hide her approach, instead chumming up with the French Barbie and offering her own, “Hello!” to the couple in the shop.

“Bonjerno,” Miles calls back to the lady inside the store from somewhere behind Stelle, filing into the store to start staring around the store while projecting gruff American illiteracy and disdain for historical import.

Eyes on the phone, Ambrose gives a small nod, lingering back with Obadiah for the moment. Since they’ve yet to be spotted, it is perhaps best to not show their hand or show off their full numbers — but still Ambrose makes an executive decision and follows Miles, Patience, and Stelle into the shop. “Hello.”

The couple visibly relaxes when they hear Stelle’s accent, then tenses again when Miles commits crimes against the Italian language. The man merely grunts, leaning on his workshop and ceasing his hammering to mutter a half-hearted “Buongiorno”, while the lady shifts position away from the workbench to get behind a small counter of sorts, with a VERY old-looking register, and a very new-looking cellphone with a Square. “Welcome, welcome!” she says, in English this time. “Please, look, see what you like. Where are you from?” She drops the question with practiced ease. Tourists LOVE talking about themselves.

Arachne slowly returns downstairs to see Stelle crossing the threshold in a strange persona. Her brows creep upward marginally before she scans over the shop again, extending out an unseen hand to jerk on the back of Miles’s brown leather jacker when he comes into the store, seeking solace from the rain as Patience, Ambrose, and Obadiah do as well. She eases behind Ambrose’s shadow, a finger tapped twice to the silvery signet ring that serves as his arcane focus before flicking that burned ledger she sent a picture of in the group chat, the paper containing a trace of arcane magic. “We should see if we can trace this,” she whispers under her breath so the group can hear her.

Alice slinks in behind the others, hovering near the door, reluctant to enter fully into such a cramped store. Her shrinking violet act sees her near Ambrose, and she shoots a glance at nothing when someone whispers.

Obadiah moves to follow Ambrose quietly as they move silently and unseen with the rest of the group, lingering with the other Family members out of sight, out of mind.

“Ohmygosh! You’re two are sooooo /cute/. I’m from like, California? I don’t know if you know about it though it’s kind of like, obscure,” Stelle comments to the old couple, eyes scanning shelves behind the woman for a moment before the agonizingly cheery French woman decides that words are her best go to right now, “But like, my grandpa totally asked me to look for this super old book when I was over here and like, I haven’t been able to find it like, /anywhere/. Have you heard of uhhhh…” There’s a pause, an annoying whiny sound escaping her throat while she tries to upkeep the accent and the self-destructive caricature and looks over her phone, “It’s called like ‘The Blind Heron’? I don’t really know what its like, about?”

After a moment, Diego ducks inside after Stelle and Miles, putting his ugly mug on exhibition as he smiles to the pair of antiquarians, not at all menacingly. He sticks close enough to the group to make it clear he’s one of them, but he lets the others handle the talking for now.

It’s Obadiah and Arachne doing anything magical that needs to be done for the moment, but Ambrose nods his agreement; for his part, the vampire’s murmurs to mask for them in Italian, “Cigarette.” If there’s anything the French understand, it’s smoking. Easy excuse as any. But he doesn’t smell smoke, and his eyes linger on the proprietor subtly.

The invisibly yank causes Miles to jolt in disorientation, one arm swinging wildly to accidentally knock something to the floor. He bends down to retrieve it and put it back, making an apologetic face to the woman, while his eyes slant towards the man and his hammering to try and get a look at what he’s up to. “America,” he answers as if he hadn’t made that obvious. “Well, the missus and I,” he jerks his thumb at someone. As for Stelle, he says in a conspiratorial hush, as though revealing some embarrassing secret: “She was born in France, though. That makes her French. Technically.”

Arachne slips that half-burned receipt into Patience’s hand, joining her own cloaking magic to the Warden’s to ensure the transaction remains unseen. It’s a hand-written, partially burned from a stove’s burners, with the name Gary upon it. It outlines a purchase of a pulpit and a barely legible date spanning back to just 3 days prior, where the pulpit was purchased from this antique store. There’s odd traces, very faint, of magic.

The invisibly yank causes Miles to jolt in disorientation, one arm swinging wildly to accidentally knock something to the floor. He bends down to retrieve it and put it back, making an apologetic face to the woman, while his eyes slant towards the man and his hammering to try and get a look at what he’s up to. “America,” he answers as if he hadn’t made that obvious. “Well, the missus and I,” he jerks his thumb at Patience. As for Stelle, he says in a conspiratorial hush, as though revealing some embarrassing secret: “Our friend was born in France, though. That makes her French. Technically. You can tell because she goes berserk for bread and cheese.”

Patience beams at Miles, leaning in to kiss his cheek and bat her lashes, a little giggle as if to suggest that he’s the one to speak for her, all while she hides away that book. Then, she murmurs something, and turns to slip away, perusing the shelves and the items on them until she’s out of the proprietors’ sight. Then, it’s a quick duck for the alleyway, where she can attempt to use her own ritual magic to trace the ledger’s magic.

Alice slips out behind Patience, grateful to be out of the stuffy store and choosing to assist the Warden with her will-working.

The couple seems to wither under Stelle’s blisteringly touristy assault, but the older woman takes it in stride, clearly practiced in dealing with obnoxious but apparently well-meaning tourists. She shakes her head, gesticulating wildly to indicate the stacked goods in the hallway-store just beyond the counter. “No books,” she says, her sentences truncated but her command of English quite good for someone of her age. “Sorry, no books. Ah, there is bookstore, nearby, close to the River!” She’s jovial enough, clearly helping a fellow small business owner drum up some business.

To those with the nose that knows, the scent of old blood seems to linger in the whole store. There’s not a specific source; it clings to absolutely everything, and you get the sense that the scent belongs to someone else who is no longer here, but has spent significant time here.

“Uhhh I like, moved when I was really young, duh? That makes me like, more American than a lot of people,” Stelle continues on her tirade, holding up two peace signs and flashing a beaming smile, phone still held in hand. That smile fades when there’s an indication of zero books though, an overacted frown on her face as she says, “No books at aaaaalll?! Awwwww. Okay.” That said she still makes a move to buy something, a nondescript inexpensive postcard perhaps, maybe it’ll keep the woman talking, “Let me like, at least get this postcard for my uncle or something.”

A dull throbbing begins within Arachne’s temples as she inhales more of the scent of old blood, quietly drifting through the shop front, careful to disturb nothing in her wake as she realizes how much it saturates every corner of the store. The blood of another shouldn’t permeate the entire room unless violence helped spread it. The Monarch turns her eyes toward the door once more, recalling that new locking mechanism that seemed recently installed before she begins looking for what else might stand out to a discerning eye.

No more words out of Ambrose for a time, neither English nor Italian; he just stares off into space, listening to Stelle gab and placidly windowshopping. His thoughts are elsewhere.

Obadiah starts bobbing his head to some unknown melody in his mind as he looks around and lets everyone else to investigations, helping where he can.

“She’s never read a book in her life,” Miles hisses conspiratorially to the proprietress, this accusation in particular a confession of his own grave sin, while he continues presenting a distraction for Patience’s benefit. “Do you have any, like… weapons?” he asks the proprietress seriously. “Like, any spears, or knives, or swords?” he asks.

Stelle selects a postcard with an architectural design of the Circus Maximus: on one side, it depicts the Circus as it is today, barely even there. On the other, it is depicted in its full glory, an enormous stadium which puts even modern ones to shame. The shopkeep rings her up, packaging it with a correctly-sized envelope and a protective plastic sleeve. It costs three euro. “No books,” she agrees sadly. “When we get books, we give to Brickbooks. When she gets priceless antiques, she gives to us,” she helpfully informs. To Miles, she raises an eyebrow, and says, “Can’t sell real weapons here, but…” She gestures to what must be her husband and orders him in Italian. He finds a case from under the counter, picking it up and putting it on the workbench, gesturing for Miles to come closer; when he opens it, there’s an old, rusted Roman gladius inside.

Arachne finds exactly what she’s looking for: she gets a chance to inspect the workbench when Miles is shown his shitty rusted sword, and that area has clearly been recently (and poorly) cleaned. There’s blood and, on closer inspection, urine in that corner, dried and nearly faded.

Alice nods to Patience, reaching out for the receipt. She holds it steady, leveling her gaze on it and staring HARD. Eventually, a flame starts on the paper apropos of nothing, apparently willed into existence by her very gaze.

Patience might try again, with trying to figure out the smell, now that her focus is off the magic on the receipt. Letting the burning reciept fall to the ground to be ground to ash beneath the toe of her pretty new Chuck, she wanders back to where Miles stands to ask, “Honey, please, please don’t bring home any more old garbage,” with a wrinkle of her nose that claims an absolute lack of understanding of old Roman culture, whether true or not. In the meantime, the young vampire tilts her head, nostrils flaring as she breathes in deeply, though it’s not her physical senses she’s trying to tune in with.

“But look at it! It’s so cool,” Miles whines back at Patience while gesticulating wildly at the rusted piece of shit that supposedly passes for an antique gladius. “I bet somebody stabbed Caesar with that bad boy. Imagine how good it,” by it he means that rusted piece of shit, “would look on our mantle,” he whines and pleads at Patience but inevitably deflates and withdraws, well away from the site of blood and piss.

While the old couple are distracted, Arachne draws out her phone to hit a text to Patience, Ambrose, — she just creates a group chat ot text: There must’ve been a dispute that turned violent here. They tried to clean it up, but did a very poor job of it. Do you think it was Gary?

Stelle glances down at the gladius and comments, “Yeah wait he like, totally needs that!” Her phone taps the square, an electronic transfer of funds rather than unprepared bills perhaps to everybody’s distaste considering the low value of her postcard. She doesn’t seem to mind though, she’s an obnoxious tourist and now she takes hold of her overpriced postcard and waves it around with a smile.

“Thank you baby,” Patience coos to Miles, after watching him deflate as many do after getting that look from their wives. She, American screen addict that she is, quickly finds her phone back in her hand texts back: The person who put the magic on that reciept is in town. I can feel a connection to them. It’s weird. But it’s bad. Like, really bad. I think I got sucked into the magic, not sure why else it seemed so vital to destroy that reciept but it did. Anyway, that’s all I got from it, for now.

Obadiah continues to be as helpful as he can be, rolling his eyes at Patience and Miles before lowering his voice distracting Arachne for a moment, “Are Dovie and I that bad?”

Distracted by the buzz of his own phone, texting Arachne and Patience placidly and subtly, Ambrose responds: Could have been. Could have been anything. Oh, huh. So the book is gone? We will have to re-tether? Follow?

Alice peeks back into the shop, slinking in behind the others. She smiles at Stelle’s postcard, but then asks, “Did you say Brickbooks? Is that the bookstore? Do they usually have, um, old books, you think? Antiques, classics, weird stuff.”

The old couple seems a little disappointed that no one wants to buy their rusted piece of shit gladius. The old man closes the case, though, grunting as he puts it back under the counter. “Eh,” he manages. It seems his English is not as good as his old lady’s. His wife answers, though, enthusiastically telling Alice, “Brickbooks has every old book, every old book ever. You want classics? No better. You tell old Giulia that Ginevra sent you. She’ll give a discount.” She seems quite proud and quite confident in that fact. “You want anything else?” she asks to the group. The room seems smaller by the moment with this many people in it.

“Listen,” Miles dives back into the store, one last gasp of American desperation to satisfy his divine need for arms to bear. “If you get any cannons in stock, give me a call, okay?” he scribbles his number – 8675309 – onto a paper for the antique shop owners and then withdraws, rendered submissive and compliant by some strange magic wrought by Patience.

Stelle starts to make her way out, postcard in hand but she desn’t drop the act just yet. “Yeah like, I guess. I don’t know why the books are made of bricks though. Thaaaaanks you cute little couple,” she comments with a flip of her hair. That very same hand reaches into her pocket once she’s out the door, a small string bound piece of a gray metal held aloft as she wills it to bring her where she’s going.

Patience gives Miles an indulgent smile as he dives back in with that request, though by the time she’s stepped out of the shop, she can no longer hold back and simply dissolves into mirth. “You guys,” she protests to both him and Stelle. “Holy shit. But okay. So there’s definitely someone in town that’s connected to the magic on that receipt,” she warns the whole group now. “I could feel them but not identify them. Hopefully they haven’t also felt me – but if it’s connected? We probably should just be careful. I have no idea, since the reciept was for a pulpit, not a book… but if it’s for some sort of ritual? Makes sense, right?”

“Yes euh… We should tread carefully regardless. We have already drawn a bit of attention even if we did avoid it without issue,” Stelle replies, with a cough, finall dropping the accent. The lodestone tugs at the string in the direction of Brickbooks down by the river. “We can save it as a last resort.”

Stelle has no trouble finding the way to Brickbooks, the lodestone leading the way towards the great River Tiber which runs through the Eternal City. The cramped streets of Trastevere open up as they near the river, and the prime real estate of river-side property lines either side of the vast body of water. A bridge allows for crossing, and off in the distance, you can see the city center of Rome proper, a piazza just across the bridge inviting locals and tourists alike to gather, and absolutely thronging with hawkers trying to sell their wares, some legit, some scam.

Just after crossing that bridge lies Brickbooks, another small storefront. It’s a little larger than the antique store, and has better signage, with a faux brick facade above the door which, perhaps, reveals its namesake. Several displays of various mineral crystals, orbs, and incense burners sit in the grimy window. Inside, a woman sits, dressed in flowy clothes, like one might see from a fortuneteller at a Ren faire.

“I mean, you normally put books on pulpits, don’t you?” Diego asks Patience. “It doesn’t seem too much of a reach to me.” He hasn’t added much to the conversation yet, otherwise – but without a particularly refined sense of smell, vampirism, or magic, he’s just there to be a big, brutish figure among his peers.

Patience nods to Diego, confirming that his train of thought has indeed followed her own. But for now, she merely follows the others, having given her offer and her warning, to the strange little Italian bookstore.

“I do not own a pulpit,” Stelle comments a bit idly, her feet stopping before Brickbooks proper. She tries to psyche herself into that vapid space once more and fails, then tries again and fails again before looking over the group and commenting, “I do not euh… suppose anyone else would like to do the talking?”

“The last time I was anywhere near a pulpit, there was a spooky haunted cup possessing people,” Miles recalls vaguely. “And I had to hum the A-Team theme song to break the curse.”

Alice slips into the store as Stelle finds it, prompting a greeting from the witchy proprietress: “Buongiorno,” she says, “Welcome.” Her English is far, far better than the elderly couple’s who ran the antique store, a well-traveled woman by all accounts. The store itself is a roomy, with the books lining the walls and lots of floor space left in the middle. There’s a staircase which leads up to a loft above. “Can I help you find anything?” Giulia asks, an eyebrow raised suspiciously.

“Well I certainly hope nothing like that is needed now,” Patience says to Miles, with a quirked smile and a comment of, “I’ve never even heard it.” She clears her throat subtly and whispers in a low voice to those nearest to her, “She’s an arcanist of some sort. Be careful.” There’s a quick lift of dark eyes to study the woman’s necklace, then a fingering of the charms around her own wrist, and another nod. “She’ll know we’re not innocent tourists because of all the charms we’re wearing too…”

Ambrose heads on in, himself. If anyone fits the bill of person looking for Ren Faire demon summoning books, it’s probably him. Giulia offers a gentle, “Buongiorno.” The flare of his nostrils, unnecessary, preempts his look back toward her. “I am looking for anything that might be of use to a Practicioner like yourself.” A beat, throwing out further, “Ambrose Vasquez.”

“L’airone Cieco,” Diego says, following after Alice. He’d taken the opportunity to look up the title in Italian. “They say a copy showed up here in Rome. We’re just trying to get ahead of the crowd, snag that copy before the more rabid book-hunters come for it.” He offers up a tight, hare-lipped smile, made a little more gruesome by the ugly, sluicing groove running along his cheek. “Though maybe it is listed in its English name, the Blind Heron?” His eyes linger on the older woman and his jaw works from side to side before he adds , “Oh – Ginevra over at the antique shop asked us to pass on that she sent us your way.”

Giulia raises an eyebrow – for the briefest of moment, deception crosses her eyes, as she considers playing dumb. After that moment passes, though, she acquiesces, forcing a smile at Ambrose. “Giulia Drago,” she introduces, waving a hand to dismiss a bit of incense smoke that wafts closer. “I have many wiccan treatises, tarot decks are on the far wall, and I’ll leave it to you to decide which crystals are attuned and which aren’t.” She seems a little defensive, having been sniffed out so easily.

To Diego, she just shakes her head. She’s about to answer, but as she opens her mouth, the glass surrounding a lit candle on one of the shelves shatters, sending wax spilling out onto the floor. Giulia curses in Italian, looking over and sourly declaring, “Just my luck.”

Having remained largely a silent observer since her findings in the old couple’s previous store, Arachne unveils herself as she trails into Brickbooks after the Orderite gang, slowly fading into view once she’s crossed the threshold. She inhales a breath, barely startling as glass shatters, gray eyes drawn that way. “Where there is fickle luck, there is a faeborn to correct it,” she quips in mild humor. “It’s a pleasure, Giuilia Drago. Thank you for having us within your store. I imagine many come here, seeking knowledge from you on a matter of arcane topics.”

Stelle enters the store after most and remains by the door, eyes on the street outside rather than on happenings within.

Obadiah nods in agreement with Arachne on the subject of luck and the preponderance of sneaky fae just waiting to make things interesting

This time, Miles keeps quiet and towards the rear of the group, with arms folded across his chest.

Patience seems content to stay back this time, with Miles. She doesn’t approach, letting Ambrose and Arachne with Obadiah have that honor, while she starts to scan the shelves, her eyes drifting over the thises and thats that line it. Meanwhile, occasionally, she interally tunes in to that little connection she’s established.

Thumbed out to the grouptext without looking, as Ambrose avails himself to windowshopping in the place at Giulia’s behest, he sends: Not Trinity. “It is an excellent place. Right in the open, hidden away. Flirting lines. You do very well here,” he gives gentle praise with his eyes upon a crystal display.

Giulia wears a deep frown on her face, even with how polite Arachne, Ambrose, and Diego are with her. “Fickle luck is putting it lightly,” she says, practically a growl. She gets up to start cleaning up that shattered candle, taking a small broom and dustpan to task. “Many do come here, most of them blind to the mysteries of the arcane. Some know, but can’t do it themselves, and want blessings and curses. Some, like you, come to make demands of me. Some…” She stares at Diego, now, her frown deepening. “Ask for things they shouldn’t.”

Obadiah goes on full autopilot doing whatever Arachne or Patience tells him to do. Gotta listen to the boss!

“I thought you might appreciate us being straightforward about our attentions,” Diego says, smiling even as he offers the woman a shrug. “I’ve been reading the papers about all the horrible things going on. Seems like the sort of thing people might appreciate having taken care of, you know?” He tips his head and continues, “We’d appreciate whatever information you can share with us. And I imagine we could help put that curse to bed, if you’d like..?” He doesn’t specify whichever curse he’s talking about, though. Perhaps Giulia’s aware of the specifics, or perhaps not.

It is with a distracted cant of her mouth that Arachne engages Guilia, the sweep of her gaze across the store done so under the guise of idle appreciation for the proprietress’s life work. “A monarch beyond their realm certainly would be foolish to come here and make demands of a woman who extends hospitality and patience. Instead, I would like to entreat with you, should you be willing.” A subtle twitch of her sensitive nose and she is surrendering all of her attention to the woman. “I imagine someone came here recently, a demonborn who reeks, his blood mired in vile magics that leaves a nasty stain everywhere he goes. Is that why you burn the incense so heavily? Did he come to ask for things he should not?” A quiet pause, before she softens her voice, adding, “If you would be willing to assist us, we will trade a favor in kind of equal value.”

Another unnecessary flare of Ambrose’s nostrils, and he looks from the crystal to Giulia, inferring the rest of her little story. “… and you had one of those recently. Very recently. That… man who would not listen to –” A glance past at Alice, and back. “– vaffanculo.” It’s mused in addition to Diego and Arachne’s calls, and his attention returns to the crystal displays.

Patience slowly seems to tune out what’s going on around her. In fact, her features grow a bit dazed and vacant and her eyes flutter almost shut. Murmuring a soft, barely audible, “Ugh, I hate bugs…” she then drifts silent, the dealings with Guilia all but forgotten even though moment’s ago she’d looked a bit disgruntled by them.

A shiver runs up Stelle’s spine suddenly followed by a deep inhale as Stelle turns back towards the proprietor of the store, blue eyes distracted from the street for a moment by something.

Giulia’s guard is very much up, but she is merely a hedge witch, and she cannot fight back against the mental force of multiple talented hypnotists, not when their offers are made with olive branches. She glances aside, and she answers as much as she can, although she still seems hesitant – scared, even, fear rolling off of her in waves. “Yes,” she answers finally. “Yes, he did. He came looking for the book, The Blind Heron. I’ve been…” She has to admit something, and can scarcely get the words out. “I’ve been searching for it for years. It has answers. Answers for witches like me, so that we don’t end up in situations… like this.”

She looks fully aside, now, the floor far more interesting than those interrogating her. “He took it.”

Thought it very much could be, it’s not even laden with psychic pressure when Ambrose prompts of Giulia, placid as can be: “Where?” Though he overall needn’t even ask, his attention drifting back toward Patience. “… I suppose we know where. Though — not where, but how to get there.”

Not entirely comprehending the scene that unfolds before him, Miles stands with arms folded, ready and willing to assist if and when called upon, though far enough out of his depth that there’s likely little if any need for that especially here.

Arachne rewards Giulia with a beguiling smile that very briefly warms her near-silvered gaze. A hand disappears inside a pocket, thumbing out a lacquered black card with her contact information to slip across to the woman. “You need only give this number a ring or a text with what you require and I will ensure it paid,” she says softly. “Is there anything more that you can tell us?” Her question comes on the tail of Ambrose’s own, well-timed, unless her work to disarm the woman is undone.

Giulia seems ready to continue talking. She opens her mouth, about to speak, but her voice catches on something in her throat. She reaches up to clasp at it, but she’s breathing. Can breathe. Will be breathing. Yet, each time she tries to speak, all that can come out is a chittering croak. She stops, searching for her seat and finding it, and manages to say, “I’m sorry, I-.. I feel sick. Like I might throw up.” True to her words, her skin is rapidly paling, a jaundiced yellow creeping into the whites of her eyes.

“96Gary… loves… you.” The words are soft, almost as if Patience were merely an echo chamber for someone else’s words in that moment. But she’s fine. She’s totally fine, with that vacant stare and little smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Not me…” she adds afterwards, though perhaps she’s not really processing what she’s seeing, and is just reporting? But then there’s a hint of concern and she voices more audibly, “There’s bugs everywhere. Legs. Lots of legs. Crawling. Don’t you see them?”

“Ew,” Obadiah comments with a lift of his lip at the crawling legs. “Bugs. So many legs.”

“The fuck?” Miles voices in confusion, turning to squint at Patience, and then Obadiah. “No. No bugs.” He makes a face, then reaches over to seize on Patience’s arm and give her hand a squeeze to try and anchor her to reality while her mind’s eyes wander elsewhere.

As is wont to happen, Ambrose attention is caught — first by someone’ words, and then by… something. Nothing? “No bugs,” he repeats gently, staring at the middle distance and slowly lifting his hand.

“No bugs,” Stelle repeats, eyes drifting back out towards the street with a little more concern and a little more intention now.

As is wont to happen, Ambrose attention is caught — first by Patience’s words, and then by… something. Nothing? “No bugs,” he repeats gently, baby blues staring off at the middle distance as his hand slowly lifts to crook fingers in that direction.

Patience lifts her hand as her focus turns to someone. She points at the suddenly ill-looking woman. She says nothing, but then her own fingers squeeze into her own flesh, like she’s trying to choke herself. She’s not. She doesn’t need to breathe. But that unfocused gaze lingers and she makes no attempt to explain what she’s doing, or why.

When Miles grabs and squeezes her hand, she startles out of it, enough that her squeezing hand drops to her side, though who knows if it’s enough to fully refocus her on the here and now.

Patience lifts her hand as her focus turns to Guilia. She points at the suddenly ill-looking woman. She says nothing, but then her own fingers squeeze into her own flesh, like she’s trying to choke herself. She’s not. She doesn’t need to breathe. But that unfocused gaze lingers and she makes no attempt to explain what she’s doing, or why.

When Miles grabs and squeezes her hand, she startles out of it, enough that her squeezing hand drops to her side, though who knows if it’s enough to fully refocus her on the here and now.

“No, Pax. No strangling the pukey book lady,” Miles tells Patience gently.

Obadiah watches and shakes his head a moment, fiddling with the pull tab on his grey coat, it’s a thing, and observes silently.

Arachne has lapsed into a silence all her own, observing the way Guilia responds to Patience’s revelation.

Giulia, for her part, tries again. She manages to get to “G” before her voice catches in her throat again, like she’s about to choke, and she shakes her head. “I can’t,” she manages. She reaches for her necklace, clutching it neurotically. At her side, her hand twitches once, twice, thrice. Runes on her necklace begin to light up even beneath her hand, and the air around her starts to drop in temperature.

A blood-curdling shriek pierces the room. Banishment seems to be the ticket. Giulia seizes, her body twitching wildly as her mancing fizzles against the sudden ripping of ghostly puppeteering from her psyche, foam building at the edges of her mouth as she drops out of her chair, to the floor. The entire process looks painful, and then it is over, with just Giulia left in the room.

The faint scent of old blood vanishes with the spirit.

Arachne allows herself, finally, to draw in a full breath once the magic dissipates and, with it, the pervasive stench of old blood. She drifts forward, quickly catching Guilia and attends to her immediately, ensuring she well and able to recover.

Patience blinks a few times, with her dark dreamy gaze coming back into focus once more. “Is she dead?” she asks. There’s concern, but it’s distant, like she needs a moment just to reconfigure her own thought patterns, first. Arachne has the woman, however, and so the diva finds herself once more turning attention in toward that little mental ribbon, loathe to let it go when they need still to find this book. Perhaps that proves to be a bad idea for she’s suddenly wincing in pain, and a hand lifts to press against her temple, fingers curled inward toward her palm. “Gary’s mad,” she murmurs.

Ambrose wavers, if not for the blood-curdling shriek itself but for the curdling of his own that’s traded away. But once it’s done, he resettles in his stance, notably more drained but not at all pained. Not much of much, truly, no panting to catch his nonexistent breath, and no follow-up statements, no questions. Spent. Backseat role, now.

Giulia shudders in Arachne’s grasp, but she’s alive. Not quite unharmed, but alive. She clutches at her throat, but realizes that the issue is gone shortly after, and in a quivering voice she manages, “Gary. A cult, I… I don’t know them. They’re small. They buy mice, they kill them, they… they’re nothing. But Gary leads them now. And he took the book.” Tears are welling up in her eyes as she spills that which Gary had forbidden. “That book is power,” she promises.

Obadiah helps Ambrose and Alice silently, not interjecting himself into any of the conversations as of yet but when Giulia starts talking about books of power and cults he starts paying better attention to the situation and zeros in on the topic, considering the woman with sea-green eyes.

“Il Colosseo,” Patience offers out in that voice of distant unfocus, before she muses, “Is that the Colosseum?” She blinks a few times, then muses aside to Miles, “Maybe if we end up having to go there, we can get you a real gladius.” There’s a pause and then she offers, “Where blood once flowed freely, it flows again.” A pause and then a murmur of concern, accompanied by a flare of something dark in her eyes. “Probably not mice…”

“Likely not,” Stelle comments, the lodestone pulled from her pocket again and her eyes on the prize. She doesn’t force the party’s movement yet, eyes trailing across the street to make sure their exit will be, hopefully, mostly uneventful.

“There were a couple of suspected linked murders near there,” Diego murmurs aside to Patience. “A cathedral near it, anyway. The four women who were praying.” He pauses, then suggests, “Not an unfitting place for a pulpit to be. They’re mainly a church thing, right?” Lifting an eyebrow and a half up over his forehead, he says, “Might be that’s worth checking out.”

Alice leans wearily on the doorframe, taxed from the ritual, but she answers Patience, too. “Il Colosseo,” she says, “is the Colosseum, yes. It’s not that far from here, I think,” she says. She looks with pity on Giulia – someone she could have been, had she not been more or less adopted by Ambrose. “If she’s gonna be okay, I think… we should probably let her rest.”

“That sounds like a lead. There’s so much tourist traffic at the coliseum itself, I can’t imagine they’d be able to get very far using it, right?” Miles figures with a nod as his gaze travels from Patience to Diego. “Except maybe if there are some tunnels or underworkings.”

An agreeable nod from Ambrose at Diego’s words, and to Patience, and finally to Alice herself, and then Ambrose is drifting along behind Stelle, assuming that the Swordbearer has navigation on lock.

Stelle nudges Alice, a brief check in with the redhead before Stelle begins to lead the way out the shop and onto the streets of Rome once more.

Arachne draws away from Giulia once she’s deemed the woman safe enough to rest and recover from the harrowing ordeal on her own. She draws out her phone, tapping into Google Maps to pull up the directions to Il Colosseo as she rejoins the group while Stelle prepares to fabulously guide them along by instinct and charm alone. “Il Colosseo seems to be the final destination, isn’t it? Here’s hoping it is a straight forward endeavor,” she murmurs toward Patience and Alice.

The trek to Il Colosseo is easy – trivially so. Stepping through ancient Roman streets, dodging delivery fans slowly creeping their way down tourist-packed alleys, and ignoring roadside scammers trying to sell friendship bracelets, these are the difficulties, not navigation. None of these pose a challenge for a group composed of people like this, though, and soon, Il Colosseo looms overhead, the vast skeleton of bygone glories positively swarmed with tourists.

“That makes sense,” Patience says to Diego. There’s a bit of a worried look over at Ambrose, knowing just how much that ritual cost him, but then she’s nodding again at Miles’s claim. Seeming content to trust that charm of Stelle’s, she rests her hand on Miles’s arm to help keep herself upright and on autopilot as she murmurs, “I’m going to see if I can figure out any more…”

Stelle pauses immediately and cranes her neck towards a side entrance she spots immediately. “Entrance,” she comments a bit clinically, motioning towards and scoping it out without delay.

Alice follows Stelle towards the hatch. Crowds part around this area of the Colosseum like waves, almost subconsciously avoiding the hatch as they focus on getting in line to get into the Colosseum proper, or taking stupid pictures, or recording stupid videos. She looks to the group, and says, “I think this is it, isn’t it? Are we ready?”

The pervasive stench of bodily fluids and human waste nearly overpowers Arachne. Her composure cracks, growing pallid for a moment as her eyes water over. Violently ill, she swallows back the rise of bile and continues to trail the group. “I’m surprised you aren’t documenting,” she whispers hoarsely toward Miles, a harmless needling back to a misadventure with his prized camera on the high seas. At Ambrose’s words, she flicks her gaze toward the side entrance, peering ahead. “… Ready as we can ever be at this point,” she sounds off the affirmative to Alice.

Diego’s not struggled too much with the scents so far. Despite the broadness of his crooked nose, and those most prodigious of nostrils, his sense of smell is only human. Alas; now these pungent horrors have grown strong enough for him to cough and gag on it, muttering most displeasedly. “I should have brought some deodorant or something,” he complains. “Even if you breathe with your mouth, you taste it. Tell me it’s not as bad down there.”

Alice darkly surmises, “It’s probably going to be worse.” She kneels down, grabbing the hatch. She nods to those around her, then yanks the hatch open, opening the way for the group to funnel in with ease, although it’ll need to be one at a time. The smell is, in fact, worse, drifting up from the open hatch along with a wave of hot, muggy air.

“Worse,” Ambrose reports, starting that way. One hand slips under his vest in anticipation, coming back out with a quartz-treated trick up his sleeve.

“It smells like… a tannery,” Miles makes a face while he approaches the foul hatch descending beneath the coliseum. “I’d prefer not to have any keepsakes to remember this particular smell, thanks,” he informs Arachne.

Obadiah follows along with the crowd his hand reaching up to touch the glass prism at his throat as they walk, his nose lifting in disgust as the scents of the Piss Tunnel overwhelm him, and when Ambrose goes for a knife he reaches for one of his own.

“Just shut down those senses,” Patience says but it may be noted that she-who-prefers-not-to-even-eat is opening her mouth as little as possible as the group makes its way into that tunnel. She apparently has little pity to spare for those who have senses that don’t just shut off like the undead.

Stelle digs in her bag and tosses Diego’s very long knife towards the man but for her part she keeps her blade hidden for now, adjusting herself towards the front of the group. “I don’t suppose anyone eugh… recognizes these things?”

Beneath the skeleton of glory is a veritable maze of walls, tunnels, and ancient passageways, once used by gladiators and now used by cultists. The scent of blood, fresh and still spilling, leads the way through the maze, so strong that even those not so blessed in olfactory senses can follow it. Corpses dot the path, some of them in dark robes, others stripped of clothing, all of them sickly and bloated. Finally, in a central chamber, the mystery comes together: a fine wooden pulpit sits in the center of the room, flanked by a hideous ritual circle and attended by a bald, smooth man in bright red robes.

That bald, smooth man looks as though he was waiting for the group to enter. Several more cultist corpses are strewn about the room, intentionally placed and pinned into positions that look like prayer and adulation. Gary throws his arms wide and says, “Welcome, my new flock, to the end of perdition!” His voice echoes on the walls, spoken back a hundred times by a hundred tiny, skittering voices.

welcomewelcomewelcomewelcomewelcomewelcomewelcomewelcomewelcome

Stelle cracks glowsticks along their path as they enter, providing an easier time on the exit if so necessary. It wouldn’t do to get lost down here. Every so often she coughs, fighting off the smell of bile and who knows what else. “Can you eugh… Say that in words my friend will understand?” Stelle comments, motioning towards Miles in particular for no particular reason.

Thankfully, Ambrose does have an on-off switch for these sorts of things, and a lack of activation suits him just fine. The knife is out preemptively at this point, but in anticipation. “Pestilence, necrosis,” he translates the Latin on the walls, if it needed doing. The drift along does not bother him overmuch, but the ring on his finger is getting thumb-stroked on the regular. Necromancy at the read.

And there’s reason enough at the central chamber. “Flock,” Ambrose repeats gently.

Patience pauses, and lets go of Miles’s arm. Her focus almost entirely fixates upon the book that rests there, waiting for… for her. She smiles, and that smile isn’t a pleasant one, fanged and dark, as she takes a step forward towards it. Gary himself is ignored now, despite having been a vehicle for his words and emotions not all that long ago. Her focus is absolutely and entirely on that book.

Trying to hold his breath, and as it happens, particularly gifted at that particular endeavor, Miles is rather put out when forced to speak, at which point he just stupidly ejects a: “Huh?” He seems to comprehend all the dead bodies well enough, though, because he flicks a dive knife up and out from the inside of his jacket and holds it by its oily, shining blade.

Lifting his hand up into the air as his longknife – short sword? – twirls through the air to land comfortably in his grip, Diego flashes Stelle an appreciative nod. “Thank you,” he says. “Not all of us can just turn our noses off, Pax. Just saying.”

Apparently unafraid of getting his nicely-tailored shoes filthy, he steps through puddles of biles and purge fluid wherever necessary, trying not to think of how his poor socks are growing more sodden. “I don’t suppose you’re going to hand over the book and settle this simply, are you?”

He doesn’t have particular faith that simple, soft-handed psychic persuasion will solve this in an instant, but of course he has to try.

For her part, Arachne has resorted to wearing her ring of invisibility once more to obfuscate herself while the group moves on, fading from view. It’s a shame that there is no artifact to save one from being violated by the disgusting stench that attempts to invade the very fiber of her being, and it is all she can do to keep quiet and not gag. While the others try to entreat with him, she slips forward, attempting to twist together an illusion to distract the bald-headed villain of the night to create an opening for herself to disarm the book from him as young tries simply asking for it.

Diego’s words carry weight, but they fall on deaf ears, impacting against a mind ward woven quite thickly. Gary laughs, his big cult-leader smile warm and disarming in any situation other than in the middle of a demon summoning ritual. “Now, now, friends, there’s no need for weapons! Plague is already upon you! You are breathing it! You are wading in it! It fills your lungs!” He places a hand on the book that sits upon his pulpit, and it makes the circle below flare with power. Hands start to rise up from it, clawing their way out of wherever they were before and attempting to exist in the here and now.

Gary, for his part, seems quite pleased by this happenstance. He lifts that hand back up, ripping open flesh with his teeth, then slams it back down on the book. The circle flares again, then Gary twists and contorts. “Wait…”

He realizes too late what’s about to happen. “But… Gary loves you…” he pleads, before his body starts to contort and twist and bloat.

Patience doesn’t have quartz. In fact, if she has weapons at all, they’re still tucked away. She’s definitely not thinking very clearly, in the moment, and Ambrose and Diego don’t even get a “Huh?” for their efforts in talking to her. She’s not using her illusions, or her magic, or anything at all. No. She’s walking toward that book like it belongs to her. Because clearly, it does. Is this going to pit her against an invisible opponent? Even that doesn’t seem to be on her radar. Nor does the agonies tearing through someone. She just keeps walking forward toward that book.

Patience doesn’t have quartz. In fact, if she has weapons at all, they’re still tucked away. She’s definitely not thinking very clearly, in the moment, and Ambrose and Diego don’t even get a “Huh?” for their efforts in talking to her. She’s not using her illusions, or her magic, or anything at all. No. She’s walking toward that book like it belongs to her. Because clearly, it does. Is this going to pit her against an invisible opponent? Even that doesn’t seem to be on her radar. Nor does the agonies tearing through Gary. She just keeps walking forward toward that book.

Stelle digs into her bag rather quickly now, blade taken from within. The movement distracts her from Patience’s movement, eyes on flickering back onto her and Gary’s twisting body alike.

“Nope. No sewermancer books for Pax,” Miles whisks forward, blade forgotten for a moment, as his hand grabs at the back of Patience’s tank top to halt her in place. “First, it’s fucking cursed as shit. Second, that smell is unforgivable. I’m sorry, but it’s a dealbreaker,” he tries to jolt the Vasquez to her senses.

More the pity that Patience’s legs stop working, in addition to Miles’s grab. Alas. Nothing to do with Ambrose, either, certainly.

The hands crawling forth from the circular pit manage to rise, and in the chaos, Arachne cannot quite find the right angle to grab the book as Gary flails and contorts, screaming in horrible pain. Eventually, what’s growing inside of him bursts forth: a bloated, sickly-looking monstrosity whose entire face is a maw of teeth with a long, undulating tongue. A demon, manifest. Its voice tumbles forth from its vile throat, introducing itself as “Gorkath, the Pestilence walks this world again. The Blind Heron has been written, and my age of plague begins.”

The horrid creatures which rush forth from the summoning circle screech and move on strange limbs, signaling that the time for diplomacy has ended. The time for plague is now!

//OOC: Just waiting for Obie to be present to start combat!

Well shit. Arachne quickly retreats toward the group of Orderites and courtiers as a sickly-looking monstrosity is borne from tearing him open. It’s all she can do not to retch the meager contents of her stomach then and there, bile burning the back of her throat.

Oh damn. There’s a frustrated sound, nearly a whimper from Patience as Miles gets a hold on her. Granted, it’s just her shirt, but it’s enough to slow her determined pace down, and as the first seam starts to pop, she stops moving entirely thanks to Ambrose’s magic. She reaches out though, like she can somehow pull that book to her, but she’s no telekinetic and thus her hands remain empty. “But it’s mine!” she protests to the group. “I can feel it. In my head. In my soul. It’s meant for me!.” Whether or not his listed reasons are making any sense, she’s at least stopped her doomed patrol to be the next to fry or melt or rot away with that book in her hands. “Gary was saving it for me,” she tries to explain why this clearly can’t be a deal-breaker, without the slightest bit of concern for anything like common sense or logic.

Luckily, even she isn’t so enthralled that the sight of a demonic being ripping out of a man’s body is met impassively. No, she definitely is startled into reaching for her weaponry.

Ambrose grips the quartz in his hand purposefully by the hilt, prepared for flingin’. The arrest of Patience’s limbs is abandoned. No armor on the vampire, no rapier, business cazsh, but it’ll have to do.

“This is my book, it was meant for me,” Stelle comments cryptically, both hands tensing around her blade. “Should have brought armor,” she further comments, breathing stabilizing and body tensing as she prepares-

Stelle says “Gorkath go home!“

Stelle says “Oh that is a LOT!“

Arachne says “Well, this is … certainly a bonding exercise.“

It’s a quick dash and jab from Ambrose, sending the quartz into the little demon creature, before Ambrose rights himself. “It is,” he agrees with Arachne, a very NOT quartz blade slid across his own palm, blood cast to the ground.

Planting himself right before Alice right as the tide of lesser demons surge forth, Diego forces their claws away with protective energies, exhaling sharply. “Fuck,” he swears.

Stelle points at Gorkath as he seems to struggle and says, “Get him!”

Obadiah falls back to get in proper range, and kind of between the demon and Arachne, cause that is what he is supposed to do

Obadiah gives a thumbs up, ready to resume slaughter

Ambrose briefly looks to a toy knight on a plush horse and gives a gentlemanly nod.

Stelle points at Gorkath again and growls, “Get him!”

Alice says “Oh… I don’t–“

hits the far wall, and slides down it, leaving a trail of blood as she does.

Alice hits the far wall, and slides down it, leaving a trail of blood as she does.

“Ow!” Miles yelps when he gets jumped by all four demons at once.

Patience says “Oh shit.“

Ambrose slides back to defend Miles, but his attention slips over to Alice promptly at her sling across and injury. “… Rocinante is being…”

Stelle kneels down beside Alice and eyes Rocinante. “Get euh… his ass too!”

Alice says “Just… kill it!“

Obadiah holds up a hand watching the minions play, “No no… let them play.”

Stelle says “This is like Pokemon…“

Stelle says “I learned what that was today.“

Obadiah says “Kind of fun, huh?“

“How badly is Alice hurt?” Patience asks, as she turns from bringing down the rogue minion – probably demon-possessed too!

Arachne fulfills her dream of having Obadiah and everyone else surrender to her.

Stelle starts to look Alice over, patting at the redhead and looking for blood. “Where did you get it?”

Once the lot of the demons are dispatched, Ambrose drifts his way toward Alice, drawn both by concern and the scent of blood, rather than the corpses or the book in question upon the pulpit.

Tugging his blade loose from Gorkath’s chest, Diego whirls around to sidestep the Rocinante-imposter, then lops off the horse’s head as he lets out a great big exhale. “That wasn’t Alice’s,” he mumbles, reaching down to straighten out his waistcoat, sewn thickly with warding runes. “That was something playing pretend.” He steps over towards Alice, clicking his tongue with displeasure. “No way you’re not getting sick with something bad from that, Miss Renwick. I wish you hadn’t stepped out from behind me, there…”

As Gorkath and his demons fall, he shrieks, his spirit leaving his stolen body and flooding into the room as a horde of locusts and other, much, much worse bugs, the creepy crawlies flooding the room before dispersing into the walls, into the tunnels, into the summoning circle – they’re gone, half of them lying dead on the floor. The corpses of the twisted plague demons begin to curdle and twist like dead spiders, and Gorkath’s corpse melts, leaving only Gary’s skeleton where there once was a plague demon. Still, though, his laugh fills the room.

“Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha,” he guffaws, deep and rumbling. “I will return. Wherever there is sickness, I shall be there. Wherever there is plague, so too is Gorkath. And whenever the book is complete, so too is Gorkath. You cannot kill me!”

Then… silence. Blissful silence. Even the thrumming heartbeat of the pestilence on the walls stills, its source evaporated with the death of the demon.

Obadiah makes his way over to Arachne and checks in on her first. “You, Ok boss?” he asks sliding he shotgun back over his shoulder, his eyes watching her with genuine friendship and concern.

Alice answers Stelle, holding up a hand – that hand is bloody, her side ripped open by demon claws, but it’s shallow, not life-threatening. Nonetheless, her blood flows. “I’m.. I’m okay. I’m not-” she shudders with pain.

Alice says “Not gonna die…“

The Blind Heron slams itself shut, then sits on the pulpit.

“Brooooo,” Miles replies to the cackling rumbles of Gorkath, the pestilence demon. “You missed Covid. Once we burn that shitty book, you’re extra fucked,” the Mercer proclaims. “Turbo fucked.”

“The only thing she will be getting sick with is me hovering over her,” Stelle replies, a bandage pulled from a pouch and the wound dressed at least as well as a beginner could, “Hold still a moment..”

“Yes, just fine, thank you,” Arachne signs off toward Obadiah when he comes to check on her, her smile a strained and brief thing in its appearance.

For a time, Ambrose attention remains on Alice, and especially on the blood, but eventually he wrenches his attention back up, back toward the amalgamations of bugs that trail away, and back toward the book, up on the pulpit. That’s where he starts to drift toward, head tilting marginally.

“If you were, Amby would probably turn you,” Patience says to Alice, clearly with full intent to be reassuring to the redhead. She offers her a smile, but then her eyes are drawn unavoidably back to that book when it slams shut. Perhaps it’s Miles’s taunts that have her hesitating, when she would have stepped forward, and muttering softly, “Burn it…” But for some reason, that sounds like it pains her to say.

Alice gets herself bandaged by Stelle and manages to get herself to her feet, clutching her side. “Mister Vasquez,” she calls. “Destroy it. Quartz. Fire. Something.”

“Here, kill it with this,” Miles calls across to Ambrose. From a belt at his waist he unclips… a whole fucking landmine, which he proceeds to chuck over to Ambrose, after which he gives Patience a serious look. “Of course burn it. Whatever kind of sorcery that is, it’s too fucking gross to be allowed. Jesus. Inhale and smell the roses, Pax. It smells.”

Arachne’s gaze drifts toward Ambrose briefly, only to follow his gaze toward Alice, the faintest tilt of her head made at the observation before she begins to take inventory of her possessions and self, grimacing at her soiled clothes. “We are burning these clothes when we get back to the States,” she murmurs to Obadiah. “There is no way that we’ll ever get the stench of this place out of it.”

Both Patience’s words and something else entirely give Ambrose pause in his gradual steps toward the book, and he looks back toward Alice. Her confirmation earns a small nod, and the landmine from Miles, unblinkingly, is caught in the air. Familiar enough to nod and proceed to the pulpit. Familiar enough to arm the thing.

Familiar enough to take a gander at the closed book, before turning.

“Mm,” Obadiah tells Arachne not quite believing her but also very interested in what Ambrose and Miles are up to before looking back to Arachne with an amused smile, “Of course. I think that is a wise course of action all things considered.”

Stelle keeps herself close to Alice, prepared to support when needed or wanted. Her eyes drift towards the book and then bug out when she sees the actual entire landmine tossed towards Ambrose. She coughs once, maybe twice. Maybe four times, really. “I euh.. The walls are… The walls are stable, no?”

Alice approaches, using Stelle as a crutch. “Landmine… isn’t that going to alert people? Just- just light it on fire, I’ll do it if you can’t,” she says, growing nervous. Tired. Scared.

… and so Ambrose disarms the landmine again with a couple beeps, hucking it back toward Miles. “By all means,” he requests of Alice. “I did not bring my Zippo.”

There might have been something else to be said, but when Arachne speaks of burning clothes, Patience turns a horrified look down at her pretty – well, not so pretty now – shoes, and then up at Miles. “My Chucks!” she all but wails at him, and while she’s melodramatic as fuck, of course, she’s clearly actually really distressed. “Can you make these look new again? It’s…” She looks over to Alice, and once more her attention seems to yank itself to the present and away from the absurdities. “Get her home,” she says to Stelle. “We can finish up here. Let her rest.”

Alice takes the book, then, picking it up with both hands, one bloody. She stares hard at the cover, narrowing her eyes at the hideous thing, looking to light it. But…

Instead, she flips it open, and begins writing on a blank page in her own blood. Gorkath, the Pestilence. Blessed is he. From plague, we draw strength, she mutters, immediately in a trance.

“We’re in the City of Bells,” Diego provides, glancing from Alice to Ambrose. “I mean, setting off a landmine underground is dangerous, but if we do need a big distraction, I’ve been getting ready for a huge one. If not, well… Let’s get out of carbuncle club.”

The walls pulsate, once.

“Not bareha–” It’s too late, belated as Ambrose’s commentary usually is, a hand reaching up to Alice.

“If there’s no need to compromise a historical area, Id’ rather we did not,” Arachne murmurs under her breath, eyeing the walls from the corner of her eye when she notices a ripple of movement. “That may be our cue to leave. Post-haste,” she warns the group

Stelle starts to lift Alice but the lift of the tome causes the blonde to reach for it instead. Calling it a reach is perhaps itself a reach because a fist /SLAMS/ into the open page full force, enough to blast it across the room if not enough to obliterate it entirely.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Miles consoles Patience, hands pressing to her shoulders. “I can save them. I promise,” he reassures her, catching the return-to-sendered landmine only for his gaze to turn up to stare at Alice. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. You fucking nerds,” he complains. “Don’t swear fealty to the piss demon, Miles says. But nooooo…”

The book flies across the room, yanked from Alice’s grasp and sent careening into a wall where the cover snaps against stone, sending pages scattering. Each of them begins to burn, now, a sickly yellow flame creeping across each page.

The walls pulsate, again, this time weaker. Distantly, as if down a bottomless pit, a blood-curdling scream echoes, then silence again.

Alice widens her eyes, looking down at her bloody hand. “What? The… we have to finish…” A pause. “It’s over…” She sounds almost sad as she looks at the burning pile of paper, and turns to the group. “I-. Let’s go home…”

“My book!” Patience calls out, as the book goes flying and then bursts into strange flames. Her eyes well with genuine tears, despite how she’d seen Alice get so caught up in the whole thing, just mere heartbeats before. Sinking into Miles, she murmurs a quiet, deflated, “I want to go home…” Again, a few moments later, she’s looking up to ensure, “Is Alice okay?” though a tear slides down her cheek.

The way out is much the way you came: filthy, and littered with corpses.

OOC // Going to take us back into the room with Obie so he gets caught in the plot completion, but ICly we are here!