MINI EVENT: BAD MOON RISING

[sticksandbonesmods]

BAD WOLF

Content Warning: Werewolves and werewolf-related violence.

!

WITCHING HOUR

Time passes oddly in this realm. Surely you've seen it by now. Looking to the sky grants different views and moons every night, almost disconnected. The weather is impossible to predict when the clouds don't truly matter. All you have to rely on is that a day and night cycle exists and even then... ... Well. Surely it doesn't matter. Right? (Or does it?) But perhaps more importantly is that tonight, the night is clear and crisp. The flowers in the grove face the moon almost like reverent followers to a preacher. And should you follow their open gaze, you will see that the moon is bright and full and red.

Rusty whines and the Trader has drawn her stall in, and even the sleepy turtle she rides is more alert. The Shopkeeper hisses quietly to himself, barring the windows slowly- and if you're close by, he tells you that it'd be best you do the same. He dares not close the door yet though- just in case someone needs the shelter.

A howl pierces the sky, and it's quickly joined by others, echoing through the woods. The crunch of leaves and sticks and roots breaking under hulking steps makes a presence known- and white, frenzied eyes can be seen in the shadows. Not just one pair- if you're outside, or at the window, you can see dozens from all angles. As they get closer to the clearing, their sharp teeth glint in the moonlight. Another howl, and the wolf-men charge. Fight or defend your residence- but the beasts do not go down easily. Not when wounds slowly stitch themselves back together.

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Comments

[succiduous]

*light synth* h e y w h a t ' s u p

[Gnosis is not much of a front-line battler. To that end, a werewolf attack — when he has only just arrived, mm, perhaps fifteen minutes ago — is not something he wishes to deal with. It's not that his Arts unit isn't functioning (far from it — despite the circumstances, there is hardly a scratch on the hilt), it isn't that he hasn't been involved in combat before (he has been, though Degenbrecher was quick to remind him why he doesn't participate in such), it's simply that he does not care to join in the rabble. There are several people outside who have the situation handled.

Gnosis knows not where he is. He simply knows he is now here, and being here means he must make do, figure out the where's and what's and why's of the situation he's found himself in. Try to recall what he was last doing — deployed to Londinium to deal with the crisis there, he believes, but there's a gap between his part in that mission and now. These certainly aren't the marshes of Victoria; not the beautiful brick buildings of County Hillock. This is not Rhodes Island's landship. Not a Leithanien spire, not the jungles of Sargon, not snowy Kjerag.

This is, put simply, a problem to be solved later, much like the werewolves outside. If they cannot get inside, inside is where Gnosis will be. Inside is where Gnosis will be fiddling with a long, cane-like object, carefully removing near microscopic screws from its chassis. Inside is where it is safe. So focused on his work is he that he hardly notices the sound of footsteps, of talking, and if he ignores you by accident, rest assured it is just that. An accident, though Gnosis has been known to ignore others on purpose before.]

for after our other one

[lostpsalm]

<sub>[ rooftop poetry guy does eventually zone into the inn, too. He's got a tickle in his throat and was getting water, tired and shuffling and absolutely not going to sleep until sunrise touches down because can't sleep, otsfo-qula'taenorr will eat me, when he sees...

whatever...

Gnosis is now up to. He perceives the extremely tiny little screws. He surreptitiously looks down at the floor to see if he percieves any dropped extremely tiny little screws.]</sub>

[succiduous]

[There are no extremely tiny little screws on the floor, simply because Gnosis is so clean in his work that it would be difficult to get even that much from him. No, Rennuid will instead find that those screws are pressed together in a neat little clump on the table, with all the sharp ends facing toward the ceiling so that they don't get knocked aside so easily.

There are something like forty of them. It's only when he finishes meticulously unscrewing the last that he bothers to speak up, not meeting Rennuid's gaze.]

Do you so often gawp like that?

[lostpsalm]

...<sub>ah.

[ it's just that... he'd fallen headfirst back into Busybody Brain since getting here, back in the familiar territory of a short-handed, cut-off-from-society survival situation...


...Also, he is friends with Tyr'oc.
Even called on a bit of odd behavior, it still feels like a coil is unfurling in his chest, getting the chance to speak to someone who can follow his native language. He never knew how good he'd really had it, traveling with GllChk. ]</sub>

...Only when my eyes stray off upon a fleeting thought.

Forgive me! But... you work with these vanishing gleamings of teeth... I dreamed they would flow away, falling into the river of the wood-grain.

Did it break? When you came here?

[succiduous]

That's what I intend to check. The external components seem to be in order, not a scratch on them, but I fear the internal elements might have been damaged in some manner. This location is entirely new to me, and several other pieces of technology I have on my person have been affected by my arrival.

[He doesn't mention "what" specifically, and he's almost positive he knows why basic things like communicators and his phone aren't working — but still, he can't help but double-check. Everything other than the canelike thing on the table is all negligible to him. He needs nothing to function other than his Arts unit, which he's carefully opening up and analysing the inside of.]

You wouldn't happen to know why that is?

[lostpsalm]

Mmn... If yours are treasures that carry forth a power, within themselves...

The forest could have chosen them for its feast.

_{[ Rennuid carefully withdraws a mirror from the folds of the big layered sash wrapped around his middle. The plant's infection of his mirror remains. An insidious little flower blooms upon its back. ]}

[succiduous]

[Sharp eyes watch every move Rennuid makes, tracing the outline of the mirror and the petals emerging from something petals should not feasibly be able to emerge from. It reminds Gnosis distantly of the originium that rains from the skies during catastrophes, the insidious mineral that spreads and grows rapidly across the earth when it touches down.

Interesting.]

Do you mind? [He asks, attention sufficiently drawn away from his own work — for a time.] I'd like to observe it.