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Snippet #2401379

located in Arkanvale, a part of Requiem for a Fallen, one of the many universes on RPG.

Arkanvale

"General Country"

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Xana Druj Character Portrait: Zilocke Thane Character Portrait: Liriael Amaryllis Character Portrait: Takeuchi Hiroto Character Portrait: Ilyana Ree
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Liri didnā€™t pretend to be offended when the demon left her behind to go find an exorcist. Why should she? It was probably what the woman wantedā€”to watch the staid angel get all righteously furious or who knew what else. She claimed no knowledge of demonkind, but it was apparent to her that this Xana was not overly fond of her, and would probably gain something from her displeasure, if only satisfaction. Liriael, however, simply felt no particular amount of displeasure, and saw no need to fake it. It was true that their inability to extract the spirit from this human woman was somewhat frustrating, and Xanaā€™s treatment of the innocent vessel less than satisfactory, but that was nothing they could do anything about until they found an exorcist, and somebody needed to watch the possessed woman in the meantime.

So Liri planted herself on a clean patch of grass, the battered human lying prone beside her, and sang the Dirge of Binding beneath her breathā€”the woman was so weak that it scarcely took any effort to contain her, so the crosslegged angel placed a soft hand on her brow and smiled, just barely. The spirit was obviously unhappy with this, but it wasnā€™t it she sought to soothe, and even when it tried to fight the effects of her spellsong, it struggled in vain, the smooth flow of notes ensnaring the limbs of its host-body and rendering it worse than useless in the end. At least it couldnā€™t do any more damage to the human it enslaved, this way.

It was quite some time before she sensed the demonā€™s presence returning, and this time, Xana was accompanied by what seemed to be a spiritually-aware human. Not a full Exorcist, perhaps, but at least a Meister. She was almost certain that was what they were called, though the knowledge did not come from herself. It must be the Nightingale, though why her own host would know anything of such matters, she could not say.

At their approach, she stood, brushing stray grass from her fitted tan trousers and folding her hands behind her back. At this point, the spiritā€™s struggles had rendered it even weaker, and her soft singing dropped back to a hum, no more than that being necessary to keep it in line. She may have even risked speaking, but she did not want to take the chance. Besides, so bound, the woman would be easier to exorcise. She did, however, dip her head in greeting to the dark-haired young man behind Xana.



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Really, Zilocke thought to himself, it was all somebody elseā€™s fault.

Heā€™d been perfectly content to mind his own business while he passed through this town (or was it a city? He didnā€™t care enough to check), but apparently, not everyone was content to let him. Heā€™d stopped in a tavern and purchased himself an aleā€”never mind that it was early in the morning, heā€™d been walking all nightā€”and then left again, taking a turn through a rather rundown area of slums, when four gentlemen in raggedy clothes had stepped out in front of and behind him, wielding an assortment of nicked blades and rusted polearms. Amateurs, really.

Heā€™d stopped and bid them all good morning, but of course, they were more interested in his belongings than his words. He could understand that, maybe: material items were quite interesting, and words so cheap. But he doubted very much they wanted the banded, engraved silver at his arms for the sake of its unique alchemical properties. Or maybe the reason they hadnā€™t talked to him was because they werenā€™t very good with words. They certainly hadnā€™t used many before the first one tried to jump him.

It was with a mildly-perturbed expression on his face that the Mad Alchemist stepped aside, raising an eyebrow at the loud whistle of the battered scimitar through the air. ā€œMy good sir,ā€ he enunciated, as though genuinely shocked, ā€œyou really should be more careful. A blow like that could take a manā€™s arm off!ā€ He shook his head and brought one hand up to rub absently at the stubble on his cheek. He knew heā€™d forgotten to do something before he leftā€”apparently, shaving was it. He mused on the merits of using his silver wristband to fashion himself a straight-razor, ducking under the next swing with a casual ease that looked entirely accidental.

It was, without a doubt, infuriating, and all four of them were after him then, and dodging became entirely too much work for his lazy sensibilities. So heā€™d done what any reasonable man of moderate alchemical talent would have done in the same situation: dropped into a crouch, sketched a small circle in the dirt, and caused himself a nice, ground-rocking explosion. It was more noise and dirt than actual destruction, of course: he tended to vandalize only his own property, not the already-ramshackle dwellings of strangers.

Either way, the impressive plume of dust was more than he needed to make his escape, and he did, cackling to himself like a deranged person as he emerged from the cloud of smokeā€”laughter which ceased when two new pieces of information came to him at once: the crying of a child, and the sense that there was metaphysical matter nearby. Fortunately for his curiosity, they were in the same direction, and that was the one he picked, strolling along the street as though he belonged thereā€”as though he owned it, even.

He didnā€™t like making children cry, and he had a feeling that this oneā€™s distress was rather his fault. Not every day something exploded this close to you, and though the poor thing had been in no real danger, he supposed she had no way to know that. As he approached, however, he found that the metaphysical matter drew closer as well. Interesting: either the child was possessed by a spirit orā€¦ no, this was definitely something different. Angel, if he had his guess. Not that he caredā€”he was actually more concerned with the fact that she was adorable. Kids were great, honestly. He liked them a hell of a lot better than grown-ups, and if this one just so happened to be celestial also, wellā€¦ no skin off his teeth.

Crouching in front of the girl with the faint chiming of bells, he folded one hand into a fist, then extended his index finger from it and poked her in the forehead, just gently. ā€œHey, kiddo. Pst.ā€ Removing his hand, he reached into one of the many pouches at his belt and pinched a tiny bit of a bright blue powder. In the dirt between them, he sketched a tiny transmutation circle, then dropped the powder into it with a flourish. Rubbing his hands together dramatically, he clapped them, pressing both to the circle. Before their eyes, a delicate blue flower erupted from the ground, growing and unfolding its petals. The circle and the powder both disappeared, and Zilocke plucked the flower from its spot and held it out to the child. ā€œSee? Why cry when the world is so beautiful?ā€ He grinned, and it might have even been genuine.

Really, it was just equivalent exchange. He'd made her cry, it was only fair that he do his best to make her smile, too. Even if it really was all somebody else's fault.