And everyone who has torches in your houses, stuck some on public buildings, pipe up. Either hide them yourselves or let me know where they are, doesn't matter which.
We just sat through a play about spirits stealing fire.
II. IT'S CALLED KNOCKING
The library is unlit from the outside, as the above message might lead one to expect. Inside it is very well lit - the usual indoor torches, one usually outside, and any others Misty has shamelessly taken it upon herself to temporarily oversee. Upon entry, any who frequent it will notice some rearranging of shelves, and the unnerving absence of the Librarian. (Where they are, she couldn't tell you.) It might seem lifeless, until and unless some movement catches your eye. Low to the ground against the farthest wall. A small spirit borrowing more flora than fauna hovering mournfully over one Matt Murdock, himself as still as any other dreamer. It's upset, as evidenced by surprisingly emotional eyes and what might be its version of...sniffling. Until it notices you, too. That sniffling stops as their focus shifts, deeply wary, and it would seem that shift in sound alone has tripped some form of alarm -- vastly preferable to the scream all parties risk enduring otherwise. The bookcases nearest them shudder, creak, and slide until it forms a wall between you. Overturned tables follow, bracing the impromptu barricade.
Another creak, much, much closer.
Move slowly. Make your identity and intent clear. Someone is behind you that wasn't there seconds ago.
III. IT'S CALLED SELF CARE
Despite having the sense to prepare for sudden disasters such as these, Misty hadn't anticipated looking after more than just herself. The resident blind lawyer isn't eating much anymore, but the plant child oughtn't go without -- and the ordeal is dragging out a great deal longer than hoped. Trips out and about are quick. A direct line to anyplace that would logically have food - general store, Invincible, residences aren't above this light looting - and back.
Bleeding heart that she is, there are occasionally odd gifts in the form of bandages and haphazard, potentially random mixes of spices, food-sourced organic matter, and dirt. Seemingly smelling serious injury before seeing it, she's liable to sidle up to anyone really in need of it. Given the seriousness of the circumstances and the fact she was guarding her abilities, she'll set to work immediately and possibly silently unless you start conversation or stop her cold. (No one would blame you. Dirt does not, in any other situation, belong in wounds. Trust her.)
"Keep still, let me do my part, run with it. It'll help." Solid icebreaking. 11/10 bedside manner. Forgive her, the atmosphere is tense and she's accustomed to any unveiling leading to subsequent attempts on her life.
IV. WILDCARD
As is tradition. Throw...virtually anything, basically.
Misty Day | OTA
un: silver: Important:
Anybody thought to guard the bonfire yet?
And everyone who has torches in your houses, stuck some on public buildings, pipe up. Either hide them yourselves or let me know where they are, doesn't matter which.
We just sat through a play about spirits stealing fire.
II. IT'S CALLED KNOCKING
The library is unlit from the outside, as the above message might lead one to expect. Inside it is very well lit - the usual indoor torches, one usually outside, and any others Misty has shamelessly taken it upon herself to temporarily oversee. Upon entry, any who frequent it will notice some rearranging of shelves, and the unnerving absence of the Librarian. (Where they are, she couldn't tell you.) It might seem lifeless, until and unless some movement catches your eye. Low to the ground against the farthest wall. A small spirit borrowing more flora than fauna hovering mournfully over one Matt Murdock, himself as still as any other dreamer. It's upset, as evidenced by surprisingly emotional eyes and what might be its version of...sniffling. Until it notices you, too. That sniffling stops as their focus shifts, deeply wary, and it would seem that shift in sound alone has tripped some form of alarm -- vastly preferable to the scream all parties risk enduring otherwise. The bookcases nearest them shudder, creak, and slide until it forms a wall between you. Overturned tables follow, bracing the impromptu barricade.
Another creak, much, much closer.
Move slowly. Make your identity and intent clear. Someone is behind you that wasn't there seconds ago.
III. IT'S CALLED SELF CARE
Despite having the sense to prepare for sudden disasters such as these, Misty hadn't anticipated looking after more than just herself. The resident blind lawyer isn't eating much anymore, but the plant child oughtn't go without -- and the ordeal is dragging out a great deal longer than hoped. Trips out and about are quick. A direct line to anyplace that would logically have food - general store, Invincible, residences aren't above this light looting - and back.
Bleeding heart that she is, there are occasionally odd gifts in the form of bandages and haphazard, potentially random mixes of spices, food-sourced organic matter, and dirt. Seemingly smelling serious injury before seeing it, she's liable to sidle up to anyone really in need of it. Given the seriousness of the circumstances and the fact she was guarding her abilities, she'll set to work immediately and possibly silently unless you start conversation or stop her cold. (No one would blame you. Dirt does not, in any other situation, belong in wounds. Trust her.)
"Keep still, let me do my part, run with it. It'll help." Solid icebreaking. 11/10 bedside manner. Forgive her, the atmosphere is tense and she's accustomed to any unveiling leading to subsequent attempts on her life.
IV. WILDCARD
As is tradition. Throw...virtually anything, basically.