[text adventure] Enter Xandra. (Book Zero, Chapter II.)

[Midtime]

> "You are a very talented young girl."

"Thank you, Miss," says Caecilia.

 

 

> Resume walking. "Whether or not that was the right choice remains to be seen, though I am very grateful for the help. You did say we were in a hurry...?"

"Absolutely, Miss," she says, receiving the cooler remark together with the warmer, and patters loudly on ahead, with the ankh-shaped metal instrument swinging in wide arcs around her. The echoes of her feet make faint ringing noises in the narrow tunnel, and a lower-pitched humming lingers in the air afterwards.

 

You are uncertain of her expression in the darkness, and you cannot be sure, after all, of how well you can read faces; but as it seems that all is well with her, you follow quietly after.

 

Your clothing is free of the weight of wetness, though you both heard and felt the flowing of water as the thing carried you inside, and you feel only a little fatigued—a mental fatigue, for the most part—from your recent ordeal. That also relieves you, and as the thing is displeasing to dwell upon, you put it out of your mind as well.

 

As you approach the exit and its soft light, you begin to be able to make out elaborate symbols painted in many colours on the passage walls. These groups and arrangements of glyphs vary wildly, some being bold and angular, some gracile and ornamented, some tapering and confused; some seeming to suggest sequences, and others to constitute them; some having minute adornments, and others vivid illuminations. Sometimes they border each other, and other times are conjoined, and altogether seem to form a tapestry of tedious complexity and artifice. This is an article of the fays' manuscript poetry, which cannot be read by mortals.

 

You emerge abruptly from the narrow vestibule through the stone, and your eyes are struck with a pure and brilliant blue candour, and a breeze of cold air passes over your twitching ears. You are reduced for now to a cautious walk, and struggle to make sense of your surroundings.

 

=X=

{the cenotaph}

You stand on a gleaming glass bridge stretched like transparent thread over emptiness. You are at one side of the hollow inner cavity of an ovate geode immense beyond imagination, into whose clear crystalline walls are carved thousands of deep ledges, as close as they can fit, crowded by thousands of thousands of ceramic urns, each differently shaped and embellished, that waft coils of aimless scentless smoke through their lids, making the air shimmer and waver. Across the chasm, above you and below you, in every direction, other glass walk-ways as fine as silk strands are joined in sparse webs and lattices, leading from door to distant door. The roof of the cavern is pierced by many curious openings that are arranged in concentric circles, and embedded at their centre a single colossal gemstone fluoresces with the gentle blue effulgence that illuminates everything.

 

Letters must be imprinted upon the jewel, for far below your feet where the urns are massed like a carpet of sand-grains, you can see their shadows spelling out a peculiar title: Study in Object Impermanence.

 

The bridge on which you stand is joined to a small nexus, which gives access to perhaps thirty or forty exits at about the same elevation as your own. Keeping far from the rose-encrusted parapet, Caecilia leads you with strange certainty along curving tiled paths lined with narrow walks, down countless wide and shallow steps whose newels bear tall arches, through narrow by-ways and knotted intersections and unseen shortcuts that take you far from visible ground and the sightless shadows, and at last to a single junction whence five avenues lead to five separate entrances.

 

Here she stops suddenly, glancing between them in indecision. At length she murmurs, "He didn't tell me," and begins to unfasten her satchel.

 

> _

[Lydia Trebond]

>Inspect contents of pouch on my (our?) belt. "Anything I can help with?"

 

Seems like now's a good time to see if we have anything useful.

[antiaircraft]

Additionally:

 

> Maintain awareness of our surroundings.

 

It would probably be a good idea not to be jumped by another angry faerie.

[Wildbreeze]

And one more...

> Inspect self

 

Look for any injuries, find out what species we are, etc. ;)

[Midtime]

> Inspect self.

You don't feel injured at all; that is strange. Your head is clear, and you wouldn't have been able to keep up with the Aisha's inexhaustible child's vigour had you not been quite able to walk and run. There are no bruises or scrapes from your fall. You feel only slightly tired, when you think you ought to feel entirely drained.

 

You recall again the details about yourself that you noticed earlier, and try to consolidate a little more of your identity in your mind. You are a Xweetok: you have the large rounded ears, the large luxurious tail, the vestiges of whiskers; the fur of your hands is a pale green, and patched with white. You don't believe this information to be useful to you at present.

 

>Inspect contents of pouch on our belt. "Anything I can help with?"

> Maintain awareness of our surroundings.

"No, no, I can manage," Caecilia says hastily. The stalks of her ears crook with agitation as she produces a white scroll, spreads several metres of it upon the ground, and preoccupies herself with the fantastic illustrations thereon displayed. You note the largest of them: a full-grown Cyodrake with a swollen jawless head; a monstrous freshwater Ghoti coloured by impossible turquoise pigments and variegated with silver and black; a Kazeriu whose innumerable tails trail from end to end of the lavishly shadowed landscape; and a stately Hermiteese gnawing on its own shrivelled foreleg with its toothed beak.

 

These and many less significant beasts are boldly outlined against a background of angular mountains and secret valleys and black rivers, populated by indistinct figures of varying shapes; and the small white circles that are projected on the canvas and that are annotated by neat Shenkuuvian handwriting stir a powerful sensation of recognition in you. They remind you of a night sky you saw once, unobscured by clouds, trees, towers, or light-storms; a sky seen through the lenses of a large telescope. You can recall the image with extraordinary clarity, but it is not only the asterisms you recognised among them, but the locations of the stars themselves that do not match what is inscribed on the scroll.

 

You observe for a short while, as with an expert briskness the Aisha girl extracts from within one of the plastic rollers a clear plastic frame, hinges it into a complicated circular instrument that reminds you of an astrolabe, and lays this over the image; calls over the thing of metal that hovers at her side, thrusts her hand through the loop of its head, closes her fingers into a fist—"Liǎng gè"—withdraws them sharply, and opens them to reveal a pair of archaic coins with square perforations through their centres. With a ritual gesture she casts them, and watches as they rattle on the glass; again, and very carefully she turns the plastic frame a few minutes of arc clockwise; again, this time catching one coin in her hand; again, and both fall, and the frame turns counter-clockwise by about three eighths. She goes on like this, both simple and inscrutable in her motions, and at the twelfth toss she unrolls the scroll further and consults a chart of dense text arranged in a grid. After a little while she begins again. At this point it seems unlikely that you will understand anything of the process.

 

You loosen the cords of the pouch at your side, and instantly flows out a wave of air that chills the tips of your fingers so that you let go with a hiss at the pain, and clasping them together, can feel numbness setting in. Your expelled breath turns white with fog as you withdraw to a few metres' distance from Caecilia's side. Your hands and wrists have the aching fragile weakness that enters one's limbs when one is just falling ill.

 

Once you have feeling in your fingers again, and once you have confirmed that the intensity of the cold has subsided, you handle the pouch a little (it is strange, you suppose, that the cold did not penetrate the cloth), and feel hard bulbous shapes clinking and clattering around inside it. Taking caution, you open it up by degrees, till peering inside you can make out a miscellany of small objects, each differently shaped and coloured.

 

To illuminate the inside of the pouch is difficult; it is the wrong kind of shape to gather light from a source that is not directly above you. At last, gingerly, you reach one finger into the still-cold interior, and pluck out one of the objects that sits inside. It is a very small ivory figurine of a Korbat dressed in courtly Meridellian apparel. Its hands and feet are bound by yellow threads. It is cold to the touch, and though its surface is smooth, it leaves the tips of your fingers with the feeling that they have been rubbed with sandpaper. You drop it inside again.

 

Further examples of the contents include a worn gold-leaf locket, a miniature wooden flute, one jagged half of a glass marble, and several whole ones, all of distinct designs. Each one of these, apart from some of the marbles, are just as inexplicably unpleasant to handle as the first thing you drew out. You estimate that there must be about thirty of these small keepsakes and trinkets in your possession.

 

At last you hear the sound of Caecilia closing up her scroll, which gives you pause.

 

Having closed the pouch tightly again, with all of its contents safe inside, you walk over to her. She busies herself with her satchel-clasp and does not look at you. You cannot make out the words that she is whispering to herself. You hear mentions of complicated mnemonics, symbols that have cardinal directions, and a fire that flies away. The ankh of metal rods reflects the blue light as it hovers upright above her head, and swivels round randomly.

 

Suddenly she says, "All the paths lead to the same place."

 

The Aisha girl points with one finger at one of the five ways forward from this lens-shaped platform, at the narrow glass stair that curves gradually right and becomes steeper as one ascends it, and terminates in a small square door recessed into the wall, elevated nearly half as high beyond you as it is distant horizontally. "It clings. Um, smoke—smoke and ash. You will be burned to reach your destination."

 

She points at the transparent way that, like a gutter, has an inward slope on either side, and spirals gently down and forward till it enters an elliptical opening in the stone. "Limitless and all-accepting. Gives no favour to the small. You will reach your destination by drowning."

 

She points at the bridge of glass that goes to your left, that is decorated by realistic faces on the posts at its sides, each one eyeless and smiling, and leads to an elaborate portal with a glittering façade. "Gives up its secrets one by one, so seeks out more to replace them. You will devour or be devoured, and there will be your destination."

 

She points at the delicate road running from your right, meandering gently from side to side and rippling up and down, passing into a narrow crevice in the distance. "Gentle, cruel. A sign of ill, but also a messenger of good. It will take things from you that you did not know you had, and you will find your destination at last."

 

She points at the path directly in front of you, which supports on either side a series of arches parallel to itself upon tall hanging columns, each arch framing an exuberant star-symbol, and upon each column sitting a great hollow orb with a glass model of orbiting spheres inside it, ending in a portal made by the touching fingers of two sculpted hands. "Moves by principles different from those of earthly things. Illuminates, but sees nothing for itself. You will reach your destination by vanishing."

 

She turns about and points at the path behind you, leading to the tangled knot of crossroads and to the other, unknown exits. "Immutable, but has many appearances. The fear of the lustful and the lust of the fearful; sought after, fled from, despised by all. Curses grow stronger by it. You will be cursed for ever, and neither path nor destination will you find again."

 

She lowers her hand, and seems to come free from a strange trance. "We have to choose a way, Miss. I'm sorry. But we cannot turn back, and we cannot stay here. They are waiting for us."

 

> _

[Wildbreeze]

> Begin walking to the right, towards the delicate, winding road.

 

This way seems to hold the least immediate danger and imminent death. I don't doubt that some surprise will be in store, though...

[Lydia Trebond]

Seems as good of a choice as any to me. (Looks to me like we're... speckled and have done the Altador Plot.)

 

>Keep an eye out for enemies sneaking up from other paths as well as an eye ahead.

[antiaircraft]

Hmm... I could propose an alternative approach, although I have the feeling trying to be clever will only get us horribly killed twice as fast. :P

 

I may as well put it out there anyway. First things first:

 

> Ask Caecilia's opinion.

 

And if she doesn't have any immediately applicable insights:

 

> Ask Caecilia if she can cast some sort of elemental linking spell on both of you, so that elemental effects applied to one of you will also be applied to the other. If she can, have her cast the spell, then split up with one of you going through each of the first two doors (burning and drowning).

[Lydia Trebond]

Hmmmm. I think AA's got a good point.

 

>Ask above questions of Caecilia before moving forward with any decision.

[Midtime]

 

[[ I'm finally free to return to this. Apologies to every one. I will try to do better in future.

 

I don't have a whole lot to show for the break, but I have edited the first post to include a very small hint. I hope we all find it useful in the story to follow. ]]

 

 

> Begin walking to the right, towards the delicate, winding road.

The road of air seems least disturbing of them all, and peering towards it you think, perhaps a little wishfully, that it could lead somewhere picturesque and refreshing. If one direction is as good as any other, why not this one?

 

Nonetheless, you feel a little uncertain about making that your decision. It might be the fear - or the vertigo, yes - getting to your brain; but you feel as if you have never liked facing a dilemma on its own terms, if you can help it. Perhaps there is something else to be found. You breathe in, and blink slowly, and your mind stirs -

 

> Ask Caecilia's opinion.

 

And if she doesn't have any immediately applicable insights:

 

> Ask Caecilia if she can cast some sort of elemental linking spell on both of you, so that elemental effects applied to one of you will also be applied to the other. If she can, have her cast the spell, then split up with one of you going through each of the first two doors (burning and drowning).

>Ask above questions of Caecilia before moving forward with any decision.

And just like that, an idea bubbles out of your thoughts. It is pristine, but solidifies quickly.

 

Caecilia listens quietly as you rapidly voice the explanation of it. She frowns at first and seems doubtful, but a part of your intuition assures you that it will work. There is not a great deal of complexity to it: you must simply bring the fays' opposite expressions together. They will destroy each other, and with their energies thus occupied your passage will be safer. You will have to be separated - but after all, you can get to your destination both ways.

 

You think she can provide the means. She has been quite resourceful so far. You ask her.

 

She stares at you for a few seconds - a little surprised, it seems - then smiles. "Of course, Miss."

 

Into her satchel she slips her hand, and produces an ordinary sheet of smooth white paper, marked at its four corners with words too small for you to instantly pick out. Dropping to her knees, she lays it flat against the glass floor, places her palm on top of it, and rips it perfectly in half.

 

In a motion too complicated for you to discern, she folds up both parts - precisely and carefully - into tiny shapes, obscured between her fingers. Then she rises and holds out both hands towards you, palms cupped upwards. Sitting in each one is a small wooden Pawkeet, its wings folded over its chest, and a loose necklace-string threaded through its delicately carved feet. (How endearingly childish, you think; but as you chastise yourself for the thought you realise you can't remember where it came from.)

 

"What should they be called?" she asks, a little insistently, and you glance over at her. Oh! - you see what she means.

 

Which two paths are you going to take? For while all do lead to your destination, some may branch off to other ends, as well.

 

> _

 

 

[[ The next update can be expected by the end of this week, I think, depending on how beholden I must be to my examinations. Thank you for your patience, as always, if it has endured this long. There is still so much of this that I am excited about! ]]

 

 

[Wildbreeze]

> Name the Pawkeets Fire and Water, choosing the first two paths.

 

As Theo said, these are the two most obvious and immediate opposites, and probably the most likely to cancel each other out. Although, I'm not sure if it's more important to stay safe, or to stay together.

Also, I'm glad this is back! ^_^

[Midtime]

 

 

Also, I'm glad this is back! ^_^

[[ Thank you! So am I. ]]

 

 

> Name the Pawkeets Fire and Water, choosing the first two paths.

You instruct her to name them after the first two elements that occur to you.

 

Caecilia's smile twitches. "Are those - are those really proper names?" she exclaims, but the moment the words left your mouth the forms of the ornaments had already been set. They vibrate rapidly and change hue, one turning red-brown and the other a varnished black.

 

You pick the latter one up and examine it. It feels heavy, and weighted towards its back. The two wings open up on tiny hinges: inside is bottomless darkness. You do not insert your finger.

 

Caecilia looks up at you, doubt almost showing in her eyes. But you slip the cord over your head, and she does the same with hers. "I apologise," she says at last. "But with these names - "

 

With these names, the greatest use will be made of the duality. Your thoughts are gradually beginning to make sense to you - as if this sort of half-reasoning, half-fancy was at one point entirely natural. The names of mediating bodies would be of little use here: it isn't a balance of the elements, but a mutual annihilation that you are after. At any rate, the magic is done now, and whatever ad hoc reasoning is used to perform it is now irrelevant; it is merely a mental aid. If she is indeed the prodigy she seems to be, she must understand that there is no gain from disputing methodologies - not at this level of specificity.

 

You wonder, perplexed, what all that meant. It must have been some effusion of ideas generated by your mind's disorder. But there are more important things to worry about.

 

So you and Caecilia part ways, you climbing the narrow staircase up to the door of fire, and she descending the spiral slope to the ovoid gate of water. About halfway up you look back to see if you can spot her, but the intersection you came from is now barely a speck, and the paths joined to it look like so many strangely twisted lengths of thread, hanging motionless in space.

 

Then it strikes you that the strange haze that once hung over the great chamber has vanished entirely.

 

And you notice them at last. Crawling, it seems, along every one of the glass bridges and stairs and threads in the distance are long lines of strange black figures. They are everywhere - they always were - except in the places that you could look. They watched you in silence, and they are silent now.

 

You turn and hurry up the remainder of the staircase, and don't stop until you have burst through the door and left the great cavern behind you.

 

 

=X=

{the wreath of flames}

You called it the path of fire, but when you pass through the door, you feel no heat and smell no stench of smoke. The floor squeaks under your boots, and the air is perfumed and oily.

 

Then, far in front of you and high above, a flame flares to life. It stands on top of a featureless cylindrical tower. There are many more of these beside it - in the dim light you can see them, waxy, glimmering. They stand on a high wall that forms a circle around you, and four of them, more gigantic than the rest, mark four equidistant points, like the cardinal directions of a compass. They are candles.

 

You step forward, and despite your caution something crunches beneath your feet. Behind you a second candle bursts into flames, just above the door.

 

In its light you see that the floor is populated with an array of strange items, brightly coloured (though it is a little hard to tell), like toys. There are tiny watering cans, oil lamps, magnifying glasses, circular saws - arranged in neat little rows and columns, like some curious art exhibit whose value you have just markedly depreciated.

 

You lift your boot. Its sole is covered in disintegrating ashes.

 

Treading more carefully, you cross the strange room. Far above a ceiling glows orange in the firelight. On the opposite side is another door, like the one you came through: you hurry towards it. A steady stream of wax is now running down on it from above and combusting as it touches the surface in a steady burst of flame. On the front of the door is a strange design: an anthropoid figure depicted with rudimentary lines, its head a disturbingly detailed bas-relief of a massive leathery-lidded eye. At the ends of both its arms, huge brazen hands protrude out of the woodwork, the right clenched shut, the left open and glowing red-hot.

 

Written in gold lettering above the arch of the door is a message.

 

"I have no need for transient things. Give me a gift that will not burn."

 

> _

 

 

[[ Okay, this puzzle should be slightly better-designed than the last. Though there is no need to solve it conventionally. ]]

 

[antiaircraft]

"Give me a gift that will not burn."

 

Looks like we have two things to figure out: what to give, and how to give it.

 

Obvious places to place an item include the open hand and the spot where the item we stepped on was. Not too sure about what to put there.

[Midtime]

You look at the thing's left hand - frozen in expectancy, it still seems alive. The centre of its palm is a flat circular surface. The heat emanating from it makes your eyes sting.

 

You cannot look away from its single eye for long. It is watching you. It looks greedy, it looks impatient. You back away from it slightly.

 

> [...] Take stock of your surroundings as you go.

Then you breathe, in and out, and focus. Something that does not burn. On the ground below your feet is a trowel. Beside that, a sparkler. A powder brush. A music box. A miniature coil of rope. Everything around your feet is a bright lime green - not quite painted, but rather as if they were white, and green light were falling on them - except for a metal poker, which is a softer cerulean.

 

On the other side of the room, the wax is flowing thick and surprisingly quickly over the door you entered through. It has almost covered it already, and is pooling beneath it and spreading across the wooden floor.

 

> _

[Wildbreeze]

We certainly don't want to get stuck in wax, so we'd better offer something... It seems that all the green things will burn. The cerulean... I suppose it would melt, at a high enough heat, but not burn.

 

> Take the poker and place it in the figure's left hand.

[Midtime]

> Take the poker and place it in the figure's left hand.

The poker. Of course. You bend down and pick it up, carefully. It is smooth and heavy, just like iron ought to be. Surely this will satisfy it?

 

You approach the door, and slide the poker gingerly onto the open hand, wary of the heat. When the tip touches the centre of the palm, the giant fingers snap shut with a resounding clang, and the left hand becomes a mirror image of the right. Then it twitches slightly, and tilts inwards, sliding the poker down so that its grip is around the middle. The fingers tighten, and the hand goes still. You wait, holding your breath.

 

Gradually the poker begins to glow, as red as the hand that holds it. The dull red progresses to orange, then quickly to bright yellow - something should have melted by now. Soon you can hardly make out the shape of the object, dazzling as it is, and the heat is suffocating. But the iron is not burning.

 

Then there is a soft hiss, and instantly the poker ignites with a blinding white flame. Hot sparks leap from its surface like a swarm of crackling insects, and you shield your eyes and step back. Only when the sound has subsided do you look again.

 

The hand is open once more. Beneath it is a pile of reddish ash, and nothing else. One of the four large candles that stand on the wall around you has just been lit; the wax glimmers a purplish colour in the flickering light.

 

As you scan the floor, you notice that hot wax has run down from the wall on every side, and is flowing slowly across the floor. As it touches each object, it combusts in a puff of fire; and the destruction of each object makes another candle come to life. A self-sustaining reaction, you think abstractly.

 

Something tightens around your neck, and you reach for it in alarm, before realising what it is. The Pawkeet charm that Caecilia gave you suddenly weighs a great deal more.

 

> _

[Wildbreeze]

> Quickly scan the floor for more cerulean items.

[Midtime]

> Quickly scan the floor for more cerulean items.

You step precariously across the cluttered floor, searching. There is a pattern to the colours, isn't there? Now isn't the time to contemplate that. Green fades to autumnal gold, striped with what you think is a deep red; it is as if the objects are so many pixels, displaying gradients and curves of colour in their arrangement. If only the light were brighter and steadier, maybe you could figure out what they meant. But that wouldn't help now; you must focus. Still searching.

 

Here! You stoop down and your hand snatches something out of the path of the flowing wax. It isn't quite the same colour, but it is incongruous with its surroundings, a dot of bright cyan in a collection of purple and grey. It's... some sort of modern device, a metal oblong with its contents concealed. The design is vaguely familiar, but you can't place it at the moment. It doesn't matter. You think about its position, and have an idea.

 

You hurry to the other side of the room. Here, among these spots of alternating saffron and maroon, there must be another one. Yes, there it is. A miniature oven. Its dark blue is just barely distinguishable in the candle-light. This, and the other two items, are three of the four points of a rhombus -

 

But your thoughts are interrupted by a solid wet thump - the sound of something quite large hitting the ground. You turn to look, and are not pleasantly surprised.

 

It is the large candle that was lit when the poker was destroyed; the heat of the smaller one beside it must have melted it at the base, and it has toppled off the wall. As you watch, its blue wax runs into the hot slurry of colours on the ground, its steady flame climbs backwards along the wick, and a huge fire goes up from the liquid, bright orange and furious.

 

It is spreading quickly. What will you do?

 

> _

[antiaircraft]

I think it's time to use our trump card. It might also help our partner out, assuming the weight increase is an indication of the other end being activated.

 

> Place the Pawkeet charm in the figure's left hand. Hang on to what we've picked up in case we need it.

[Midtime]

> Place the Pawkeet charm in the figure's left hand. Hang on to what we've picked up in case we need it.

You drop the miniature blue items into one of your many coat-pockets. Then...

 

You touch the charm and it feels as cold as ice, unaffected by the heat of your surroundings, heavy as if it were made of lead. You look at the door with its glaring eye and its greedy hands. Great care and skill must have gone into creating something so hideous, and designing this miserable trap. What for?

 

You are finished trying to understand that. Your shoulders lift and your fingers tighten. This has gone on long enough.

 

Irrelevant flames leap and crackle all around you as you stride towards the door, and objects, no doubt coloured, are crushed underneath your feet. You lift the string over your head, and open the two hinged wings of the charm, exposing the gaping hole within. You hear it begin to gurgle faintly as you suspend it above the figure's red-hot hand, and let go.

 

Again that hand snaps shut in a fist. Again it begins to glow with mounting heat, but the gurgling grows louder, and is drowning out even the roar of the fire. Something is gushing, thundering, and suddenly the door is engulfed in a deafening eruption of steam.

 

You shield your face and watch as an enormous white column billows into the air. Somewhere in the noise you hear a continuous high-pitched screaming, something like the wail of a boiling kettle.

 

A brief pause, and it continues.

 

What is going to happen now? The flames are still going, and the door is still shut. Somewhere out of sight, the steam is spreading, blossoming upwards and outwards, brushing against that distant ceiling. You can imagine drops of condensation forming: your mind's eye sees them glimmering in the firelight as they fall.

 

The study of alchemy begins with a lesson in safety. What happens when water touches burning wax?

 

The steady thundering of the steam is interrupted by a loud bang. You turn around just in time to see the source of another: a water-drop falling, an explosion, fiery wax splattering the walls and floor. Immediately you reach for your cloak - what cloak? All you have is this torn scrap of cloth clasped around your neck.

 

Soon it will begin to rain, and the charm cannot protect you.

 

> _

 

 

[[ I assure you, when I looked it up, I was equally surprised. ]]

 

[Wildbreeze]

*googles* Woah. We can't let that happen here. However, I'm at a loss what to do. Is there anywhere we can take cover?

> Look for something to hide behind--somewhere that might be protected from the oncoming firestorm.

[Midtime]

> Look for something to hide behind--somewhere that might be protected from the oncoming firestorm.

You look around. There is fire ahead of you, fire to your left and fire to your right, slowly closing in, and behind you the door is enveloped in white steam that gushes endlessly, and the floor is covered in useless things that offer no protection. There is nowhere to hide.

 

There is another resonating bang. You shield your face instinctively as something bright and burning flies towards you. It catches on your sleeve, and you watch it for a moment in panicked fascination. It is a burning droplet of wax, but through the coarse cloth you feel only a faint warmth, and nothing catches alight before you smother the flame, leaving a patch of charred and smoking wax on your clothing.

 

Something in your memories is not surprised. It would take a much hotter fire, or a much greater force, to separate - to -

 

You can't remember more than that. Still, it seems your outer layers are fireproof.

 

You have very little time. Will you attempt to shield yourself? Or has another possibility occurred to you?

 

> _

 

 

 

[[ This should have been in the last post, to be honest. ]]

 

[antiaircraft]

Explosions! 8D

 

> Hunker down and shield our face and other exposed parts as best we can, but face the door so we can keep an eye on it.

[Midtime]

> Hunker down and shield our face and other exposed parts as best we can[...]

You adopt a distantly familiar position: facing away from the fire, as much as is possible; crouching low, your tail tucked underneath you; elbows resting on the ground, and your hands over your head, covering your hair and ears with those massive sleeves.

 

The first artillery barrage falls in the battle of fire and water. You hear vicious cracks and bangs, and the heat grows more and more intense; your eyes are watering uncontrollably, and your throat burns as you pant for air. There is a lull. You wait.

 

Again the rain falls, and flames splash across the wall in front of you. Your back is spattered by huge dollops of wax. You wait.

 

Heat creeps implacably through your clothing. Perhaps it is on fire. A few fat drops of water fall on you, tap-tap -

 

You are deafened by the explosion. Your head rings, and your ears pop. You squint through your tears and wait.

 

Is there no end to this?

 

You are covered in fire, and do not realise until it is too late. Something is dripping, flowing, running down your back - it is licking at your hair, and the fire takes root there and spreads down your neck, igniting your fur and sending an unbearable spike of pain through your skin. You panic, trying to beat it away, but the wax is too hot - it wo'n't go out -

 

> [...]but face the door so we can keep an eye on it.

You almost fall, and throw out your hand - it hits the ground with a splash.

 

Blinking through the sting of tears, you see that the steam has cleared. The door is smoking, and a gigantic crack runs down the middle, neatly bisecting the monstrous figure it depicts. Its hinges, its lock, and its two brazen hands have melted off entirely. Lying on the ground is the Pawkeet charm, striped with re-solidified metal, and still gushing water like a fire-hose. Its string is beside it.

 

> _

[antiaircraft]

> Grab the charm by its string and see if we can make it through the crack.