Longshot97

Oh. Oh. That's what the Forgery was. I kept seeing it mentioned, but found no directly descriptive references. So, I have hit a brick wall in terms of this. I am struggling with how to move my character's arc forward. To help stimulate creativity, I am turning to this community. If anyone has anything they'd be willing to offer - any insights, idle thoughts, even questions - about my character, I would love to hear them. Obviously there's no pressure, but if you have some free time, I value any and all responses.

That makes sense. Hopefully, there's a healer around. Or maybe Asylum can heal. Who knows. Speaking of which @Stormlightsong it looks like Eighth and Eza are coming your way. One is borderline comatose, the other is probably on his last legs. The ball is in your court. Eighth heard a small groan from behind him. Eza. She was waking up. Or maybe in so much pain that, even unconscious, she couldn't help but express it. How badly hurt is she? Eighth of the Eve hesitated, then reached up and slung Eza from his shoulder into his arms. That should take the pressure off her abdomen. Her head rested in the crook of his elbow, her legs curled in a fetal position. His arms were full, now. If anything attacked, he would lose precious seconds setting her down safely. He could be endangering both of them. Somehow, Eighth couldn't bring himself to care care. The shadowcat could have killed him and Eza in a heartbeat - he was certain of it. If it wanted them dead, then they would be dead, simple as that. No. The mastermind behind this wanted them alive. Or at least one of us. Besides, hearing Eza in pain...it broke Eighth's heart. She was the reason they were here, but he had promised to see her and her friend to safety. She had saved him from certain death. If he had been locked up, stripped of his gear and helpless as that skinwalker swept through the constabulary... And he cared about her. Deeply. She was the niece he hadn't driven away, the child that might have been. She had saved his life not once, not twice, but three times. Probably more. She had trusted him. For the first time in so many moons, she had not shunned him as others had. Please, Patji. Please, Father. Spare this girl. You have taken so much from me. Grant me this much. @Stormlightsong @Lunamor

Eighth of the Eve held desperately to the cell door, fighting to stay alive. The door was composed entirely of vertical bars, with the only solid section being the lock. The Bloodless was taking full advantage, slashing and stabbing and biting as it tried to force its way out. Patji alone knew how it hadn't escaped yet. His hands burned from the impacts on the frame he was holding shut. He glanced reflexively at his wrist. But no. His lightline was gone, somewhere on the floor behind him. Eza stumbled to the cell beside him. Father, but she was in bad shape. Of course, he wasn't much better. Pain wracked his back and shoulders every time he shifted, and hot blood ran down his shirt. She stopped by the door, closing her eyes, as though in pain. The Bloodless rounded on her, snarling its fury. No! Eighth angled his arm, then triggered his blowpipes. The dart flew, lodging in the creature's cheek. The Bloodless screeched wildly, slamming against the door. Eighth jerked his head from a clawed swipe, then dropped below a full-arm stab. His left hand slipped from the door. It was going to escape. He couldn't hold it. He- The lock clicked shut. Eighth hurled himself back as the Bloodless rushed the door again. The bars rang loudly from the blow, the metal seeming to quiver at the force. But the door held. The creature threw its head back, howling its fury to the heavens. Clawed hands gripped the steel bars as though to rip them asunder. But no matter how it strained, no matter how it bit or clawed or wrenched, the steel stood strong. Those talons were meant for bloodshed and butchery, not carving through solid steel. Eighth scrambled back from the door, not bothering to get to his feet. He shoved himself away, kicking his feet wildly to gain distance. It was over. They had done it. They were alive. He rolled himself to his side, then just rested there, on his hands and knees. Chest heaving, arms quivering. He was shivering, taking in all that had happened. "Are you alright?" Eighth forced himself up on one knee, deliberately taking stock. His back felt on fire. From his forearms, his arms ached abominably. His head throbbed with pain, though his vision had snapped into focus. A flutter of wings sounded, and Seiju landed awkwardly beside him. She stood just fine, but lines of red blood stood out across one wing. Eighth reached out, carefully holding her in his hands. She was no longer a chick he could cradle, sheltering her with his hands from the world. But she huddled down, nuzzling his hand until he stroked her neck. "Thank you," he said, quietly. She cooed softly. A thump sounded before Eighth. He jerked upright, noticing Eza for the first time. She had fallen to the floor, eyes glassy. Her hands shook, nearly drenching herself as she drank fiercely from a vial. He rose painfully to his feet, walking over to kneel beside her. Blood dripped from her upraised arm, and she curled about her midsection. She looked so small, now. A child really, huddled on the floor, hurting and far from home. Fall's face swam in his mind, hunkered down in the forest floor, underbrush barely sheltering her from the driving rain. Blood had mixed with the water running down her skin. Eighth rose, groping his coat for his bandages. His hands felt clammy. He barely found the small pouch, pulling it free and laying it out. "I'll be fine," he said to Eza. Her eyes were drooping, shoulders shaking. "But you are not." The girl didn't even respond. A small cat, black as midnight, emerged from the shadows. Eighth blinked. When had it arrived? What was it doing here? Did the constables have problems with mice? The little creature butted up against Eza, as though trying to wake her. Eighth frowned, shooing it back. Eza's eyes were distant, unfocused. Her head seemed fine. Still, anything could have happened... Eza's eyes rolled back in her head, and she collapsed bonelessly to her side. * * * Eighth of the Eve panicked. It had been sometime since that had happened. He grabbed Eza by the arms, shaking her forcefully. No. No! She didn't stir, not even as her head knocked hollowly against the floor. Calm. Calm yourself, fool! He forced himself to set her down gently, feeling at her wrist, then her neck. Her pulse was there, but weak, faint. Her face was pale, lips nearly blue in the harsh light. Her chest rose only shallowly. Eighth felt frantically for his waterskin. Then stopped, staring blankly at the empty bag. Fool! He tossed it aside, grabbing a clay pot from his coat instead. He crouched low, holding her arm to the light and examining it closely. Some of the more vicious predators of Lokui delivered venom through hollowed claws. This cut, however, appeared clean. He packed the cut with salve before binding it. He hesitated, then wrapped cloth about her upper arm, tightly enough to restrict blood flow. He did not want her to lose a limb. Still, who knew how long before they escaped? The cat wandered over, sniffing inquisitively at the dressing. Eighth shooed it away once more. The cat did not back away. It sat there, looking calmly up at him. Despite the lighting, those emerald orbs glowed against black pupils. It met his gaze steadily, unwaveringly, not even blinking. Eighth finally looked aside. To search for further wounds, he told himself. He was not unnerved by this feline. He repeated this sternly, as his trembling hands probed Eza's ribs for breaks. Finally, Eighth sat back. Seiju walked up, pushing her head beneath his arm. Eighth scratched her idly, then turned to begin addressing her wounds. We need to leave, Eighth thought, cleaning the wound thoroughly. The Aviar remained resolutely quiet, enduring the probing with only a few shudders. One minion was nearly enough to destroy the both of us. We need to leave, and she needs a surgeon. His back twinged as he began wrapping the wing. I do, as well. Eighth finished treating Seiju. The Aviar would not be flying for a week or so, and then only slowly. He felt a sharp pang at that. "I'm sorry," he said. He didn't know to whom he spoke. He placed the Aviar carefully on his shoulder, then stood up. The pain in his joints was receding. Eighth paced the length of the hallway, walking through their next steps in his mind. He gathered his knockout darts, sliding one into the emptied chamber of his blowpipes. His lightline he found on the floor, next to an ornately bejeweled knife. Eighth tucked that safely away. Debris scattered down the hall, he thought, carefully gathering the quicksilver. The Bloodless must have been rampaging there. Perhaps it broke a way outside. Eighth turned back to Eza. She lay there, oblivious to the world around her. Peaceful, almost. He brushed a stray lock of hair from her eyes. The cat watched impassively. Then, careful of her ribs - something was wrong there - Eighth lifted her from the ground. She didn't even stir. He would have carried her in his arms all the way outside. But danger roamed these halls, and he was already so limited. Wincing on her behalf, he draped Eza over his shoulder. Her stomach would hurt fiercely when she awoke. If she ever awakens. Eighth of the Eve turned they way they had initially been headed. Then stopped cold. The cat was there, seated motionlessly in the center of the hallway. Its eyes met his serenely. Eighth looked back, then down the hall, baffled. No cat is that silent. Seiju stirred nervously. "Move," he told it. His voice came out harsher than he'd intended. Something is not right. The cat flicked its tail, but otherwise ignored him. "Move," Eighth said. "Or be moved." Nothing. Eighth began to walk past it - slowly, with the additional weight. The cat didn't even twitch. But behind it, its shadow seemed to stretch to ten times its size, like the silhouette of some monstrous creature. Down the hall, where the head was, spots of light slowly grew. Like eyes. Like the shadow was alive. Eighth halted. Then, not even pausing to consider, he raised his blowpipes. The cat didn't move a muscle. He sighted briefly, then pulled the trigger. The trigger jammed, refusing to budge. Eighth pulled again, and the trigger moved. But rather than flying, the dart splintered apart, scattering harmlessly across the floor. Eighth swore, drawing his blade. Or rather, trying to. The machete only withdrew halfway before lodging in its sheath. Eighth pulled harder, and it seemed to him his coat reached out to entangle his arm. Eighth shook his hand free, then thrust it to the beast before him. The metal veins of his glove flared to life. Then sputtered, the glove emanating odd sounds. Eighth focused harder, but the glow only flickered more fiercely. The quicksilver at his side didn't move at all. He took another step. The shadow loomed, lengths of darkness that might have been claws unsheathing. The uncertain light of his glove didn't even disturb it. Eighth ground his teeth together. Eza seemed an enormous weight on his shoulder. Seiju huddled down. Then he lowered his hand. The light died out. "Fine," he told the creature. "Fine. Take us to your master." The cat flicked its ears, then rose, walking in the opposite direction. Deliberately, it brushed past Eighth's legs, sauntering back towards the cellblock. Towards a being from the Depths themselves. Towards certain death, or worse. The burden on his shoulders weighing him down, Eighth followed. @Lunamor @Stormlightsong

They stopped the beast just in time. Eighth of the Eve growled. His muscles quivered, taut with exertion. Cords stood out at his neck. The Bloodless dug its taloned feet into the wooden floor, then lurched down to all fours. Pain began to flare, his tendons screaming in agony, his joints slowly pulling in ways the were not meant for. The claws slid towards him, carving ragged furrows through the planking. Eighth felt their progress. Slowly. Too slowly. His plan had to work. It had to. Just a little further… There. The wood crunched viciously under the monster’s claws as it howled in frustration. Eight felt the subtle lessening of pressure, saw the tensing of hind and shoulder muscles as the Bloodless prepared to turn on another victim. The veins about his left hand began to hum an ethereal violet. Without looking, Eight was suddenly conscious of the waterskin at his side. He risked a one-handed hold on the line, and thrust his gloved hand down. The quicksilver burst from its vessel, the cork effortlessly shoved aside. Solvent silver ran to the floor below, pooling about him. No! With an effort of will, Eighth held the metal back, away from his feet. Right as the Bloodless whirled on him, eyes alight with fury. He felt his mind clouding over, and hurriedly looked aside from its gaze. He saw it lunge, practically flying with the force of their pull. The approaching claws and fangs filled his vision. With a raw shout, Eighth released the line and dove forward, angling himself directly beneath the monstrosity. He had done so many a time. He would strike hands-first, slowing his fall to take the force off of his roll. It would end in an effortless rise to his feet, facing the way he had come, unharmed and unhindered. But Seiju was no longer with him. Eighth felt lines of heat trace their way across his spine. He landed his hands correctly, but his back spasmed in pain, and he only just managed to keep from slamming his head into the ground. He crashed down, tumbling painfully until he settled in a heap next to Eza. Through tears of pain, Eighth saw the monster touch down directly where he had been standing. Right on the quicksilver. The Bloodless slipped, claws sliding helplessly on the metal, its momentum carrying it onwards. Eighth thrust his hand - still alight with power - and the metal rolled forward, carrying the creature helplessly past the cell’s open door. Eighth lurched to his feet as the Bloodless crashed against the back wall. Hurry. Hurry! He raced across the length of the hallway as the creature slowly regained its feet. Just as it lifted its head, Eighth seized the door, slamming it shut. His hands scrabbled on the door, grasping for a lever, a bolt, a lock of some kind. There was none. The creature’s eyes widened as it made out the wall of bars between them. A wailing screech escaped its throat, and it lunged for the door. Eighth flung his hand to the side, and the quicksilver flowed out from beneath the Bloodless, sending it sprawling. The light of his hand revealed a strange indentation on the door. Angular on the bottom, circular the top, almost a fingerlength deep. A keyhole. Eighth barely hung on as the Bloodless slammed against the bars. “We need a key!” he shouted. He barely moved in time to avoid a slashing claw, then slid his hands down as the creature snapped at then. “It won’t lock without one!” @Lunamor

Eighth stood there, shaking himself out of the stupor. The Bloodless's eyes had trapped him, right up to the moment Eza had intervened. He had frantically reloaded his blowpipes - with killing points, this time - and taken aim. Then stopped as he saw Eza back away from the beast, blade buried within its heart. And it had stood up anyway, flesh sealing the wound with barely a scar.. We can't kill it, Eighth thought. It would take an army to kill it. But what other choice do we have? Eighth advanced, hand on his machete. Yet before he could even draw it, the Bloodless struck. It burst forward, and before either of them could react, kicked Eza. In the stomach, like a misbehaving hound. She collapsed, skidding helplessly across the floor to the opposite wall. And behind the creature, the door to an empty cell swung out. In that moment, Eighth of the Eve saw their chance. He whistled sharply, holding his left hand aloft. Seiju hopped down as he tapped his fingers to his left palm. Then he whistled - two shrill notes, one high, one low. Attack. Seiju looked askance only a moment before taking flight, rising above the Bloodless. Eighth ran in the opposite direction. Towards the open cell. Eighth darted to the barred wall, a glowing lightline trailing behind him. He heard the faint whine of his Aviar 's dive, and smiled. He stripped the bracelet off his wrist, then looped the line around the bar nearest to the door. A tap signaled the lightline to stop extending. Now- A cry split the air. Seiju. "No!" He shouted, whirling about. Seiju had been struck from the air, and was fluttering wildly, trying to regain control. The creature had barely paused to deal with the Aviar, and was nearly upon Eza. The beast's enraged snarl reflected in her terrified eyes. And a glowing line of light trailed from the Bloodless's back. "Eza!" Eighth shouted, tossing the bracelet into the air. The metal bracelet. "Pull!" Eighth seized the lightline, just as the creature pounced, teeth and claws bared. He braced his feet, released his weightloss, and heaved on the line with all his might.

Eighth of the Eve regained his feet right as the abomination dropped from the ceiling. It's skin was pale; deathly so. Yet even that pallid sheen was eclipsed by the bone-white of fresh scar. Spiraling across its skin, in eldritch patterns that baffled the mind. Just looking at them made Eighth shiver in revulsion. His reservations vanished as the creature slashed at Eza. Patji be praised, the girl dodged the blow, jerked to the side as though hauled by a rope. The claws scored her, however, even as she returned the favor. The monster recoiled, half its face lacerated, its eye split asunder. Yet not a hint of gore exited the wound, even as the flesh rippled and ran over, healing the damage. Eighth shuddered. Bloodless indeed. He ran a critical eye over the creature, examining it as he would a stalker of Lokui. Claws split the beast's fingertips, and the barest hint of talons emerged from the shredded ruin of its boots. It moved fast - faster than Aviar in flight. What he could make of its pupil was a mere slit in the illuminated hall. Nocturnal, then. Hunting habits aside, its eye was gone, and they had a chance. Eighth of the Eve raised his arm, sighting on the creature. His grip centered on the creature's ravaged eye. Then he pulled the trigger. A volley of darts erupted from his blowpipes in quick succession. Six. Seven. Eight. His aim was true. The projectiles flew straight, striking home about the Bloodless's ruined eye. Then rebounded. Eighth stared. The volley of missiles had driven the Bloodless back a good seven meters, step by step, but not a single one had penetrated skin. What had he done? Were his dartpoints faulty? No. They couldn't possibly all be misaligned. Eighth's eyes fell on one blowdart, rolling across the floor back towards him. The tip was oblong, slightly deformed. And completely, harmlessly blunt. Oh, Patji. Oh, Distant Father. The creature was recovering. Its eye was healed now, the fully formed orb fixating on them, beady with malice. The socket about the eye was deformed, and a flash of white told of protruding bone. Yet it ignored the injuries entirely, all its focus now upon them. Eighth thrust his hand within his coat, seizing his piercepoint darts. The creature's eyes fell on him, and Eighth froze despite himself. In those eyes was not merely hatred, but hunger. A lust for blood and bone, to drive all other, lesser concerns from this thing's mind. An unearthly screech emerged from its mouth, ululating unnaturally. Eighth quailed. Then the Bloodless charged him, fangs bared, claws seeking Eighth's heart. @Lunamor @Speeding Steelrunner @Stormlightsong

Eighth of the Eve nearly staggered from the sudden force that pulled the waterskin. He braced his knees, holding tight as Eza fairly flew across the open space, her feet not even brushing the ground. Even so, he felt his feet sliding out beneath him, and he reached desperately to anchor a lightline to the hallway. And missed. Eighth lurched forward. Thankfully, Eza landed safely beside him. Still, stumbled, only just catching himself on the doorframe. Right in perfect view of the demon. Eighth felt himself freeze, like a preybeast hearing a trapper's approach. Those infernal eyes caught him, pinned him in place, boring through skin and sinew directly to his soul. That eerie smile lingered, even as those midnight orbs widened in alarm. Eighth whirled, seizing Eza by the arm, and sprinted down the hall. Blooded pounded in his ears in time with his steps. They had been spotted. Patji, they had been spotted. The demon knew they were here. Seiju trilled frantically from his shoulder, but could offer little aid. Their flight was down an clear hall, and a person could only run so fast, no matter the path they took. Still, his steps were effortlessly soundless as they ran, and terror lent his feet wings. Further down the hall, a gaping door opened to a bloodstained room, a prone corpse just visible. Eighth felt his stomach heave, and he turned on the nearest intersection. Behind, ominous footfalls sounded from the cellblock. There had to be a way out somewhere. They had entered somewhere central to the building, just outside the prison area. All they needed do was head in the general direction of the outermost walls. Eighth was confident he could break out of anything short of solid stone. Without warning, the constabulary shook. Eighth fell to one knee as the walls rippled and the floor quaked. Seiju clutched his shoulder even tighter, nearly falling from her perch. What manner of sorcery did that monster wield? How could he shake the earth itself? He raises the dead from the Depths, fool. What challenge is the living world to him? @Lunamor

More action for Eighth and Eza, I suppose. At least they aren't vampires. Oh, and they both might bump into Fenna at some point, since they've passed Asylum's position.

Oh, Father. Guilt stabbed him. Gone was the courageous, resourceful young woman that had outwitted men twice her age. Gone was the fierce loyal companion that had braved imprisonment to rescue her friend. Gone was the hardened warrior who had seen too much for her age. In her place, all Eighth saw was a small, fragile girl who had lost everything. Tears fell from her eyes, and her body shook with sobs that threatened to tear it apart. And her face... That was the face of a broken soul. A person who tried so hard to be with those they loved, only have everything ripped away by a cruel world. Eighth recognized that face. He knew it well. It greeted him in every passing reflection. Eighth saw something harden in her eyes. Her shoulders settled, the tears eased from her face, and a deadly calm suffused her features. In that moment, he saw it. The numb, unfeeling resolve of someone with nothing left to lose. The horror was there, and the loss. But a silent fire burned therein, and Eighth was struck by the strength of this girl. "That's not my friend. Not anymore," she said quietly. She brushed past him, stepping between him and the skinwalker's horde. Blades appeared suddenly in her hands - thin, sharp daggers that glittered defiantly in the light. They both were yet unnoticed by that monster. But his heart swelled at her ready defense. Fool. This is why you are here to begin with. Remember. Remember your exile. Somehow, facing a being from the underworld, Eighth could not care. "Eighth, run." And run he did. * * * Eighth of the Eve darted towards the bend in the hallway. Just past it, the door yawned open. He needed only cover a distance of five meters. Five meters of open floor, where anyone, man or monstrosity, could see him. Five meters of danger of the highest order. Five meters where it might see him. Eighth felt the strength of his stride, marveled at how his pace left no sounds. Seiju, still at his shoulder, huddled down, gripping his shoulder tightly. Their bond had never been stronger. Right then, he could have crossed the densest grove of Lokui at a dead sprint, and quite possibly not have disturbed a single leaf. Thank you, old friend. Another second, and he would be out in the open. He clenched his fist, and the violet veins of his glove flared anew. The quicksilver followed, rippling down the floor behind him. Eighth focused on it, felt the world seemingly slow from his concentration. He reached out, praying that he would not fail this time. Praying he got the timing right. Praying no one looked his way. Praying nothing went wrong. Please, Patji. He was at the bend. He thrust his hand forth, and the quicksilver flowed before him. In the same breath, Eighth leapt forward, stretched his arms out and locking his knees. The quicksilver flowed beneath him right as his feet landed. The silvery metal was slick - slick as ice. His feet landed, and he shot forward like a stone from a sling. The speed of his jump diminished not at all, and he sped across the intervening space almost too fast for him to react. Praise Patji, Seiju was still with him. He jumped again, then swept his hand to the side, the quicksilver racing past him. He landed hands-first, tucking himself into a roll as Seiju soundlessly took to the air. He came to his feet, muscles tensed from the speed. It took his body a moment to believe the motion had stopped, then he sagged against a wall. He shook his head, turning to the doorway. He was out of the skinwalker's sightline. Good. He guided the quicksilver back into his waterskin, moving swiftly. If they were lucky, he had gone past unnoticed. If not... Time to run. Eighth released his weightloss, felt himself settle more heavily on his feet. He held the waterskin aloft, gesturing hurriedly towards it. Come on, he thought. Pull on it. Get over here. Escape. That makes absolute sense. You have thought this through way more than I have. Sorry about that, and I look forward to seeing this powerset in action. @Scars of Hathsin According to this, yes. @Lunamor @Stormlightsong

Eighth of the Eve could have laughed. Could he find a way out? It was all he could not to start running like the wind. Seiju had set her talent flaring like a bonfire. He could have scaled mountains without breaking a sweat, crossed a frothing river as though it were a placid stream. Still, he remained where he was, focusing on the bloody tracks leading to their escape. He knew he wasn't steady enough to go anywhere right then, not without serious injury. Well, not only that. Eighth looked down at the girl behind him. He had moved between her and the door, crouching protectively. When? Why? He knew her by now. Tiny, yes. But fierce, determined, clever. She looked at him, and he saw Fourth of the Fall in her face. In his mind's eye, she held his gaze only a moment before looking away. Fury had blazed in her eyes, emotion that she refused to let him see. That was the last time she had ever met his gaze. In this girl's eyes, all he saw was trust. Trust, wholehearted and earnest. Like a younger Fall, holding desperately to a tree ten times her size. Looking dwon at him, arms outstretched from the earth below, he had seen terror fade to trust. Like El, clinging to roots and weeds as quicksand swallowed her up to the waist. Seeing him, that pain and panic had shifted to simple calm. How long had it been since anyone looked at him that way? Eighth finished strapping his blowpipes to his arms. He absently fired a dart through the open doors at his bundled coat, a lightline trailing behind it. It struck, and he abruptly pulled on the line, catching it and swinging it on. He returned his machete to his hip, and reslung his waterskin to his belt. He popped the cork, sending the quicksilver pooling about his feet. "Yes," Eighth said quietly, "but what about your friend?" He looked back at her, and suddenly knew. The alarm was no accident. "Very well," he said. "But I promise you this: we will find him. Eventually." He stepped forward swiftly, closed the office door, then stretched a lightline across the frame. Then two. Then three. That might mislead any pursuers. That done, he rushed down the hallway, as silently as he knew how. The guards should just be approaching the office door. With the other sentries out, they could escape through the entrance into the cellblock. The quicksilver flowed along the floor, following their brisk pace. The door came into view. Someone approached the doorway. Eighth slowed, pulling Eza to the closer wall, hidden to the entryway. The figure strode confidently closer, still just out of the light. Behind it, two men followed. Eighth stiffened, and Seiju huddled down on his shoulder. The men didn't walk so much as shamble, as though any strength of theirs was long spent. The man entered the room, and Eighth froze. Horror swelled within, and he felt sick to his core. The man's eyes were black, black as midnight. Greasy hair framed a gaunt face, the skin pulled tight across the cheekbones. The hands were withered and skeletal, the yellowed fingernails crusted with blood. More blood covered a sleek modern suit, which draped a painfully emaciated frame. It was the figure of his darkest nightmares, sending him screaming from his bedroll, soaked in sweat, body ready for flight. It was the skinwalker of his people's stories incarnate, ready to devour the souls of all who dared cross it. It was everything Eighth feared in the modern man, manifest before them. "Hi," it said, simply. A blur of motion caught Eighth's eye, and the guard from before lunged at the monstrosity, moving with ungodly speed. Then he stopped, the air flickering weakly about him, a knife between his ribs. The guard collapsed to the floor, and the man knelt down beside him, pulling the knife from his chest. Then it... It... Oh, Distant Father. The man desecrated the corpse, defacing it, sparing no expanse of skin from that brutal knife. They carved the body like a cut of meat, inscribing runes of alien origin. Eighth watched in horrified fascination as the man laid a hand over the mutilated guard, bowing his head. The whispered words should not have reached Eighth, but he swore he could hear them, swore he could almost understand them. The corpse twitched. Eighth could not tear his eyes away. The body stood, those awful wounds slowly sealing themselves, leaving only faint scars across it. The skin was gaunt, pale and bone-white. Bloodless. One of the prisoners said something. Eighth could not make out the words. The suited man walked over to a cage and - with a mere touch - unlocked the barred door. In the blink of an eye, the dead guard was in the cell, kneeling over the slumped corpse of the prisoner. The poor man's throat was torn out, and the guard had it's mouth over the wound. Eighth saw the creature's throat work, saw the man's thrashing slow, then stop. Patji protect us all. Eighth backed around the corner, terrified of being seen by this...this thing. His eyes, however would not move from the tableau before him. The Bloodless rose, heedless of the gore spattering its face. The suited man watched impassively, perfectly composed. Then their face split in an unnatural grin, yellowed teeth pointed and predatory. Those midnight eyes glittered with satisfaction, and Eighth swore he saw the fingernails of their folded hands stretching, elongating into curled claws. With a start, Eighth suddenly made out odd sparks of color at the man's sleevecuffs. A green clover, with four leaves. A strip of green silk stood out at the man's throat. And suddenly, everything clicked into place. "So," Asylum Smedry said, "Who's next?" Eighth of the Eve whirled on Eza. His machete was in his hand. When did that happen? The quicksilver pooled around his feet, writhing like boiling water. His mouth felt dry, his eyes wide. He was shaking. Patji, he was trembling. "You did not tell me your friend," Eighth whispered savagely, "Was a demon." Anger and fury pooled with fear and terror. "I promised to help you find your friend. I have." Seiju trembled at his shoulder. Again, he suddenly knew the way to escape, and his legs wanted nothing more than to sprint out the door, heedless of the monstrosities that awaited him. "What will keep him from killing us both?" Behind him, the screaming resumed. At the risk of sounding pedantic, you might want to review the Coppermind for information on F-Iron and conservation of momentum. The Tl;dr is that anytime a Skimmer in motion stores weight, they speed up, and everytime they tap weight, they slow down. To give an example, a Skimmer who is skydiving can increase their weight to slow down, maybe to manuever. They could also decrease their weight to speed up, maybe to outrace an opponent. Hmm. Fenna saw the ravens leaving the building, but didn't see the hole Eighth punched through the roof. This means she probably approached the building from the opposite side Eza and Eighth did. That is roughly where Asylum was actually being kept, and the direction from which he approached the cellblock. So, I propose that's where Fenna crashes down. @Stormlightsong @Lunamor

Eighth of the Eve raised his arms with the next blow, hands spread wide. The cudgel struck the stretched length of wool between his wrists, and he moved swiftly, trapping the weapon in a flurry of fabric. Along the way, he tapped one wrist against the guard's hand. Eighth ripped his hands apart, sending the club spinning off to one side. He slapped his wrist against the left-hand wall, and a glowing cord leashed the guard's arm to the wall. Eighth spooled another lightline over the coat, then flung it in the sentry's face. It immediately adhered to the skin, and the man went down, clawing blindly at his eyes. Footsteps sounded behind, and he whirled to see three guards closing in on him. He swore, slapping his blowpipes to his arm and taking aim. Only, unstrapped as it was, the trigger was just out of reach. He fumbled desperately for it, then looked up to see one guard suddenly in the air right in front of him, emerging from a blur behind him. Eighth dropped, rolling to the side as the man's cudgel crunched into the ground. The man turned on him, and suddenly the approaching guards froze. The air rippled slightly around them. Father! Eighth ducked another swing, then lunged, swinging his blowpipes like a club. The man evaded easily, smiling. Then he cursed, dropping as a blunt-headed projectile passed directly where his head had been. Eighth's heart sank. He had hoped to catch him by surprise. He was clearly the better fighter. The man sprang at him, and Eighth stumbled back, air whistling as the club flew just before his nose. The backhand came, and Eighth knew he could not avoid this. He was defeated. Then a sudden force pulled him by the torso, ripping him out of the bubble of rippling air. He felt a sudden jolt, like hitting water at the wrong angle, only three times as bad. He reeled as he flew through the air, the quicksilver pouch pressing painfully at his midsection. He was soaring towards the far wall. No, towards the office. Eza. Thank Patji. The pull stopped, suddenly. Eighth tried to slow his flight, but, disoriented from the jolt, he just missed anchoring his lightline. He struck the wall with a crack, then dropped to the floor. The world spun about him, and the pain of his head returned with vengeance. A roar filled his ears, and he smelled blood. Eighth lurched to his feet, staggering around the corner. He found Eza hunched over, wheezing as though she'd run a mile. What happened to her? He grabbed her by the arm, towing her towards the office doorway. Then slowed, confused. His hearing was beginning to clear. A loud sound, blaring throughout the building. He had heard its like, once before, high in the air on a ship of metal. An alarm. Ahead, he heard Seiju cry. It was like nothing he had heard from her. Raw. Frantic. Frightened. She shot out of the doorway, then swerved to Eighth, landing on his shoulder. He suddenly saw the best route out of the building, knew it like he knew the lay of Lokui. His feet quivered, ready to run at a moment's notice, even while the world still rocked about him. No, she was not frightened. She was terrified. Ahead, footsteps sounded. Multiple people, striding towards the door. Slowly. Deliberately. A raven's call reached him, and he thought he heard the rattle of rooftiles as someone climbed out their escape. Outside, screams seemed to be echoing. Distant Father. What is happening? @Lunamor @Stormlightsong

No objections here. I've been trying to build up to Eighth and Eza getting trapped in the area outside of Asylum's cell, so that tension is at its maximum for the Big Thing™. Whether or not you feel like waiting for that is up to you, however. You've already waited a while. Though, there's something I feel I should check about now. I'd been assuming this Big Thing™ would be something that allows Asylum to walk free, possibly with a substantial powerup. In my head, I've been imagining a vague explosion of some kind. Would you say whatever the Big Thing™ is would be enough to get Eza and Eighth out of (the current) danger

Eighth of the Eve nodded, going through her description. He was certain he could spot the man, though he wondered if prisoners kept their clothes with them. He frowned at the thought of being caught. He had no intention of failing. However... Fool. One does not walk Patji's Children comfortably, not even Sori. You are a trapper in unknown terrain. Act like one. Well, when surrounded by the unfamiliar, rely on the familiar. "There may be an easier solution," Eighth said, withdrawing his gloved hand. The glow had faded, but rekindled at a thought from him. He waved his hand over the quicksilver, drawing it into his waterskin. This he held before Eza. "You can pull on metal, yes?" He tied the skin securely over his abdomen, arranging it to appear like a paunch beneath his coat. He made sure to keep the cork within easy reach. "Should I be in danger, I will whistle. You may not hear it, but Seiju will. Watch the bird; she will make her distress known. Pull on this to hasten my retreat. This room is easier to defend, and our escape is here." Spurred to greater caution, he pulled out his chalk and broke off a small piece. This he crushed on one hand, then powdered his exposed hair with dust to appear gray with age. He smeared the rest over his jaw, mimicking stubble. He could no longer check his reflection, but felt more confident in the disguise. Seiju chirped approvingly, and he motioned her to silence. He opened the office door, and she fluttered silently through, alighting on a low desk. He stepped over to the opposite door, one hand resting on his Aviar. There he stopped, eyes closed breathing slowly and deliberately. He felt his heart slow, and the rush in ears quieted. In that silence, he clearly made out Seiju's own heartbeat, quick and staccato. This too he tuned out, focusing on their bond and reaching out to the area beyond the door. He could make out the thuds of footsteps, faintly hear whisper of breath, imagine the rustle of cloth. The sentries were regularly spaced in their walk. Eighth stood, awaiting an opening. One guard passed. Then two. Then three... There. Eighth turned the latch, lifting the door up on its hinges. The metal had appeared rusted. Smoothly, he swung the door towards him, pivoting off his left foot. His right sandal cleared the doorway right as it opened wide enough to admit it. He planted his foot, twisted, and stepped backwards off his right foot. He allowed the door to swing shut behind him, closing soundlessly. Eighth kept the latch lifted until the door had settled, then turned it back in the same motion he swung off his right foot to walk placidly down the hall. Eighth kept his head down, hat shading his brow. His shoulders slumped deliberately forwards, his knees bent gently in a way he hoped emphasized the paunch. His eyes, however, remained alert, darting about even while his head sloped down unmoving. This was indeed a hallway, with holding cells on either side. The walls facing him were composed entirely of metal bars, allowing him convenient vision of each room. The cots within were flat against the wall, the occupants clearly visible in the muted light. A massive grayskin, bulging out of the narrow bed. A man in muted clothing much like his own. A woman with what looked like feathers for hair. He passed them all, advancing at a steady pace. Ahead, just turning the corner was the sentry he had heard. Behind him, he heard the guard behind him rounding the bend, passing the office door without a glance. Eighth suppressed a satisfied smile. He was in. He continued, trudging on as though half-asleep. The prison cells were obviously constructed to provide a constant view of the prisoners. Eighth could easily pick out the people within. And none were Eza's friend. Doubt began to creep into Eighth's mind. His shoulders tensed, and his hands made fists in his pockets. None of these match the description of Asylum Smedry. But how? This is obviously the place where prisoners are kept. There is nowhere else to place them! Right? Eighth felt his act falter, felt his tension bleed into his stride. He strove to maintain an air of placid boredom as he rounded the corner to walk back to the office. Once at the door, he could slip in, reconvene with Eza. No. Surely, her friend is in one of these cells. Surely. Eighth of the Eve strode on. He was approaching the place he had begun. The prisoners seemed to blur past him. A strange blue-skinned creature. An odd foxlike creature the height of his shin. A four-armed alien, much like the shopkeeper. Please, Father. Make this easy. There was only one cell left. Eighth approached it, and a hope rose within him. The man was awake, despite the hour, facing the wall away from the bars. An elaborate suit enveloped his lean frame. Eighth walked on, and deliberately scuffed his foot against the ground as he passed. The man spun to face him, light on his feet. Eighth's heart rose...only to fall even deeper than before. The man's skin was black as treebark. Defined muscles, hidden when stationary, rippled at his neck and shoulders. This was not him. This was not Asylum Smedry. "'Ey! Tarmon!" Eighth started at the noise. He looked around, wondering at the sound. "Tarmon! This fellow givin' you any trouble?" Of course. The guard behind him. He turned, heart sinking even as he did so. The hunt was ending. The guard slowed from his light jog, glaring at the marbleskin. Then he glanced at Eighth. "Hold on now. You're not Tarmon. But that's his coat!" His look of confusion turned to anger. "What did you do to hi-" Eighth whipped out his right hand, snagging the cudgel from his belt. The knobbed end struck the guard square in the throat, his raised voice cutting with a sharp croak. He staggered back, drawing his own club. But Eighth was already moving, dashing away. The sentry ahead rounded the bend, having heard the man's shout. His weapon was held carelessly at his side, but at seeing Eighth racing towards him, he cursed and backpedaled, raising his club. Eighth whistled, high and sharp, even as he collided with the sentry. He saw the man wince at the sound, even as his cudgel took Eighth in the arm. Pain shot through his wrist, and his weapon clattered to the floor. He spun to flee, then dropped as the first guard's swing hissed above his head. Eighth sprang from his crouch, driving his shoulder into the man's gut, driving him backwards. The man shouted hoarsely as he fell to the ground. Eighth ripped off his coat, wrapping it hastily about his arms to intercept another blow. The wool cushioned the impact, but Father, it hurt. He whistled once more, even higher than before. Behind him, he heard the clatter of more footsteps, and voices began raising an alarm. Come on, Seiju. Don't fail me now.

Eighth of the Eve frowned. An office? Here, in a cellblock? Though, as he looked around, it didn't look like much of a cellblock. Such strange worlds he saw. He flicked his gloved fingers, and the quicksilver pooled out of the wooden planks. The remaining planks were strangely warped, their edge eerily circular. Eighth tested the glowing bonds one final time before leaving the unconscious guards. He entered the room, trying to find another doorway. He saw one on the far wall, and crept soundlessly to it. On the other side, he heard muffled voices, and a few distant shadows moved in tandem with faint footsteps. His brow furrowed as he tracked the movements. Three, perhaps four people? Eighth backed away, treading silently. He had hoped to locate Eza's friend swiftly. This complicated matters. He could only incapacitate so many people before absences were noticed. His foot landed on something oddly soft, and he looked down to see one of the guard's coats. Wool, dyed in distinctive blues, browns, and yellows. Eighth paused, then held it up. It might just fit him, though the sleeves were too small to accommodate his blowpipes. Eighth shrugged off his trapper's coat, then began stripping the weapon off his arm. "Beyond seems to be a well-guarded section," he said, "with officers walking about. There is no pattern I can discern. I might be able to slip out and view the prisoners." Eighth picked up the guardcoat and swung into it. He tucked his braid down the collar, frowned at the conspicuous glowing glove on his left hand, then stuffed it in a pocket, muffling the light. He slid a cudgel through his belt, then hid his blowpipes under his coat, on his left side. He stepped over to the pool of quicksilver, examining his reflection. Everything seemed fine. All but his face, with black eyes, swollen skin, and purple bruising. He frowned, then reached over to the bound constables, retrieving one of the odd hats they wore. He jammed it over his head, angling the brim to shade his eyes and nose. His vision was slightly restricted, but his reflection seemed more believable. Eighth tucked his chin slightly, then deliberately slumped his shoulders. That was the best he could do. A chirp sounded behind him, and Eighth turned to see Seiju flutter in through the opening. She didn't enjoy being indoors, especially cramped buildings. He smiled slightly, nodding to her in thanks. He would need her help for this. "I can try to sneak into the area outside. It's likely a circular cellblock. There seem to be few sentries, and those walk a good distance before re-approaching the office - their gaits are distinct. I can meld in, trying to look for your friend." Eighth eyed the girl. "I doubt that you could, however. I will have to search alone. How can I recognize your friend, and would he trust me?" @Lunamor

Eighth shifted to a more secure position, digging his toes into the grooves of the rooftiles. Getting in was hardly an issue. His waterskin suddenly felt a conspicuous weight at his side. Going in discreetly, avoiding injury? Eighth frowned thoughtfully. He had no doubt the quicksilver could take care of any and all foes. If only he could control it. Idly, Eighth lifted a hand and wiped it on his trousers, careful to avoid contact with his blowdarts. Even residual sweat would begin melting the carapace dart- Eighth froze. Then, carefully, he flipped the blowpipe casing open, withdrawing a blowdart. He flipped the casing back down, inspecting the dart carefully. The weapon was an arrow in all but name. The weight and balance were similar. Despite the smaller fletching, the blowdart flew straight and true. He had hunted with it, and found its responsiveness pleasingly acute. Eighth rubbed his fingers together, trying to gather moisture. Then, carefully, he clasped the dart about the head. A hissing sound rose into the air, and he felt the warhead growing malleable in his hand. Slowly, he applied pressure, compressing the sharp edges into a small, dense sphere. He hefted his new dart. In his mind, he no longer compared it to an arrow. To him, it had roughly the heft of a good slingstone. Eighth's mind raced. His blowpipes shot the darts with enough force to pierce skin, as well as several layers of clothing. But what if the darts were no longer sharp? Eighth smiled, certain. He glanced up at the stars, then mentally berated himself. These were not his skies. He shifted to look at the moon instead. If the hours here were anything like his, he had a little less than one hour before midnight came. He would only need half an hour to modify his ammunition. "I can subdue any sentries," Eighth assured Eza, withdrawing a handful of darts. "But I will need time to prepare. We strike as soon as we are able. I will enter first, to clear the hallway. You will locate your friend while I deal with any efforts to stop us. We reconvene here, and go up through the roof. Father willing, we escape by midnight." Eighth of the Eve, Smokestack, Smokestack Constabulary, 11:30 PM Eighth slid the last of his knockout darts into his blowpipes. The others he tucked into his coat, within easy reach. He worked the handpump, ensuring all chambers were primed. He was ready. He nodded at Eza, then knelt to make a wider opening in the tiles. These he stacked carefully to the side, trying to minimize sound. He tightened his glove about his hand, then reached for his waterskin. He removed the cork, then upended it over the wooden planking. A stream of liquid silver flowed out, eerily luminous in the moonlight. It puddled smoothly on the wooden planks, then began to run in all directions. Eighth placed his gloved hand in the center of the quicksilver. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the relic. He had not used it in many moons, but he remembered it well. The pure joy of new experience, of testing muscles he had never known existed. The thrill of accomplishment, of triumphs he could never have dreamt of having. Eighth knelt there, and without looking, he felt the silver veins of his hand glow an ethereal, otherworldly violet. He moved his hand to the left, and the quicksilver flowed with the motion, eagerly responsive. He moved his hand to the right, and it followed. He had never been able to contain it, but he exulted in its motion, free and unencumbered. Eighth felt a smile stretch his lips. He quashed it, firmly, settling his expression to one of somber concentration. He reached out to the metal below, and commanded it down. Many thought that timber was solid. They were right, yet at the same time, so wrong. There existed within the wood tiny flaws, minuscule spaces no solid object could dream of entering. But liquid went where it willed. Water swelled raft timbers, and sap flowed through trees in tiny channels. It was through these crevices that he commanded the quicksilver through. And before his eyes, he saw the pool of radiance dissipate, little by little. He was suddenly conscious of Eza's scrutiny. Father, he thought. Prayed? Let this work. Let me prove myself. If not to you, then to her. Let me prove my worth. If only once. Eighth moved his hand a fraction of an inch away, and heard the planks groan quietly, felt them warp ever so slightly. His eyes tightened in satisfaction. He met Eza's eyes, and held up the fingers of his other hand. Three. Two. One. Eighth of the Eve clenched his gloved hand into a fist, and heard the muted crunch of separating fibers. He thrust his hand down, and a smoothly circular section of roof caved in. Below, he heard voices abruptly cease. Eighth hooked his knees over the opening and swung his torso headfirst into the hall below. Two guards stood before a reinforced door. They had eyes only for the section of roof on the floor below, and he aimed quickly. His blowpipes hissed, and one guard's head snapped into the stone wall behind him. The other made the mistake of looking to the side at his partner, rather than up. The second dart caught him in the temple, and collapsed with a thump. Eighth extended his knees, releasing his grip on the edge. He flipped to the floor below, landing soundlessly, then approached the guards. Both completely unconscious. Luck had favored them. He stripped them of their coats, then the two securely to each other, gagging and blindfolding them. On them, he found firearms - which he set gingerly aside - papers that appeared to be identification, cudgels, and a keyring. He then retrieved his darts, flipping his blowpipes open and reloading carefully. "Well?" Eighth of the Eve said. "They were guarding this doorway. Shall we?" @Lunamor

Full disclosure? I'm still at a loss for how to end Eighth's arc. So I am all for new and exciting developments in the plot. Will update if anything changes. @Lunamor's character noticed a distinct lack of metal, which is where she and Eighth of the Eve assume that Asylum Smedry is being imprisoned. However, they are now in solitary confinement, which is explicitly described as having a barred window. And so we are faced with both a question to answer and a decision to make. Did Eza initially detect solitary confinement, or the Metalborn cells? There are two options, as I see it. 1) Eza was actually noticing the solitary confinement cell, and the bars in question are aluminum (which, now that I think about it, is already pretty likely). Hence, no metal, hence what she saw, hence this is the location being targeted. 2) Eza was, in fact, detecting the Metalborn cells, and is now incorrect in her assumption of where Asylum Smedry is being imprisoned. Option 1 has the benefit of working out pretty cleanly. Eighth and Eza would try and break in, succeed, face the guards, then go to rescue Asylum. Sometime in the process, @Stormlightsong does his Big Thing™ and everything is derailed. Option 2, however, sets up nearly guaranteed failure for Eighth and Eza. They would have to make some tough decisions mid-heist for whether to bail, change plans, or just punch their way through (among other options). This sounds terrible, but has the narrative benefit of raising the stakes in preparation for the Big Thing™ to occur. I post this not to metagame, but out of uncertainty. Which path is best? @Lunamor @Stormlightsong @Koloss17 @Longshot97

Eighth of the Eve, crouching low to avoid a conspicuous silhouette, scanned the rooftop. She was right. There was no obvious way in. Still, at least they were out of sight. He examined the roof closely. He had long accustomed himself to the idea that thatching was a thing of the past. It did not make the swathe of overlapping clay tiles any less unnerving. The rooftop here came up in a gradual slope of interlocked tiles, likely for rain. He knelt down, grabbing one by the edge and tugging experimentally. Their interlocking nature made shifting them much harder than it first appeared. Eighth slipped out his machete. Wedging the blade into the crack, he applied gentle upward pressure. The tile resisted just a moment before popping straight up. Eighth grabbed it out of the air before it could fall, giving them away. Looking through the gap, he saw a set of crossbraces rise from the edge of the wall to a peak at the roof. Over them, the tiles were secured, with gaps between braces filled with overlapping segments. Beneath, however, was a seemingly solid layer of wooden planks, presumably over more crossbracing. Deep in thought, Eighth attached the tile back with a small lightline. It would disappear in a few hours, by which they would be gone, one way or another. He could get through that ceiling. He could even do it quietly. But he sincerely doubted the prison cells would have such easily breached roofing. He advanced to the section Eza had pointed out earlier. Another quick check confirmed his suspicions. This area had patches of stone - likely the cells - interspersed with narrow lengths of wooden planking. That stone would be tough. Eighth could pierce the planking without issue, but that was all. Still, this was the place. Eighth didn't know exactly where this "Asylum" was held. But, if he was as lucky as Eza had said, they should locate him swiftly. Patji let it be so simple. Eighth turned to the girl. "We cannot break directly into the cells," Eighth said grimly. "We can, however, enter the passageways through the cell block. They will undoubtedly be guarded, or at least monitored. We can try to force our way in. We could still try sneaking in. Or we could capture an official, to question as we like." He met her eyes. "They have your description. You are most at risk. How we proceed is in your hands."

No objections on this end. You know what you're doing.

"Eighth," he said absently, "of the Eve. And this is Seiju." He gestured vaguely at the Aviar, who had now stepped to the street to examine the sketch. She pecked his hand gently as he began a line, squawked, then tapped a spot slightly farther than he’d begun. He did so, trusting her vision better than his. More enthusiastic, she hopped forward and dragged a talon in a shallow curve. Eighth followed her motions. Hmh. Pulling on metal. Either it moves, or she moves. Sounds…useful? Not only could she retrieve tools at a moment's notice, but she could use anchors to move quickly. His mind flashed back to watching her run off at inhuman speeds. With that, she could scale walls, cross the underside of rooftops, even…could she fly? Eighth paused, staring at her, then moved on. He’d seen stranger powers. Father, he wielded stranger powers. She was a good liar. He had witnessed that firsthand. If she was quiet as well, that gave them an opportunity. That they knew the cells’ general location gave them a chance. Finishing the layout, he stepped back, examining it. It was not promising. The constabulary was open to the surrounding denizens on all sides. Any attempts at entry would be noticed, and commented on, if his own experience was at all the norm. Seiju looked up at him, and he felt certain. There was no safe path in. Except, maybe, from above. “There is no way in from the ground,” Eighth said. “But there may be a way in from the rooftop. At the very least, a forced opening is less noticeable from above than below.” He scanned their surroundings. The buildings were not especially high, but should serve to conceal their scrutiny. It was a long jump from the rooftops here to the constabulary, however. One problem at a time. Swiping the diagram clear, Eighth felt along his upper arm, checking to make sure his weightloss was secure. Satisfied, he reached out and opened himself to its influence. He felt himself growing lighter, then lighter still, until the faint breeze would have buffeted him were it not for his gear. He crouched down, and Seiju chirped in understanding. The path unfolded before him. Eighth breathed, then sprang into action. Two steps along the closer wall. A two-legged leap across the alley. He grabbed a windowsill, then heaved himself up by one hand to the next handhold. Momentum took over, and he soared on toward the narrow strip of afternoon sky. Eighth slapped his wrist against the near wall, waited a beat, then retracted the lightline, simultaneously releasing his weightloss. He swung to the side, arcing over the edge and planting his feet on the rooftop. Eighth of the Eve dismissed the line, then looked over. A moment later, Seiju emerged, preening in a self-satisfied way. Eighth scratched at her neck. It had been impressive. Well done, friend. Glancing over, he confirmed his suspicion. The rooftop looked promising, the yawning gap less so. He would need the girl’s help crossing over to the constabulary. Speaking of which… Eighth looked down over the lip. “Well?”

Eighth started inwardly at the flash of pale skin. Of course she'd darkened her complexion. It, more than anything else, drove home the fact he desperately tried to ignore. He had to acknowledge it. This was not Fourth of the Fall. He had nearly thrown himself in prison for Patji knew how long over someone he had never known. With great effort, he kept his emotions far removed from his expression. The girl was uneasy enough without him revealing any eerie resemblances. Even now, she stood poised on the edge of flight. Like an Aviar, hearing the approach of a prospective trapper. "Ee-ZUH," he said awkwardly, mouth contorting around the syllables. "Very well. If I am to help in this, there are things I must know." Seiju shifted to his shoulder as he knelt to the paving stones. From his coat, he removed a piece of chalk. He still had some, left from his time in that strange land of living pictures. He began sketching a layout of the constabulary office. Or rather, the outside, and what he had seen of that. He talked as he worked, drawing carefully. "Who is it you must help escape, and how could they help us? How long have we to do so? Where would they be within the building? How careful need we be in this process? Where can we safely go afterwards?" He paused, looking the girl up and down. Something about her prompted him to add one final question. "And how much are you capable of doing?"

Eighth of the Eve trudged behind the girl. Such a jumpy thing. She set a pace that turned his trudge to a clumsy shamble, and a simple sneeze nearly made her jump out of her skin. She led him a short distance from the constabulary, though far enough that he could no longer make out their discussion. He caught sight of a window on the way, grimacing at his reflection. Then she pulled him into a sidestreet. Eighth blinked at the torrent of words. He hadn't had the chance to even thank her before she began waving that knife around. How could anyone talk that swiftly? Eighth knelt, unrolling his bundle and laying out his gear, gaining himself a moment to process. He shrugged on his coat, wincing as he moved his arm, working through her words. Slowly, yes, but faster than before. His reflection looked absolutely frightful, but he would survive. "Hurting me? Perhaps," he said, belting on his sheath and reaching for his waterskin. He hesitated at the glove, then pulled it on. He would not be caught unawares again. The silver veins glittered - fittingly - like liquid metal. Of course, your 'confession' would be just as convincing. Eighth thought. No one would question it. He began the laborious process of strapping his blowpipes to his arm. Loaded, of course. "As far," he said, around a mouthful of leather strap, "as my health, I look much worse than the reality." That done, he undid the hidden latch of his lightline. "Though I appreciate the concern," he finished, clipping on the bracelet. He eyed her as he bent slowly to retrieve his machete, gripping it harmlessly between two fingers. "Threats or no," Eighth said, guiding the blade carefully into the sheath, "I am in your debt." He snapped the blade down, harder than intended. "And the debt of a trapper is no idle promise." He retrieved a small ceramic pot - carefully padded - from his coat, and began gingerly applying salve to his face. A gift from the nomads of the world of ash. He caught a colorful flash of movement, and saw Seiju land nearby out of the corner of his eye. She hopped nervously, but remained where she was. Eighth smiled. Still obeying my command for distance? Thank you, friend. He tucked the salve away once more, then drew himself to his full height - almost, he noted amusedly, a full armspan over the girl. A cool breeze blew in, soothing the abraded skin of his face, rippling his coat about him. He lifted his gloved hand, then whistled, high and sharp. Seiju fluttered down, her wingbeats momentarily seeming the source of the wind. She landed on his arm, cooing softly, then turned to regard the young girl. "Elani, was it?" Eighth of the Eve asked. "How may we repay your kindness?" @Lunamor

Eighth of the Eve looked his assailant straight in the eyes. Inwardly, his mind toiled to process everything that was being said. None of what Fall was saying was right. Indeed, he'd never heard her speak so much. But why... Oh. Oh, Distant Father. This wasn't Fourth of the Fall. And she was not speaking truth. It had been years since Eighth had been forced to lie. Not out of choice. Years of solitude gave a man little reason for falsehood. He had lied, once. Every man begun life as a youth, and before that as children. But still. It felt...odd. Not wrong, just not quite right, either. Eighth deliberately slid his eyes out of focus, assuming a vacant expression. He looked around, noticing the bystanders as though for the first time, then down at Fourth of th-at the young girl. "E...lani," he said, sounding out the word. What a peculiar name. "What are you doing outside?" He attempted to assume a stern expression. "You know you aren't supposed to...be out alone." He looked back at the constables. The younger men looked stricken, the graybeard pensive. His eyes flickered between Eighth and the girl. Probably for the best that they had aimed for the face. His features were now indistinct enough that no one would wonder at differing appearances. "Thank you, constable," Eighth said, voice slurring slightly. Really, his head was clear now, but it could not hurt. "Thank you for returning me to my daughter." He held out his hands, still bound before him. He could have freed himself, but the move felt significant. "I would appreciate one last gesture of help." He locked eyes with the graybeard. The man looked firm, but his eyes betrayed him. Uncertain, darting back and forth. He took in Eighth's stature, then his clothing, then his gear. Then he finally examined Eighth's injuries. His eyes tightened at the edges, and his lips compressed. Then, slowly, he unsheathed a knife and stepped forward to cut Eighth's hands free. Eighth of the Eve said nothing. He merely clutched his gear as he turned, slowly walking away. Entrusting his fate to the one who led him, one hand on his arm. @Lunamor