This place smells of both wet basement and brimstone, which is altogether an awful combination. What doesn't help are the spindly almost-humans stationed at every entrance, their forms not quite right, and the sick feeling they leave in your stomach even worse. A half-dozen aurors are crowded in this basement, and two dozen more are stomping around upstairs. It’s a wonder the ceiling doesn’t give, the way everything’s scorched. Someone else, a middle-aged man wearing green robes, seems to notice, and flings a spell that spreads silver across the blackened boards, mending damage done. Across the room, an auror pulls a pack of cigarettes from his robes and pats it against his leg. Is now really the time? Nearby, another offers a stick of gum to his friend. Everyone is nervous. Everyone restless. The very air is charged with it.
Almost every inch of this dark, dank place is carpeted in bouncy moss. What isn't is the jagged hole in the middle of the floor, though the moss does spill down its sides. A peek into the pit reveals light like a dimly burning ember somewhere at what must be the end of this seemingly bottomless hole. A feeling of vertigo strikes, and the memory owner takes one large step away.
A few bowling balls resting on a shelf escaped coating. The contents of some open cardboard boxes, as well. Small vinyl records, probably meant for a jukebox. Caleb Qualls, Ichabod Kettleburn and Lancelot Purcell are etching glyphs into the floor, cutting through moss to carve symbols into poured cement. They've all been here for hours and hours, but no one is in a rush. When they're done, when they leave, it will be with one fewer than how they entered.
Off to the side, Pocket, here Tinkerbell, watches. Ebenezer Woodrow stands beside her fretting visibly. Zipporah's heart aches when she looks at Tinkerbell. The little creature seems so young, so innocent. She almost forgets that Tinkerbell was Tinkerbell when she was a girl, that this particular magimagicicada might even predate the Revolutionary War. Still, by human standards, just a child. A child who has lost everything, and yet here she stands, looking resolute with the rest of them, dressed in the bright colors she always does, flouncy skirt, countless bracelets and bangles, sporting a pair of sunglasses to hide her missing eye. Her presence is a soothing balm in an otherwise awful atmosphere.
Healer Crockett steps around a crouched Caleb Qualls to speak with the party bug, but before any words come, she freezes.
MEMORY: Caleb Leapt
[CRITERIA: Minimum 13 Tags]
[METAPLOT]
This place smells of both wet basement and brimstone, which is altogether an awful combination. What doesn't help are the spindly almost-humans stationed at every entrance, their forms not quite right, and the sick feeling they leave in your stomach even worse. A half-dozen aurors are crowded in this basement, and two dozen more are stomping around upstairs. It’s a wonder the ceiling doesn’t give, the way everything’s scorched. Someone else, a middle-aged man wearing green robes, seems to notice, and flings a spell that spreads silver across the blackened boards, mending damage done. Across the room, an auror pulls a pack of cigarettes from his robes and pats it against his leg. Is now really the time? Nearby, another offers a stick of gum to his friend. Everyone is nervous. Everyone restless. The very air is charged with it.
Almost every inch of this dark, dank place is carpeted in bouncy moss. What isn't is the jagged hole in the middle of the floor, though the moss does spill down its sides. A peek into the pit reveals light like a dimly burning ember somewhere at what must be the end of this seemingly bottomless hole. A feeling of vertigo strikes, and the memory owner takes one large step away.
A few bowling balls resting on a shelf escaped coating. The contents of some open cardboard boxes, as well. Small vinyl records, probably meant for a jukebox. Caleb Qualls, Ichabod Kettleburn and Lancelot Purcell are etching glyphs into the floor, cutting through moss to carve symbols into poured cement. They've all been here for hours and hours, but no one is in a rush. When they're done, when they leave, it will be with one fewer than how they entered.
Off to the side, Pocket, here Tinkerbell, watches. Ebenezer Woodrow stands beside her fretting visibly. Zipporah's heart aches when she looks at Tinkerbell. The little creature seems so young, so innocent. She almost forgets that Tinkerbell was Tinkerbell when she was a girl, that this particular magimagicicada might even predate the Revolutionary War. Still, by human standards, just a child. A child who has lost everything, and yet here she stands, looking resolute with the rest of them, dressed in the bright colors she always does, flouncy skirt, countless bracelets and bangles, sporting a pair of sunglasses to hide her missing eye. Her presence is a soothing balm in an otherwise awful atmosphere.
Healer Crockett steps around a crouched Caleb Qualls to speak with the party bug, but before any words come, she freezes.