peckenpaugh | THE UPPER LEVELS

up into the balconies

you climb The breathing boughs of that nightmare tree crowd into the upper balconies of the ruined auditorium. You have to duck and bend to get by them in places, sometimes through spaces that seem to grow smaller as you press through. These branches are warm to the touch, some of them uncomfortably so, pulsing with something that isn't quite life.

You've climbed these stairs more than once in your time here; to take your place after your sorting, to watch new students find their House, or perhaps just for an assembly. This building always seemed so sturdy, so safe. It was a place to go for shows, for celebrations, and hell, to just get out of class. Now, the floorboards creek precariously, split and splintering where vines have crept through. Benches are broken, overturned and tossed aside to make room for the auditorium's new king: the malignant maple. Up here, the glowing blue seeds hanging from branches are close enough to pluck. Those that have ripened litter the floor and railings, filling the balconies with an eerie blue twinkle.

The air is muggy, clogged by falling ash. It stinks of coal and sulfer. But you keep moving, anyway. Keep opening portals and pushing on. Just a little bit higher, and then maybe you'll be able to plunge into the depths.

and you fight By now there's a plan, and with it, a slowly growing brigade of people, of beings, of bugs, who are gathering to push back against inevitability.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

This man is infuriating, but, she reminds herself, they are talking to a shadow. At best. This is still only a memory. She stands more firmly. “Doors can be closed.” She says, “and roots can be pulled up.” She spares a wink up at Eddy to clue him in, stroking the bladed knuckles of her cestus, readying herself.
“...And anyway, darling, you’re leaking.”

She lunges out to punch-slash at Burton Stupid Bland, because if she’s going to die here, she at least wants the first hit.

Edited (I...assumed...cestus were sword...disregard ) 2020-06-10 21:31 (UTC)

Fuck this guy.

A soft elbow bump of agreement, and Eddy allows Chanel her few seconds head start, but he's right at her back as soon as she moves. While Chanel shows off that her tongue is as sharp as her blades, the only linguistic demonstration Eddy performs is that his vocabulary doesn't extend much beyond "fuck" and with a strong kick, he sends the booth table toppling onto Bland's lap as he thrusts his staff hard against the man's chest, hoping to keep him an easy target for Chanel's blades.

Burton Bland is almost caught off guard. Almost. (ROLLED 5 + 1) Chanel can feel her fist hit his face, the blade cutting into ... something. His face splits, though not as intended, peeling away like a timelapse shot of a flower mid-bloom. Burton Bland is only half a man, from the waist up, he is something horrible. A green gray anemone growing out of a man's waist and it's already swinging for the two junior Thorntrailers.

Eddy manages to pin Bland's waist in the booth at least (ROLLED 8) crushing him hard into place. The reach on those tentacles is just enough, though, (ROLLED 4) to slaps Eddy so hard he spins.

Edited 2020-06-10 21:44 (UTC)

Ah, time for a good ol' bar brawl. The aisles are narrow enough in here that the blow causes Eddy to take a chin to a table, but he catches himself before any serious damage is sustained.

After the cultists, the reality of Burton 'Tentacle Hell' Bland shouldn't be surprising, and yet, "The fuck?" There he goes flexing that vocabulary again.

Edited 2020-06-10 22:08 (UTC)

"Ew." Is her assessment. And, no, that's helpful. Eddy wouldn't be able to wonder what the fuck if he's too hurt. So now Chanel only has to spare a half-glance to make sure she's okay. She tries to jump on the table behind the tentacles, then punches back out at the one that had hit Eddy. No one got to do that.

Edited (I can read I promise) 2020-06-10 23:22 (UTC)

"Yeah," he grunts as he gets back to his feet. This staff is neat and all (literally), but Eddy's used to doing things with his goddamn fists. With a short running start, he throws himself over the upturned table, grabs onto some tentacles and yanks with all of his noodley might.

Edited 2020-06-11 00:06 (UTC)

Eventually, through the magic of RP Time, Burton Bland crumples to the floor, just a pile of dust. The scene rewinds, the man in the tweed suit resuming his place at the booth, as if he never even noticed the two teens eavesdropping on his conversation.

"And what in the Hell is all this shit, man? Looks satanic," Henry shuffles the stack more, flourishing out a collection of handwritten notes. Symbols and diagrams cover the page. Words and phrases like "heart" and "leyline" stand out. "It ain't you, Burt."

"That, Henry," says Burton Bland with a casual flick of his wrist, "Is what's going to dissolve the wall that separates us from them."

THE UPPER LEVELS

MEMORY: Planting A Seed

MEMORY: Planting A Seed

MEMORY: Planting A Seed

MEMORY: Planting A Seed

MEMORY: Planting A Seed

MEMORY: Planting A Seed

MEMORY: Planting A Seed