It feels like the heart of a bonfire here, and maybe that's exactly what it is. A vortex of red and orange and nothing else, scalding hot, but not burning. Not yet, at least. An acrid, sulfuric smell fills the air and above, muffled and distant, the sound of crashing and thunder and screams.
From somewhere beyond the spinning flames comes the voice of the man in the tweed jacket — Burton Bland. And for the first time that any Peckenpaugh student has heard, it's strung tight with raw panic. "Something's not right."
"HEART." bellows something that isn't a voice. More like a thunderclap, rattling through bones. "THE WHOLE HEART."
"W—we gave you the heart of the land," Burton Bland pleads.
"ONLY HALF," says that booming thing. "GIVE ME ALL."
Beyond the orange vortex, you think you can see it. Vague impressions of shadows moving, whipping fast. A crash, a thud, then shouts and screams. Someone's wails go distant, as though they're being dragged far away at incredible speed.
Then, a hand, obsidian black and flecked with gold reaches through, grasps and pulls. The flame licks all around as you pass through, but somehow, it doesn't burn.
The bindings around El Qualls's legs and wrists are cut with a flick of Pocket's fingers. She is lovely bathed in the flickering light of the ritual fire. She is the night sky, two beautiful burning red comets for eyes. The bangles on her wrists shine as she reaches out to help him to his feet. One of them is the bracelet he gave her, hex nuts strung up on a leather strap. She is a hero, a goddess. Literally. And she's wearing something he made.
"You gotta go, dude," she says at the gaping L.Q.
Everything freezes.
Lionel has been pulled from a vortex of fire spewing out of the cracked floor of the Paw Paw bowling alley. It looks like any basement, really, except for the hell breaking loose all around. Even ignoring the brilliant vortex of fire at the center of the room, there's too much going on. Dancing shadows hang frozen in the air, tendrils throwing boxes, tipping shelves, pulling cultists off their feet. They cast darkness on the gray walls behind them, creep across the poured cement floor. A stack of papers is frozen just over El Qualls's head, one page crumpled, the rest scattering through the air. Just about the only thing untouched is a pinball machine nearby.
In the corner by the stairs, Burton Bland cowers, hands over his head, and at least three bowling balls are stuck mid-bounce in their roll down the stairs.
MEMORY: An Eye for An Eye
[CRITERIA: Find The Linchpin, Defeat NPC]
[METAPLOT - SORTING PATH]
It feels like the heart of a bonfire here, and maybe that's exactly what it is. A vortex of red and orange and nothing else, scalding hot, but not burning. Not yet, at least. An acrid, sulfuric smell fills the air and above, muffled and distant, the sound of crashing and thunder and screams.
From somewhere beyond the spinning flames comes the voice of the man in the tweed jacket — Burton Bland. And for the first time that any Peckenpaugh student has heard, it's strung tight with raw panic. "Something's not right."
"HEART." bellows something that isn't a voice. More like a thunderclap, rattling through bones. "THE WHOLE HEART."
"W—we gave you the heart of the land," Burton Bland pleads.
"ONLY HALF," says that booming thing. "GIVE ME ALL."
Beyond the orange vortex, you think you can see it. Vague impressions of shadows moving, whipping fast. A crash, a thud, then shouts and screams. Someone's wails go distant, as though they're being dragged far away at incredible speed.
Then, a hand, obsidian black and flecked with gold reaches through, grasps and pulls. The flame licks all around as you pass through, but somehow, it doesn't burn.
The bindings around El Qualls's legs and wrists are cut with a flick of Pocket's fingers. She is lovely bathed in the flickering light of the ritual fire. She is the night sky, two beautiful burning red comets for eyes. The bangles on her wrists shine as she reaches out to help him to his feet. One of them is the bracelet he gave her, hex nuts strung up on a leather strap. She is a hero, a goddess. Literally. And she's wearing something he made.
"You gotta go, dude," she says at the gaping L.Q.
Everything freezes.
Lionel has been pulled from a vortex of fire spewing out of the cracked floor of the Paw Paw bowling alley. It looks like any basement, really, except for the hell breaking loose all around. Even ignoring the brilliant vortex of fire at the center of the room, there's too much going on. Dancing shadows hang frozen in the air, tendrils throwing boxes, tipping shelves, pulling cultists off their feet. They cast darkness on the gray walls behind them, creep across the poured cement floor. A stack of papers is frozen just over El Qualls's head, one page crumpled, the rest scattering through the air. Just about the only thing untouched is a pinball machine nearby.
In the corner by the stairs, Burton Bland cowers, hands over his head, and at least three bowling balls are stuck mid-bounce in their roll down the stairs.