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.
The moment the memory starts spinning out, Presley steps to the front of the group, the Omamorning Star held in front of him, ready to protect the others. Which is ridiculous, since it's a memory, but maybe not ridiculous, because it's one hell of a memory. Even Presley, eternal teenage cynic, audibly gasps when he takes in Pocket's fire-wreathed form. The party bug. The one who tried to save them. The one they have to save now.
This would look great on your Auror application, he thinks to himself, which just makes him feel sick for some reason. Right. No time for introspection. Presley has never seen the bowling alley like this, but there's a lot of things they're all getting used to seeing now.
"Linchpin," Presley says, once he's sure the memory is done playing. Impossible to focus on things in this chaos, much less the most memorable one. "I don't suppose they expect us to carry back that terrifying vortex?" He can't stop looking at it.
Mary Grace reaches out to touch the flames swirling around their party bug, around the dead kid an entire town agreed to forget. Will it glow? Will it hurt her? She doesn't necessarily want to play hero—she is, at her very heart, a journalist—but she wants to know first.
"I bet I could lasso it," Mary Grace offers. She has a board with a nail on it, a piece of fencing from the old broken down stables, just in case things get hairy, but she's better off with a rope.
Mary Grace breaks away from Presley's defense area, in the direction of the cowering Burton Bland. "I wonder how his nipples really look."
Winter sucks in a short breath, ducking her head when she spots the papers frozen in the air. Even after walking through multiple memories, her brain still expects those things to flutter or fall. For the moment, she is content to hang behind Presley, eyeing their surroundings.
He's right, finding just one thing in this mess is almost impossible. Except for all that fire. "I bet Pouch could turn the flame vortex into a killer prom dress," she observes, unable to resist the appeal of pressing her fingers to the frozen flame. "Literally."
Like the others, Aris can do little more than stare as the memory plays out and even for a few moments after everything has gone still. This is a lot. A lot, a lot. His mind and heart are racing and that oppressive heat makes it even harder to focus, but he knows he needs to get his head in the game and help find the linchpin. He glances over at Viola before stepping around Presley and moving toward the toppling shelves and scattering papers. He awkwardly steps over a mid-tumble Cultist, half-expecting the figure to stir and grab him. Even with his (definitely stable) burner wand and one of his Predator Paws on, the thought makes him antsy.
"...I've got a parachute," he puts in helpfully as Presley and Mary Grace discuss the logistics of transporting a vortex, "Just bundle it up and cart it out!" It's not a serious suggestion, really, but the conversation is a welcome distraction. Definitely better than silence.
As the tongues of sulfurous heat whip around her, Viola is certain that she is going to die. That El is going to die and she'll live it through his eyes. It's an indescribable sensation, knowing both the future and the past.
But then suddenly she's back in the Paw Paw bowling alley basement, half-expecting to be wrapped up in vines and dragged into the chasm. No. That was a different time, when she was just a naive girl trying to understand. Still, she can't shake the feeling that they are not safe here. Even with everything frozen. Even with radiant Pocket at their side.
"He loves her," Viola says quietly, "El was thinking of Pocket in this moment, not the vortex."
Mary Grace crouches near Burton Bland. Normally old white men love her. They think she's hilarious when she's gruff and sarcastic and tries to gamble with them.
But this guy would never like her, and for that he can go fuck himself.
She reaches out to try and pull one of the frozen bowling balls down on his head.
"Pocket's easier to carry than a vortex," she calls out across the room. "Think we can just pick her up?"
"Worth a try?" Winter asks, carefully slipping past the other students. She adjusts the rainbow shield strapped to her arm before completing the short trek into Pocket's personal space to touch her.
Mary Grace (ROLLED 1) gets her finger stuck in one of the bowling ball holes. This is inconvenient.
Especially because something drops down abruptly from the ceiling as Winter reaches out to touch Pocket. A hand, mottled gray, dangles limp for a beat and then moves, grasping. (ROLLED 2 + 1) It takes Winter by her hair and yanks her up off the floor. A second hand (ROLLED 3 + 1) grabs her arm, pulling her up. Despite her shield and her flailing, she can't break free.
When Viola speaks, Aris listens. He turns to look at the frozen past-Pocket, tilting his head thoughtfully. She looks radiant in Lionel Qualls' memory, otherworldly but beautiful in a way that he's never considered. He thinks Viola must be right about how he felt and that's...difficult to consider. He's on the verge of asking if a person can even be a linchpin when Winter approaches and he closes his mouth. If Mary Grace and Winter think it's worth a shot, it's worth a shot.
...or not.
He jolts at the sudden appearance of those ghastly hands and how effortlessly they haul Winter off her feet. Immediately, he raises his wand and conjures a spell, aiming for the arms in an effort to keep a safe distance between his classmate and the damage. "Diffindo!"
"Winter!" Presley rushes forward, the Omamorning Star up, but there's not many ways he can swing it without accidentally hurting someone. Pouch's magical weapons are a lot of fun, but the one he made for Presley didn't have avoiding collateral damage in mind. Probably an unflattering metaphor in that. Wait, shut up, focus.
Presley drops the morning star and grabs Winter around the waist, trying to pull her back down as Aris unleashes his attacks.
Mary Grace should probably stop sticking her hands and fingers in inadvisable places during times of peril. Unfortunately, she already swore never to learn anything ever again, and that includes this lesson.
As she tries to tug her finger free, Mary Grace throws the rope around her waist to the others, then just hucks her History of Magic book with her left hand. If it hits Presley or mushroom girl (Something Something Winter???), then, you know, whatever.
Aristotle's severing charm (ROLLED 6) seems to hit the grabbing hands, but manages to sever only one, the rest cut at their edges, leaving slices that leak foul smelling gray smoke. The fingers twitch, loosening and tightening, and with Presley's added weight (ROLLED 9) they lose their grip on Winter.
Whatever awful writhing Horror is clinging to that ceiling makes a disgusting squelching noise. Winter raises her shield instinctively (ROLLED 9 + 1, ROLLED 10 + 1) just as the Horror spews black sludge over top of both her and Presley.
Of course, the Targe of this Balanced Breakfast does have a specific side effect. Though protected from the foul-smelling black muck, both Winter and Presley do get doused in cornflakes and milk.
Mary Grace (ROLLED 7) manages to tug her finger free andreally throw the book at that thing (ROLLED 10). It's hard to say if it did any damage but the remaining dangling fingers flex and wriggle strangely.
Edited (wrong account oh well sometimes it be like that) 2020-06-10 20:48 (UTC)
Sometimes, a boy, like, saves you or whatever. And it's really cool and dramatic and while you're still juggling the terror of feeling like you're about to die you add in a few other weird feelings that you don't have time to process. And then you dump milk and cereal on his head.
Winter stares at Presley from under her shield, tears in her eyes. She means to say 'thank you' or 'you saved me' or 'I'm sorry for the milk and shit', but it all tangles up on her tongue. "Thanks, mm, I'm bad. The milk. Fuck. Fuck it."
She flings her shield up at the gross thing on the ceiling, more out of frustration with herself than any actual desire to do damage.
A lot of big feelings going on in this basement right now, Viola thinks to herself, pressing her lips together in a tight line. Her eyes are trained on the twitching, oozing fingers hanging above them as she ducks around a cardboard box frozen in midair to come stand closer to Aris. She's not sure if she is hoping to protect him or be protected by him. Probably both.
"I don't think it's dead," she says and raises her rapier. "Watch out," she gestures to Winter and Presley before slashing at the remaining dangling appendages.
Winter's shield toss isn't terribly effective (ROLLED 2), but she manages to yank herself and Presley out of the way before it can grab either of them again (ROLLED 8).
Viola's right, it isn't done, and though her slashes satisfyingly cut through the writhing muck (ROLLED 8) the thing is still moving when it falls from the ceiling with a plop.
It spits black tar in all directions, foul smelling and hot.
A glob lands on Presley's arm (ROLLED 3) hissing and burning, his hand goes numb. [Will take a -1 on attacks for the next 2 tags].
Mary Grace is far enough away that only a few flecks land on her feet (ROLLED 6).
Winter (ROLLED 10) is not about to have anything else dumped on her tonight, and Aristotle (ROLLED 8), with grace, dodges out of the way.
Viola catches a burning glob on the back of her palm (ROLLED 5), easy enough to flick off, though it smarts.
The Horror unfurls, still twisting and curling overtop of itself, and it's kind of hard to tell, but it's at least looking a little worse for wear. Someone finish it off!
Milk is soaking into his suit and Winter is stuttering in his arms, but between the flying weapons and black tar spraying everywhere, Presley is mercifully saved from having to think about any of it. "Son of a—" He lets himself be pulled out of danger by Winter as eldritch tar burns right through his nicest jacket and shirt.
He drops his now-numb hand and uses the other one to reach for a weapon (not the morning star, that's the floor, you idiot) inside his tote bag, without question the best thing Pouch ever decided to gift him. "This is my only suit jacket!" Presley yells as he flings a screwdriver at the Horror, point-first.
Mary Grace is free now, and she's barely been touched by the gunk. Though her hair looks like shit, so, still fuck these guys.
The cheer captain shakes the last of her hair loose and dives across the room, grabbing for the rope and textbook she'd tossed. She loops the rope around the book and swings it at the Horror, determined not to let Presley get all of that sweet monster-killing action.
Splort! That screwdriver lands point first in the heart of the writhing monstrosity (ROLLED 7). The human arms go taut, standing on end, only to be smashed by Mary Grace's makeshift meteor hammer (ROLLED 10).
With one final squelch and spray of grime, the creature deflates on the ground, finally still.
"I...think it's dead now!" Aris offers hopefully, looking relieved as the creature finally goes still.
He glances up at the ceiling, just in case, before stepping closer to Pocket and looking her up and down again. They could probably carry her out of here without too much trouble, but he's still not sure that's right. As he's having this thought, something else that doesn't seem quite right catches his attention. Between the shining bangles on her wrists is a much simpler, seemingly homemade accessory constructed from hex nuts and worn leather. That, and a faint impression from the earliest moments of the memory, make him wonder. He reaches out to touch it.
The leather and steel bangle lights right up under Aristotle's fingers. He has just enough time to slip it off Pocket's wrist before a deafening roar — the flames, the shadowy tentacles, the crashing shelves and screaming cultists — signals the start of the memory, once more.
"You've gotta go!" Pocket shouts over the bedlam, offering her hand again.
Just as their fingers lace, a whippy tendril grasps Pocket's midsection.
"Tinkerbell!" El shouts, but there's nothing he can do. Pocket squeezes his hand as she's wrenched away. El makes to leap, but the floor disappears beneath him and he falls, sent away from this hell by Pocket.
The whole scene bends strangely, sudden vertigo, the only thing left solid is that hole Pocket made in the ground. Here, it looks back into the Sorting Path.
[MEMORY COMPLETE! You have found the linchpin and defeated the NPC. Get back to the Sorting Path and keep going!]
Mary Grace blinks hard as things bend. Even lying face down on the ground, hands clutched around the rope to her hogtied history textbook, she feels a little fucking dizzy.
She rolls on her back and sits up straight and it just seems to get worse. Hm. Maybe she should drink more.
"Lookin' sharp 'n' soggy, Promsley," Mary Grace says, shooting Pres a fingergun and a wink as she scooches over to the hole in the floor. "I'll spot for y'all on the other side." And with that, Mary Grace disappears into the ground. With any luck, she'll never be seen again.
Looking at the homemade bracelet in Aris' hand, he thinks of what Viola said earlier. He thinks of caring for someone and making mistakes, and to have the world punish you for those mistakes by ensuring you never see that person again. The world isn't fair—it's never been fair—but it does strike him for the first time as unjustly cruel.
Presley gives Mary Grace the middle finger before she disappears, and bends down to retrieve the Omamorning Star. Not only a powerful weapon, but one crafted from his father's gift. It was truly, incredibly bone-headed of him to drop it. He turns back to Winter.
"Carmichael." He can feel the wizFrosted Flakes stuck to his hair, in addition to all the horrible monster fluids and viscera. His hand is still numb. "After this is over... want to go on a date with me?"
Winter's grinning at the exchange between Presley and Mary Grace, quietly amused and plainly caught off guard by Presley's next question, directed at her. Her gaze cuts left, then right, but there's no one else here named Carmichael, Winter, you dope. "I..."
She thinks of El Qualls, and the way he saw Pocket. In this dark basement bathed in flame, she was something transcendant. A beacon, a goddess. It had seemed a tad over the top to Winter when they'd stepped in, but now, looking at Presley, soaked with milk, flecked with cornflakes and muck, she can kind of see where El Qualls was coming from. Maybe not quite so grand. But, sometimes, someone's just exactly who you want to see. A light in the dark.
She picks a cornflake from his hair and flicks it aside, her lips parting into a a grin. Bright, bashful bashful laughter chases that smile, wholly inappropriate for their current setting. "I... absolutely do." She tips her head toward the portal. "Let's go save a party bug."
Aris, now making an effort not to smile too wide, glances at Viola before averting his eyes. This is sweet, right? But they shouldn't interrupt, right?
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peckenpaugh2020-06-01 11:19 am
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.
MEMORY: An Eye for An Eye
This would look great on your Auror application, he thinks to himself, which just makes him feel sick for some reason. Right. No time for introspection. Presley has never seen the bowling alley like this, but there's a lot of things they're all getting used to seeing now.
"Linchpin," Presley says, once he's sure the memory is done playing. Impossible to focus on things in this chaos, much less the most memorable one. "I don't suppose they expect us to carry back that terrifying vortex?" He can't stop looking at it.
MEMORY: An Eye for An Eye
"I bet I could lasso it," Mary Grace offers. She has a board with a nail on it, a piece of fencing from the old broken down stables, just in case things get hairy, but she's better off with a rope.
Mary Grace breaks away from Presley's defense area, in the direction of the cowering Burton Bland. "I wonder how his nipples really look."
MEMORY: An Eye for An Eye
He's right, finding just one thing in this mess is almost impossible. Except for all that fire. "I bet Pouch could turn the flame vortex into a killer prom dress," she observes, unable to resist the appeal of pressing her fingers to the frozen flame. "Literally."
MEMORY: An Eye for An Eye
"...I've got a parachute," he puts in helpfully as Presley and Mary Grace discuss the logistics of transporting a vortex, "Just bundle it up and cart it out!" It's not a serious suggestion, really, but the conversation is a welcome distraction. Definitely better than silence.
MEMORY: An Eye for An Eye
But then suddenly she's back in the Paw Paw bowling alley basement, half-expecting to be wrapped up in vines and dragged into the chasm. No. That was a different time, when she was just a naive girl trying to understand. Still, she can't shake the feeling that they are not safe here. Even with everything frozen. Even with radiant Pocket at their side.
"He loves her," Viola says quietly, "El was thinking of Pocket in this moment, not the vortex."
MEMORY: An Eye for An Eye
But this guy would never like her, and for that he can go fuck himself.
She reaches out to try and pull one of the frozen bowling balls down on his head.
"Pocket's easier to carry than a vortex," she calls out across the room. "Think we can just pick her up?"
MEMORY: An Eye for An Eye
Re: MEMORY: An Eye for An Eye
Especially because something drops down abruptly from the ceiling as Winter reaches out to touch Pocket. A hand, mottled gray, dangles limp for a beat and then moves, grasping. (ROLLED 2 + 1) It takes Winter by her hair and yanks her up off the floor. A second hand (ROLLED 3 + 1) grabs her arm, pulling her up. Despite her shield and her flailing, she can't break free.
MEMORY: An Eye for An Eye
...or not.
He jolts at the sudden appearance of those ghastly hands and how effortlessly they haul Winter off her feet. Immediately, he raises his wand and conjures a spell, aiming for the arms in an effort to keep a safe distance between his classmate and the damage. "Diffindo!"
MEMORY: An Eye for An Eye
Presley drops the morning star and grabs Winter around the waist, trying to pull her back down as Aris unleashes his attacks.
MEMORY: An Eye for An Eye
As she tries to tug her finger free, Mary Grace throws the rope around her waist to the others, then just hucks her History of Magic book with her left hand. If it hits Presley or mushroom girl (Something Something Winter???), then, you know, whatever.
MEMORY: An Eye for An Eye
Whatever awful writhing Horror is clinging to that ceiling makes a disgusting squelching noise. Winter raises her shield instinctively (ROLLED 9 + 1, ROLLED 10 + 1) just as the Horror spews black sludge over top of both her and Presley.
Of course, the Targe of this Balanced Breakfast does have a specific side effect. Though protected from the foul-smelling black muck, both Winter and Presley do get doused in cornflakes and milk.
Mary Grace (ROLLED 7) manages to tug her finger free and really throw the book at that thing (ROLLED 10). It's hard to say if it did any damage but the remaining dangling fingers flex and wriggle strangely.
MEMORY: An Eye for An Eye
Winter stares at Presley from under her shield, tears in her eyes. She means to say 'thank you' or 'you saved me' or 'I'm sorry for the milk and shit', but it all tangles up on her tongue. "Thanks, mm, I'm bad. The milk. Fuck. Fuck it."
She flings her shield up at the gross thing on the ceiling, more out of frustration with herself than any actual desire to do damage.
MEMORY: An Eye for An Eye
"I don't think it's dead," she says and raises her rapier. "Watch out," she gestures to Winter and Presley before slashing at the remaining dangling appendages.
MEMORY: An Eye for An Eye
Viola's right, it isn't done, and though her slashes satisfyingly cut through the writhing muck (ROLLED 8) the thing is still moving when it falls from the ceiling with a plop.
It spits black tar in all directions, foul smelling and hot.
The Horror unfurls, still twisting and curling overtop of itself, and it's kind of hard to tell, but it's at least looking a little worse for wear. Someone finish it off!
MEMORY: An Eye for An Eye
He drops his now-numb hand and uses the other one to reach for a weapon (not the morning star, that's the floor, you idiot) inside his tote bag, without question the best thing Pouch ever decided to gift him. "This is my only suit jacket!" Presley yells as he flings a screwdriver at the Horror, point-first.
MEMORY: An Eye for An Eye
The cheer captain shakes the last of her hair loose and dives across the room, grabbing for the rope and textbook she'd tossed. She loops the rope around the book and swings it at the Horror, determined not to let Presley get all of that sweet monster-killing action.
MEMORY: An Eye for An Eye
With one final squelch and spray of grime, the creature deflates on the ground, finally still.
THE HORROR WAS DEFEATED! Find that linchpin!
MEMORY: An Eye for An Eye
He glances up at the ceiling, just in case, before stepping closer to Pocket and looking her up and down again. They could probably carry her out of here without too much trouble, but he's still not sure that's right. As he's having this thought, something else that doesn't seem quite right catches his attention. Between the shining bangles on her wrists is a much simpler, seemingly homemade accessory constructed from hex nuts and worn leather. That, and a faint impression from the earliest moments of the memory, make him wonder. He reaches out to touch it.
MEMORY: An Eye for An Eye
"You've gotta go!" Pocket shouts over the bedlam, offering her hand again.
Just as their fingers lace, a whippy tendril grasps Pocket's midsection.
"Tinkerbell!" El shouts, but there's nothing he can do. Pocket squeezes his hand as she's wrenched away. El makes to leap, but the floor disappears beneath him and he falls, sent away from this hell by Pocket.
The whole scene bends strangely, sudden vertigo, the only thing left solid is that hole Pocket made in the ground. Here, it looks back into the Sorting Path.
[MEMORY COMPLETE! You have found the linchpin and defeated the NPC. Get back to the Sorting Path and keep going!]
MEMORY: An Eye for An Eye
She rolls on her back and sits up straight and it just seems to get worse. Hm. Maybe she should drink more.
"Lookin' sharp 'n' soggy, Promsley," Mary Grace says, shooting Pres a fingergun and a wink as she scooches over to the hole in the floor. "I'll spot for y'all on the other side." And with that, Mary Grace disappears into the ground. With any luck, she'll never be seen again.
MEMORY: An Eye for An Eye
Presley gives Mary Grace the middle finger before she disappears, and bends down to retrieve the Omamorning Star. Not only a powerful weapon, but one crafted from his father's gift. It was truly, incredibly bone-headed of him to drop it. He turns back to Winter.
"Carmichael." He can feel the wizFrosted Flakes stuck to his hair, in addition to all the horrible monster fluids and viscera. His hand is still numb. "After this is over... want to go on a date with me?"
MEMORY: An Eye for An Eye
She thinks of El Qualls, and the way he saw Pocket. In this dark basement bathed in flame, she was something transcendant. A beacon, a goddess. It had seemed a tad over the top to Winter when they'd stepped in, but now, looking at Presley, soaked with milk, flecked with cornflakes and muck, she can kind of see where El Qualls was coming from. Maybe not quite so grand. But, sometimes, someone's just exactly who you want to see. A light in the dark.
She picks a cornflake from his hair and flicks it aside, her lips parting into a a grin. Bright, bashful bashful laughter chases that smile, wholly inappropriate for their current setting. "I... absolutely do." She tips her head toward the portal. "Let's go save a party bug."
MEMORY: An Eye for An Eye