lycianlynx

[lycianlynx]

Footsteps echo through the stone tunnels. A curiosity indulged, a slip through a hidden passage in the monastery and down, down, down, into a dank and dark place with distant murmurs of life further below— Their statements as guide peter out as their surroundings turn unfamiliar. The paths are kept well-enough, hinting at regular traffic, more than just maybe one curious rat sniffing about at a time.

This isn't normal. Why is this beneath the monastery? They should get out of here. Chad needs to investigate this on his own time. They aren't supposed to be here, but since when has a spy and scout cared about where he should and shouldn't be? If this much of a vast network's been hidden right under their noses, what in God's name has been kept secret otherwise?

Disquieted, Chad pulls Lugh into a narrower passage, one that echoes in its emptiness. There's a brief moment where they think about talking, when they hear it: Behind that empty echo, a dim roar— Where is it? Through the wall? Motioning for quiet, Chad presses their fingertips to the wall (cold, damp, grimy—but there's a resonance, it's hollow behind) and—

Falls through?

They stifle the resulting shout in their throat.

@verdantsunflower

from the dragon's wake // lugh + chad

outrealm gate ✧ no point

[lycianlynx]

Steam fills the kitchen, savory and warm. Cauldrons and massive pots, dented and well-loved, bubble away on the fires, hands upon hands chopping and dicing vegetables, mushrooms, potatoes, meat and marrow thrown in alongside onions for the base of the broth. The smell reminds Chad of home before Bern, back when they helped haul the potato sack over to Father's big pot on the floor and peel potatoes and carrots. The clatter and chatter less so...

Still, some part of them's glad they aren't helping out wiith the onions at the moment. The other part is glad they're helping at all. Some third part, wildly, thinks that there could be more—

Because there isn't nearly enough here to properly make all of that to a filling stew, more water than meat and vegetables. They've seen the amount of people that rely on this place. They know what charity looks like, and they know what it looks like as its bleeding dry, still trying to feed and provide with cracked, bony hands.

In their own camp, more than enough food to spare just enough for the stew to be filling. In the Knights' chests, more than enough to buy extra should they run out. What they have right now will inevitably leave leftovers to waste. There's a plan there, stirring, tossing and turning.

Unaffected, small but calloused hands keep expertly chopping bell peppers into palatable chunks. They don't necessarily even need to watch their own knifework, so brown eyes begin to wander as nimble fingers roll another bell pepper to themself to hack up.

Ah, wait, there. Did they see that wrong?

"Elffin," they call out, a touch surprised, punctuated by the sound of blade to cutting board. "don't tell me you're here for the soup?"

@moriddyn

left to stew // elffin + chad

soup kitchen ✧ no point

[lycianlynx]

✧ OCTOBER 2024

status: passed

skill points acquired: (1 monthly) total skill points: 34 -> 35 skill point allocation: faith c+ (6) -> faith c+ (7)

threads not yet allocated to mastery: 6

[lycianlynx]

A bright red flash thunders through the gate like sunset over wildfire, like blood on snow, like a glimpse at Hell. Pupils constrict, then dilate in the sudden absence of light that follows, a sudden hollowness following even that— Feet freeze in place, rigid, a startled gaze unseeing.

Until the burn begins. Spreads from the throat, directly into the eyes, the arms, the chest, the heart— Seized with a manic pain that forces itself into the fingers like a high-grade fever, makes them tremble, makes sweat bead on their brow as they double over to claw at their collar, silently choking on— On what?

The smell of blood and dirt and leather and fire and smoke fills their nostrils. Blood on sky blood on meadow blood on violet and lavender and snow. A ragged breath. Their head snaps up for reprieve, only to be met with red again.

Red again, again, again. Blood on lance blood on hands blood on dirt and upturned roots. Phantom jeers fill their ears. Their vision, already blurred, stings red-hot.

"You," comes as a snarl, "all of you," feet push into a run, jerkily, hands pushing off from the ground where they stumble, making the charge almost animal, "I'll kill all of you—!!"

But clumsy all the same, twisted up as they are in blind rage—

TIP: I am so fucking mad

(Chad & Ewan, Anniversary 2024 Faith+)

[lycianlynx]

This place is a far cry from a small but happy home— The halls echo emptily, stretching on forever, taller than a nine year old could hope to climb, but low enough to make him want to try regardless. Despite the cavernous sound, the place swarms with the cries and laughter of other kids his age anyways, but not a noise works its way from out his own throat. Hands clutch at the cloak around his shoulders, fingers tracing the triangles in the embroidery to soothe burgeoning nerves anyways.

Where is home? Not here: His home is small, but happy— Scrappy looks and round face belie a hardworking young boy who does all his chores on time, who picks up after the other kids, 'cause he's the oldest, and he wants to make sure Father doesn't have too hard a time just because of how nice he is.

Father isn't here. There's a lot of kids, but none of them are familiar; No secret handshakes, no shared nursery rhymes, no twins to roughouse and clown around with. Some of the other kids are lost or crying or giving into the earlier impulse to climb things, and the boy doesn't bite back the urge to call or calm or taunt them back down and bring them back to the clergy here— Their robes aren't completely familiar, but he gets the idea, the shape of 'Church people'; The Church has always only been kind, and the mantle of responsibility suits the boy just like this cloak: Perfectly.

Even so, he' still grasping for familiarity, for comfort, for home, barely managing to swallow down panic. What would Father do when he realises he's missing? Father'll be worried sick— Literally sick, completely sick, and it'll be all his fault. What if the other kids also got lost? How did he even get here?

Gnawing on his lip until it bleeds, fidgeting harder with the emboidery so he doesn't start pulling at hangnails, the boy presses himself smaller and smaller, and though he hasn't memorised all the clacky tiles and bad planks here like back home, he walks quickly, quietly, until a closet-door looms before him. The enclosed space is tantalising after all this wide-wide-open but not-really-closed.

It's only after he's desperately cracked the door open and slunk in through the crack that he realises he's not alone. It's also only after he closes the door that he realises the other kid is gonna cry.

Can't be having that. Panic is reflexively quashed, squished into a box of calm. He's the oldest. He can't be scared. He needs to be calm.

"Hey," He sits down into a crouch, squashing himself into his-space without taking away too much of the other-space. Proudly, he notes that his voice doesn't stick or shake. "you okay?"

(standing in front of slightly smaller child) he asked for no pickles

mission board: anniversary any +1 (new

[lycianlynx]

Five candies from trick-or-treating plus the six she had received for the Angels winning. That's eleven candies in total. It's an odd number, one that doesn't split evenly for sharing. Sophia counts six candies and then holds them out to Chad.

"I... have always been prepared... for the possibility that outsiders might try to kill me."

A blunt admission, spoken in the same tone as someone might remark about the weather. Fae was still too young to know when they had left for the first time, but she had known the reason why Arcadia needed to be hidden within the sandstorms and why the Guardians would sometimes return smelling like blood for a very long time.

"If you don't want me to ask why... I won't." They can bury everything that happened tonight forever, if that's what they wish. But I am... not hurt and I had... a lot of fun."

Seven doesn't split evenly, either— But eleven and seven make eighteen, so they accept two of the six she offers, picking a pair of fruit-flavored ones. Now they both have nine.

The admission burns them, the casual tone moreso. It still isn't anything they don't accept as truth. Sophia, for all her crypticness, was honest even in her riddles— Her truths all the more frank for it. It's something they appreciate, even when it scalds and stings like the rim of a hot cauldron beneath their palms.

"No." They say in turn, though it's more of a sigh. "I owe you the truth. I did stab that guy, and he did threaten you to my face. I—" Their hands curl into fists in the fabric of their pants. They grasp for words, for details in the moment, and find none of them really explain what and why—

So, instead, their voice dips low, into a murmur, as does their head, because they don't know how else to explain besides being honest in turn.

"Father was prepared for the fact he might die protecting us. I wasn't. I'll never be." Their hands unclench, open in their lap, palms-up. "Even you— I won't let it—that— happen again. Not if I can help it."

Over their dead body. "Not ever."

A silence, a patience, in case she wants to say anything. Before it can fully lapse, though: "You can ask me whatever you want, and I'll answer. But..."

Brown eyes flick up to her, and their head lifts to follow. "Um, I'm glad you had fun. Really." They flash Sophia the ghost of a smile, tired, but real. "And... Well. Sorry. For, uh."

Their hands clasp together, a nail scratching at the black polish. "... If I made it... Harder, for you to have fun..."

[lycianlynx]

After the fanfare had settled, Hugh had one particular goal in mind. There was still work to be done - that even though the curtains had fallen on the game, there was something that was left unfinished. But man, when he approaches them, his words get caught in his throat. Hugh's not sure if a 'sorry' can amount to the things that he's done. A part of him isn't sure if he has to say it a second time - even if it had mainly been intended for Sophia at the time. So, careful not to spook him (he's sure they heard Hugh from a mile away, anyway), he pats one of their shoulders, before staring somewhere outside the venue. "I'm sure you're ready to ditch this place," He says, "but let's head on back together, alright? You, me, Sophia...I'm sure Elffin would love to tag along too." Don't go alone, is what he pleads with a cautious glance Chad's way - but something they won't openly admit to worrying about himself.

"...plus, you bruised my side." He then huffs, directing his eyes towards the night sky. "Multiple times! How am I going to get back in one piece? I'm already patched up as it is!" A hand points to under his eyes, where some of the patchwork markings resided.

No hissing, no skittering; Hugh's right, Chad could probably even hear him from two miles away if he really tried. It's not solely because of this that he accepts the weight of the mage's hand on his shoulder without complaint. Trust carries the weight of that perk.

Chad's not actually mad, at him, either. It's just easier to pretend to be mad than actually be furious. Between Hugh saying bullshit every other minute and Sophia looking at them all sad and tugging at their tail-ribbon, is it really that much of a surprise they kept a handle on themself?

... Maybe. They're about ready to give this place the slip either way, because anything could happen, any moment now, to make them really lose their shit. Their restraint's eroded enough as is, twice-over. Words pin his tail before he can disappear on his own, though, consign himself to lonely shadow; Despite the fact that every little insanity he'd gotten wrapped up tonight in was in the name of another...

together. Their head bows, dodges Hugh's gaze for just a moment. It passes. At the end of it, a hand reaches, gingerly, for the edge of the other's sleeve, a mirror of first greeting, a tacit agreement—

Before, again, Hugh starts complaining, huffing and puffing and talking bullshit—as he does.

Chad can't help it. He laughs, hard, long, bright and clear. His hand darts up the rest of the way to poke at the painted-on stitches, careful to keep his nails out of the way. Hugh's cheek is warm and squishable. Peak poking material.

"Hahaha! C'mon, I can put some more stitches in it! I'm a cat, I'm great with sharp things like needles—" They proclaim, as their other hand latches onto his sleeve and tugs him along.

"The siren can spin the silk, and the witch can make sure it all stays in place. Let's patch you up, stinky bastard."

In that, another unspoken admittance: sure, together is fine.

[lycianlynx]

“Pssst, Hey, Chad?”

After the trials had ended, Ewan quietly approached them while the rest dispersed.

He then held out his bag of candies to the cat, stuffed to the brim from all his rounds of trick or treating. “Here! Take whatever you like! And let me know which candies are your favorite.” He smiled brightly as he shook the bag a few times, waiting for Chad to grab something. “And, um. Sorry If I seemed forceful or anything back there, ahaha…” Despite the angels victory, he still felt a little guilty over his accusations.

“Oh, also! Since in the end, this was all a game i was wondering.. well..” The redhead mage’s bravery was quickly beginning to run out. Feeling flustered, he looked the other way with cheeks dusted lightly pink. “If.. if you’d like to be friends?”

"Mm?" Head swivels slightly to look, though their ears were already pricked to Ewan's approach— But despite expecting the younger witch to be standing there, they balk a bit regardless, because they don't expect the kid to be offering their pick of his candy.

As sugar-motivated as they can be themself, at times, the fact they're left with seven despite their shoddy attempts at running distraction is more than enough. Slim fingers hesitate to take anything, scanning the boy's face multiple times to be certain; The bag-shaking eventually entices them as the pull one (1) singular small lemon candy out of the batch.

"S'fine. I meant it when I said you were doin' a good job." They assure, slipping the sweet into their own pocket and notably skipping over the inquiry to their own preference. "Game's a game. Long as game stuff's kept inside of it, we're good—"

Then Ewan drops the f-bomb, and Chad freezes, eyes a bit wide. No, no, not fuck, stow the soap, the other f-bomb. Momentarily baffled, their fingers curl loosely, hand rising to cover the bottom half of their face, sorely missing a high collar to hide behind. Their eyes dart away, dart back to Ewan, then back away again.

Them? When, devilry aside, they'd clearly threatened to stab a guy they'd already stabbed? When they'd just overall been pretty damn evasive and unpleasant and in a shit mood all night? When they've been harshing the vibe???

Brown eyes dart back to Ewan again. God damn it, Chad, doubts on the kid's judgement aside, just look at him! He clearly had to muster all the world's power in his scrawny little witch body to ask them that. Just say yes. It can't be that fuckin' hard. Are you too chicken to say yes? You're a cat you fuckin' moron, not some featherbrained coward. Just say yes!

They look around, clearly still freaking it. They look back at Ewan.

"... Me?"

THAT'S NOT A YES!!!

[lycianlynx]

well, that trial sure was something. it could’ve been worse. could’ve been better. too many close calls teetering dangerously on the edge of violence for her liking—but thankfully, self-restraint isn’t yet a lost art in this world of theirs.

...still, if the night drags on much longer, dorothea isn’t so sure that will hold.

she’s tired, that much she knows. the songstress rolls her shoulders back, trying to loosen the tension knotted there, but it doesn’t help much. and around her, the others look equally spent.

speaking of:

“…not so mysterious now that i know you, huh?” she steps closer, smile small—tight at the corners—but real. 

chad looks just as exhausted. the evening's certainly taken a toll on them, from what she's heard, and the trial hadn’t done the poor kid any favors, either. she’d kept her questions to herself then, and still, will not ask. they had afforded her the same semblance of sanity, after all.  "that means i can finally give you a nickname."

dorothea gestures toward their costume, her smile growing wider despite all odds. a flicker of fondness passes through her eyes, brief but unmistakable, as she recalls how they'd extended the earlier offering to her. "…chaddy paws, maybe?"

without waiting for a response, she eases down beside them, shoulder brushing lightly against theirs as she settles in. a quiet breath escapes through her nose, soft and steady. head tilts back, letting her gaze drift upward toward the inky sprawl of sky, where the stars sit scattered like little pinpricks of light. her gaze lingers there for a moment, lost in the quiet vastness, before her attention shifts back to the one at her side.

after a beat, her hand slips into the bag at her side, and carefully, dorothea pulls out the small, brown package she’d been gifted. "anyway,"  voice low but light, "i thought we could share this together." she holds the package between them, tapping it gently with a finger. "you called it a palate cleanser, yeah? this might be as good a time as any to cleanse our palates of everything we’ve had to put up with tonight."

With roles shed, candy redistributed and threats collared and leashed, it's all Chad can do to keep from crumpling on themself into a witch's broth not unlike the shape of another from earlier in the night. Other gazes keep them from that particular fate, and they shelve that for the privacy of their own dorm room. They are not the only one who has suffered slights tonight. They are not the only one itching for solitude.

Still, one decides against it. Though her presence comes with the ever-pressing discomfort of being seen, it cannot be all that bad when they are treated to a sunset in turn, this time clear rather than overcast. Vaguely hoarse from arguing for their honor, they greet Dorothea mostly with a raise of a furred paw in lieu of proper words. Speaking of others who've endured slights...

They have the grace not to pry, as does she. It's appreciated. The nickname's met with less grace, however, their face abruptly heating and screwing up as they hide their face behind said 'chaddy-paws'.

She sits next to him. Though the nickname could need some work (the fuck's he kiddin', he'd rather die than be called that in public), he doesn't flinch away as he usually would— That has to count for something. A beat passes before Chad's eyes vaguely lift through the cage of his fingers, still adorned with that too-big ring, staring blankly at the gravel and dirt of the clearing.

The warmth of her shoulder against theirs is grounding, at least. Gaze lifts properly at a familiar crinkle of paper, and though they think they know what it is, they look anyways.

A chuff. Exhaustion brings other things, too: The near-smile that had threatened to surface earlier crests now, too tired to be hidden or resisted— Brushing the surface in the barest curl of lips, a quirk to the left side more than the right. They gently take the grain-bar, split it neatly in half, and then give the half that looks a literal fraction larger to Dorothea anyways, that half still wrapped in the paper.

They breathe, just as soft, light: "Good riddance to this night."

[lycianlynx]

((last doodling I FOROGT I DREW THIs ((maybe someday I'll draw hugh in non-event attire

[lycianlynx]

"I figured I could read Elffin easier in case any of my candies went missing."

Poor eyesight or not, the bard could also be wickedly clever at times—Roy didn't rely on him as a tactician for nothing—But he was still less of an unknown than the other three. "Not that he's easy. But I'd take two and a half unknowns over three, yeah?"

"Elffin's smart, but smart goes both ways." it woulda been fucked if he were a Devil, they mean to say. "I trust him a bit more than I do you right now, though."

Eyebrows briefly raise, almost cheeky. No, definitely cheeky, once they see Hugh's confidence faltering. Nothing scarier than a teenager on your trail. What that trail is, well.

Heh. As for visiting...

A hand comes up to scratch at their jaw, comes in contact with dried blood and immediately drops down. It instead moves to irritably drum against the back of their other hand. Despite their distraction, it is only distraction, and some wounds are still too tender to prod at, barely beginning to clot. The thought of watchful eyes and strings being pulled threatens to incense them anew. Chad breathes a sigh.

"... The kid, the one with the broom. Ewan, right?" A nod. Kids and their candy, themself not wholly excluded. Like knows like, so maybe they can glean some insights. "I might check in on Dorothea, too. She came matching with Elffin, and they've been putting their heads together a lot— I should have a look. She's bound to know something."

A handful of Tricks, a hand missing Treats

[TOAJuicy - Round 3]

[lycianlynx]

... They want to. They really do. Looking at Sara, they think that maybe they could— Shake off that bony grasp, that dark hound, the mudwater off their pelt and slink into warm comfort. Their eyes follow the floating motes, willing their worries to float away with them; Whatever works.

"... I'm glad," is the second thing they acquiesce. The third: "And I do. The last thing I want to do is ruin her evening." They grimace. If the fact they stabbed Griss over her is enough for that, then they're sorry twofold— A hundredfold for being sloppy about it.

Is three not enough? Three, and it's not even seen past the surface of their anxiety. Motes come back to weigh on their shoulders like dust settling on a grandfather clock. Momentarily, they are a relic, unwound and forgotten, hands pointed only at times long past. Momentarily, they are too old for their skin, their throat, even their calloused hands.

It grates on them. This stranger is trying to drag them out of a self-imposed ditch and they can't even meet her damn eyes. Damn it all.

"I want to." They decide; Let go of the fourth, the wind-up chain in its throat, to let its hour-hand tick again. Still, the pendulum remains untouched, even though its easy for an errant paw to swat. But still, they need just one more thing:

"... Can you promise? Just your word. Or—" Their hand uncurls, lifting slightly, pinky barely outstretched, hesitant in the gesture.

"Um."

moonshadow

[lycianlynx]

They know not how trustworthy this Alice is, but a companion through Underworld is better than time spent alone with their thoughts, lest they snap and decide to put on a hat or a pair of rabbit ears and dance the night away. Curtsy, riposte; A bow of their own, modest in turn.

Modesty aside, they are still capable of guiding. Work as a scout and a spy does help with that. Feet tread lightly, but not sprightly, but mischief's belied by their words rather than their movements:

"I don't know. Maybe we're all Devils here?" A quote, paraphrased and reshaped. "I'm-a-De-vil, you're-a-De-vil." Pit-a-pat-a-pit; Rhythmic enough to pass for singsong.

A three-quarter pause, still walking. "Uh. I'm not accusing you, by the way. Joking. Cheshire shi—"

They stop in their tracks. "Stuff. Stuff." They turn around to look at her, suddenly a touch sheepish. "M'not a Devil either."

we're all mad here

toajuicy round 3 || cont.

[lycianlynx]

Normally dextrous hands fumble for a flustered instant— The sun offers her rays regardless. A ring is far more enduring, more permanent than any kind of snack will ever be, and the shine of it in the low light betrays its quality. What the hell?! They don't deserve this just for giving her—

"Ah, I-It's nothing,"

—a single bar of grains...

... Ah.

Right. It's food. Cold metal doesn't fill the stomach. The sun does nothing for you if your crops have already failed for the season. To Father, their little garden of roots was worth more than all the gold in the world. A simple pleasure, a simple need, a simple happiness, to share.

Simple but precious in a war-torn countryside...

Hrk. If she weren't a classmate... For all they could tell she wasn't in the best of moods, maybe they wouldn't have been able to tell in this instant if she was a stupid noble or someone who understands. Knowing what they do, they think they know it's the latter.

This is why they approached, after all. Every now and then, masks need a pick-me-up to keep from slipping.

Chad's head ducks, eyes averting; Another slow-blink gesture. Silently, they accept, slip the ring onto their own finger, slim and bony— It's a bit loose, so they slip the ring onto their thumb instead so it's secure.

"... Sounds good to me," they whisper back, gently, kindly. "thank you, too."

Maybe they'll put it on a necklace for next time.

... She looks rough.

There's a selfish comfort in the observation; That they're not the only person this entire business is grating to a husk. Her reasons might (and hopefully) differ, and she's clearly trying to hide it, but a thief's eyes pin down details as well as an artist's do, and a cat sees clear even in low light.

The sun has sunk low, indeed. This cat has no intentions to selfishly bask in what is left. A bar of honey, fruit and grains is fished from their pocket— Notably not one of the sweets on offer this night, brought out from their personal stash, guarded jealously from any would-be devils in the night.

They don't ask any questions. Nothing quests closer to her than the paw with the grain bar, wrapped in rumpled brown paper and tied with unrefined string. A slow blink, testing the waters.

"Here." you look like you need it. "Palate cleanser."

“...oh, thank you.���

until now, dorothea hadn’t had the chance to talk to this person. she'd only seen them prowling about stealthily in the distance, as befits their costume—something she might have commented on if she were in a better mood.

something along the lines of how adorable it is.

“that’s very thoughtful of you.”

though she isn't quite sure what the reasoning behind the gift is, she will, somewhat awkwardly, accept it from the stranger. her fingers wrap around the small package, gaze flitting curiously from it to the feline before her.

a treat instead of a trick. it’s only fair to offer something in return, isn’t it?

but what?

the songstress glances down at her wrist first, now one bracelet lighter. there are no pockets in the gown she wears, unfortunately, leaving her without hidden trinkets or stashed snacks to offer in exchange. but—

her eyes return to the remaining jewelry, all ornaments with no real sentimental value, and simply part of a costume that she has grown weary of wearing tonight.

perhaps she's willing to part with one more thing.

slowly and deliberately, dorothea slips a ring off her finger—a simple, solid golden band adorned with the rays of the rising sun. she extends her hand, holding it out with an inviting gesture.

then, mustering the smallest of smiles, she speaks.

“a trade for a trade. how’s that sound?”

[lycianlynx]

Another she hasn’t seen amongst the crowd of trick-or-treaters—and nearly continues not to see, what with the way they pass through the corner of her vision. (Perhaps that was the point, Selena thinks, given they also don an outfit colored to blend into the shadows.)

Well, at this point, she’s already seen him. Why not extend an invitation as well?

“Hello,” she begins, in part to announce herself—just in case they weren’t expected to be noticed. (Also, in part, to gauge an initial response, though she can’t imagine it could be that poor.) “I’m Selena, a professor at the Academy.”

Next step: tilting her head towards some of the houses on the horizon, she continues, “Would you like to go trick-or-treating with me?”

Cat or spectre, it's difficult to tell in the shadows of the night, where black fur muddies with the darkness into obscurity. Brown eyes peer out from them to watch rather than be seen, only choosing to step out on their own terms.

In short, they hadn't meant for themself to be seen. Keen green finds them regardless.

It's all he can do to not bristle at the realisation, at her voice calling out to him— They miss, entirely, that that was her attempt at softening the discovery.

Professor, they hear instead, the night already having left its marks, and shy away from her invitation; Pulling their hood closer so she won't see the pinpicks of dried blood on the inside, suddenly paranoid beyond reason.

Old panic bubbles up. Old habits, too: A Professor? An eye, a hand, a limb, dancing along candyfloss like a spider in wait, entangled stickily in this cursed night. A master of witchcraft not known to them, another monster beneath the bed. Too-worldly to not have ulterior intentions.

They don't know her—She's watching. They can't trust her. Something'll happen again and she'll do fuckall about it—They can't trust her.

Quiver-eyed, Chad shakes their head and disappears back into the night.

[lycianlynx]

A whirlwind of blonde hair approaches the cat-dressed person, fluffing blue skirts as Alice skips towards them.

"Oh, tell me, cat, which way shall I go?" she asks, and then gives a tittering little giggle, as if telling a joke only to herself. Head tilts, and she paces around Chad, as if attempting to ascertain some unknowable truth.

"I'm just kidding, of course! But I would like to request your company. They say black cats are bad luck, but I find them quite lucky on nights like this!"

Though the joke's presented just to herself, a second of observation's all this cat needs to catch on; The blue dress, the striped socks, the headband and darling manner, a story they'd seen—somewhere. Where was it again?

It hardly matters. All too willing to go from familiar to baffling guide for but an insant, the boy bares his fangs in cheschire imitation.

"Depends on where you wanna get to—" they answer back, turning lazily upon their axis to keep her gaze— "In Underland, you're bound to get somewhere."

Paws stop padding as they tilt their head in turn, considering, dropping their crooked attempt at a grin. "Bold to ask anyways. I won't say no, yeah?"

The glimmering hint of a smile sparks in their eyes. "Nice costume, by the way. I like it."

[lycianlynx]

Through the brief amusement, it takes a second for the implication to sink in; Suddenly remembering they're actually stressed as all hell and still looking for any distraction, they take a step back and pinch the bridge of their nose, breath whistling quetly between teeth.

"... How would I?" They eye Hugh, a mite disapprovingly. Despite everything, the witch and her familiar barely had a chance to talk, much less say anything worth sleuthing about. Sophia came here to have fun. Even if Chad did know, maybe they'd go so far as to not dare spoil the game for her. Maybe. Just if.

... Even that aside, they're all too willing to keep it quiet, too, for other, more dire reasons. "I..." barely saw her, and when i did, she had blood all over her arm. "...Still think you're nuts for this one. My lips are sealed."

At least until they can be sure nothing can happen between now and the end of the game. Chances are, they never will be. (A 'mess'. A fucking 'mess'.) Still, with the release of the third figure, they too concede a little truth.

"I talked to the reaper, yeah, but I didn't actually submit him. My lineup was the assassin, the priest and the siren. Y'know. Elffin."

They tilt their head the other way. "Getup aside, I'd rather trust him than some other guy with a scythe flouncing up to me."

As for the other two, well—

Something about familiar facades, maybe.

A handful of Tricks, a hand missing Treats

[TOAJuicy - Round 3]