Phillips Harbour
Wednesday, October 28. Morning.
After a good night's sleep, and a mouthwatering breakfast prepared by Caliban, man and ape are once again ready to face the world. Or at least, their current world. Facing the one on the other side of the Portal is still an uncertain proposition, but three days remain before they need to do that.
Marseilles isn't around when they awaken. The ghost had said the night before she didn't need to sleep; perhaps she went wandering as a fox again. A fox dressed in black lace. She's not as inconspicuous as she used to be.
First on their agenda for the day was to see Miss Pau and find out what she'd learned, as well as share their findings with her.
But before they do that, Herbert checks the results on the latest Portal calculations. This one included Girard, Waite, Everchild, St. John, Hale, Shaft, and Townes. It only takes Herbert a moment to match the coordinates produced by the Engine to their location on a map of Phillips Harbour.
This time, there's no mystery about what might be at the location. Mr. Shaft and Caliban are quite familiar with it.
It's the top of the Hill.
The monkey looks under Herbert's arm at the results. His face falls. Boss...
"Well.. I can't say I'm surprised by the location," Herbert notes to Caliban.
I think we got it this time, the monkey observes gloomily.
And St. John is still 'in the game'. That's going to be fun.
After setting the Engine to 'idle', Herbert gets his hat and coat. "But how will she react to the Overlord spirits, that is the question," he notes. "Let us see what Miss Pau has for us."
Oh right! Right. Think she's discovered spirit food yet? asks Caliban as he puts on a jacket over his 'comfy shirt'. A recharged spirit stunner goes in the inside jacket pocket.
They find Miss Pau 'convalescing' in Mrs. Stephenson's home. Mrs. Stephenson herself is at work in the fields, leaving Miss Pau unsupervised. From Mrs. Stephenson's perspective, the world may be ending in three days, but all she knows is that the harvest still needs to be brought in.
Miss Pau lets the chimp and Englishman into the house, and in a complete breach of all normal propriety, into the tiny room she sleeps in. "I have not much new for you, I fear. I have been thinking about how the spirits of the Other bind with things of Earth. I think it significant somehow. Must it be that there is something in the material things of our world that fills, however imperfectly, this need that spirits have for sustenance? But I have had no luck in isolating what that would be."
The chimpanzee doffs his fez to Miss Pau and smiles at her. 'Morning, Miss, he says. So, you think it's kinda like eatin' all meat an' no fruits gives ya scurvy?
"Considering that they don't even need to bind to living things, I can see the problem," Shaft says quietly. He doesn't want Mrs. Stephenson to find them if possible. "And it looks like the Hill is also the Portal location. I'm not certain if that is a blessing or not."
On the floor of her room is a wide, shallow wooden tray filled with loose grains of unground wheat. They've been combed into odd patterns, and scattered among them are oddments: a chunk of green glass, a small yellowed bone, a few tiles with Chinese characters on them, like the one Caliban and Islington found at the beginning of the month. Pau isn't paying attention to it now: she's looking at Mr. Shaft. She nods slowly. "Yes, that would make sense. If you mean to Open -- one way or another -- Mr. Shaft, it can only be good for us. As dangerous as Miss St. John and her Companion may be, they will support us for that much at least."
"But will they throw in with the Overlords or not?" Herbert asks. "Spirits can bind to the Hill. Is there any way we can use that to our advantage? Right now, we can only protect a small object and a closet-sized space from them."
Boss, those look familiar, the chimpanzee observes to his master. Remember the one we found?
Herbert glances to the tiles, and nods to Caliban.
Pau gives a helpless shrug. "What they will do after the Opening, I do not know. Miss St. John would not fight to protect humans, but the Overlords will enslave her beloved animals as well. When she realizes that, perhaps she will reconsider her position. As for Alorn -- his motives I cannot guess at." She follows Caliban's gaze to the tiles, and colors. "Oh. Yes, that one was mine too. This is a divining tool."
"I do not understand the binding process of life to the inanimate," Pau adds. "Once, I thought that spirits grew with the rocks and rivers, that they had always been inside them. But if they all came from the Other world, that cannot be. Yet I have never seen a spirit enter into an existing thing, only to newborn life. When is the birth of a hill? Or a spring?"
"That brings us back to protection," Herbert says, gesturing to the divination tray. "According to Marseilles, if the spirits can reach any part of our heads they could conceivably take control of us. And they are not limited to 'line of sight' perception in that regard."
The chimpanzee grins wryly, curiousity satisfied. Never figured out what happened to it, but Trouble took it is my best guess. He considers the tray to see if anything springs to mind, contemplating the patterns and oddments.
The chunk of green glass is rather pretty. Catches the light from the sun coming in through the east window nicely.
Pretty glass, the monkey observes. I like the green shadows it makes on the wheat.
"There are legends that the Opening would bring great power to those who Open." Pau look glum at Mr. Shaft's comment on anticipated abilities of the Overlords. She sits on the floor beside the tray, scooping up a handful of wheat and letting it trickle through her fingers. "I never gave such things credence; my motives in Opening are not lust for power. Nor are Mr. Waite's, nor even Miss St. John's. I find myself wistful to know if these are true now; great power would be useful in defending against these beings."
Isn't that just a way to say 'We're the Overlords, we'll give you nice things if you help us?' asks Caliban.
"How could the Overlords have contacted anyone to make that offer though?" Herbert questions. "And we will have 'great power' available to us from Opening, we just need to know how to channel it. Which Artifacts can help us best."
Pau nods. "I think as much. Wishful thinking. Not many will seek change if they cannot see a benefit in it fo themselves? But Mr. Shaft is right -- these legends must come from some where. Unless there is some way that the Overlords can send information through the barrier between worlds, even if they cannot send themselves."
"Power can mean many things," Herbert notes. "From personal experience, I suspect that consuming other spirits to gain power is not limited to spirits themselves. We mortals can also gain strength from spirit energy."
The chimpanzee scratches behind an ear. This is deep thinking.
"... Yes." Pau shifts the position of one of the tiles, turning it over. "Most of us have spirit energy."
She changes the subject back to an earlier one. "How do you mean to use Artifacts to fight the Overlords?"
"Marseilles was able to tap into the energy flow by touching the exposed orichalcum wires. It may be that anyone could do the same," Shaft says. "My Amplifier device was originally meant to draw on the energy of the banefire and the Portal itself and transfer that to a Closing artifact. It can be used with any Artifact, however, and possibly multiple ones at the same time."
Miss Pau hasn't heard about what happened to Marseilles yet. Once she's brought up to speed, she gives a little shiver. "I do not think I would wish to try such a thing, myself. Do you think you could trap an Overlord? The unicorn said this haunted house was an amalgam of lesser spirits, not a greater one, so I should not think it as strong."
"We don't know that the Overlords are really any different, but we've only got the Amplifier and Stunner to work with as weapons," Shaft says. "And I agree that drawing on the power ourselves would be.. disturbing.. but must consider all of the possibilities. To defeat the Overlords, we have to accept sacrifices. The Unicorn and hopefully some of the other Great Spirits left on this world will fight with us."
"Of course, you are right. I did not enter this Game thinking it would be safe," she chides herself. "The other Great Spirits are those bound in the Artifacts, no? Have you an Artifact, yourself? I should like to speak with one of these."
If we could get the staff back from Trouble, it might have some useful answers, Caliban suggests. It belonged to Oldman, didn't it? It seemed like he knew an awful lot about the game.
"I have the Lens of Archimedes, although.. I do not know if it is a Game Artifact itself," Shaft admits.
"Ah, the Staff! Perhaps Trouble will allow me to see it. I have tried to commune with the Cup, but have not learnt much. There is a force within it, but so old and alien I cannot understand it," Pau admits. "It sleeps much, though it grows restless now, as the Opening nears."
"I suppose that the Black Stone could contain a spirit as well, due to its unusual properties," Herbert offers. "It may not be a spirit of this world or the Other though, but something even more alien."
The chimpanzee paces around. Heard anything from Mr. Waite, Miss?
"No, Caliban. He has not been by, nor has Trouble. The Black Stone, Mr. Shaft?" Pau dusts wheat grains off her hands, then fetches her boots and starts to lace them on. "May we go to see the Lens?"
Shaft rises up and nods. "If you wish," he says. "I hope you have some sort of protective spells we can make use of, also."
I gotta admit, Miss, Mr. Waite creeps me out, Caliban admits. I dun really have a good sense of who he's like, but he seems kinda... Smarter-than-thou. I don't know whose side he's gonna be on.
"He is on the Opener's side," Pau says. "I cannot imagine anything changing that; he is very convinced, albeit from an unusual perspective. He is an Opener because he is certain -- more certain than I have ever been about anything -- that mankind will destroy itself. The only thing that might avert this is an Opening, which he says may also destroy mankind. But the Opening has a chance of uniting Man against the Masters, and that union may be enough to overcome them. If it is, then the remnants of humanity will not forget the lesson that they must remain united. We will not again squabble amongst ourselves and invite destruction, as we would if the Portal Closes," Pau explains. "That is his vision. It is a very bleak one, but he has no doubts and ... I confess, he is a better diviner than any I have known before. He may be right."
So... He's not gonna cotton to St. John so much, 'cause she'd like to see mankind wiped away, an' he's not gonna go over to the Overlords, either? The ape nods. Guess fortune makes for strange allies.
"He is right in that we have little choice but to fight the Masters," Shaft admits. "Let's return to the boathouse, so Miss Pau can try the Lens. We've been using it to make the Amplifier, so it should be more 'awake' perhaps than a Game artifact."
"He is pragmatic enough to take what allies he can, I think," Pau agrees. "Let us go."
At the boathouse, Mr. Shaft removes the Lens of Archimedes from the Analytical Engine and offers it to the Chinese witch. She turns it over in gloved hands, studying it with a frown. She sets it on the table, fingers held not-quite-touching it, and sits with her eyes closed. To Mr. Shaft, she appears silent, but Caliban can sense her calling out to the Lens, asking for it to answer her.
After a few minutes, she shakes her head. "Mr. Shaft, I do not believe this is an Artifact. Not as the Game Artifacts are. There is no spirit within it. Yet there is ... something about it."
The chimpanzee looks bemused. So it's not all just mortal, non-magical stuff an' spirits? There's other stuff?
Herbert chews on his moustache. "It is like the Black Stone then, perhaps," he says. "A unique mineral. Light passing through it can alter the material it shines upon, depending on the source of the light."
"No, it's not quite that," she says to Caliban. "It's like ... spirits interact with matter. When I do magic, like with the tiles or that tray of wheat grains, I am using those objects as a way of ... shaping the power of spirits towards the ends I desire. Or shaping the power of my own spirit. Some objects have an affinity for spirits, and it is easier to use objects like those in magic rituals. This Lens has one such affinity. It would be a potent tool in the right spell. Such as those worked by your Engine; perhaps that is why it is so useful to you," she explains.
The chimpanzee looks only slightly enlightened.
"The lens of the Amplifier is modeled after the original Lens," Shaft admits, nodding. "I have pieces of the Black Stone as well, but it probably would be a mistake to try and commune with those." he notes.
So, what would happen if a spirit passed through the Lens? wonders Caliban. Or what if you shone light, maybe a special kind of light, through the Lens onto a spirit?
"The Amplifier lens.. strips away a spirit's identity, I think," Herbert says. "Purifies the spirit energy. The true Lens may have an effect on spirits if dark-light was shone through it."
Miss Pau takes her hands away from the glass. "These seem like good weapons to use against the Overlords. I would not wish to do these things to a spirit I liked." She wipes her hands together, and goes to look at the spirit trap.
"The trap is damaged," Shaft says, showing the cracked crystals and the fused leads. "These wires are where Marseilles was able to tap into the flow of the spirit from the trap to the Engine's battery. I've never touched them during a transfer myself, and the level of energy in this case was far higher than normal."
That was when we were tryin' to trap the House. Kinda-sorta did it, but it was too much for the trap, Caliban explains.
The chimpanzee thinks back to that time. His face clouds up a bit, but he says nothing, just busies himself cleaning up around the boathouse.
Pau inspects it anyway, like a woman trying to piece together a puzzle. "Mr. Shaft, your 'spirit batteries' -- do they degrade over time?"
"Physically? Not in the time they've been operational," the Englishman explains. "As the energy is used up, the necroplasm that holds it becomes inert, but can usually be recharged."
"So they are filled with this 'necroplasm', and then you capture spirits and process them to infuse them into the battery?" Miss Pau sounds both fascinated and repulsed. "It seems so ... grotesque."
"It is," Herbert admits. "Energy is also stored when the necroplasm is created. It is a binding medium, and it seems that any part of a spirit can be used to access the whole of one. Only a small amount of the necroplasm from the batteries was enough to let Marseilles absorb the entire spirit of the donor."
Pau frowns in thought. "It sounds akin to the normal binding between spirit and matter. Perhaps this processed spirit is 'eaten' by the remains of the one in the battery, the way the Hill ate other spirits?"
"It.. is possible," Herbert notes, tapping the Spirit Trap. "Unlike the Amplifier, there is no 'filter' to strip away the identity. In fact, the Engine relies upon there being a consciousness to the energy."
"Oh, necroplasm can also partially reanimate dead tissue," he adds in, in a low voice. It's one of the creepier aspects of the substance, and he often prefers not to think about it.
Pau restrains a shiver. She stands from her crouch, dusting off her hands again. "The engine uses the consciousness of the spirit to give it the capacity for thought?"
Miss Albason... I miss her, the chimpanzee admits from where he's tidying up things into crates. But she said she had a long life, an' it was Marseilles's turn. He pauses, holding a bright bronze thingamajig. Not that Marseilles's exactly alive or anything, but the way spirits see it, I guess it's life to them, huh?
"After a fashion," Shaft notes. "We were not able to get it fully functional, due to the loss of our survey balloon, but the concept is to use the mind of a local person to help in the calculations, along with a photographic map of the area. The mind provides the context, you see, which speeds up the calculations significantly. Our have taken much longer than they would have otherwise."
Pau gives an uneasy nod, wrapping her arms over her shoulders. "It is well that Mrs. Albason went peacefully. Perhaps some are ready to be purified. It would be a kind of rest, a chance for rebirth without the detritus of the past weighing upon the soul."
After a little more conversation, Mr. Shaft reminds Miss Pau about the need for protections. "Oh, yes. There are certain spells I mean to work on the night of the 31st, which will call upon the power of spirits across the countryside to safeguard us. These -- well, they are still worth doing, perhaps. If these Overlords are all that they are said to be, I do not know how much use my magic will be against them. My magic all calls upon the power of Earth's spirits, and they are all so weak by comparison."
As she's speaking, there's a knock at the boathouse door.
"Will it protect our minds?" Shaft asks as he goes to see who is at the door.
The chimpanzee peeks through the window to see if he needs to hide the appararti quickly.
Miss Townes! Caliban nods to his boss to indicate it's all right, they don't need to throw a tarp over the Engine.
"To a degree, yes," Pau says.
Herbert lets in the doctor with a smile, "Welcome back, Miss Townes," he greets.
Bernice peeks around the door, her neat braid dangling past. "Good morning, gentlemen, Miss Pau," she says, returning the smile. "What news?"
Oh, namuch, drawin' mostly questions an' not enough answers, the chimpanzee admits with an unhappy look. We did come up with where we think the Banefire's gonna be, but you're not gonna like it, Doc.
Miss Pau is standing beside the Analytical Engine. She offers a smile and a bow in greeting. "We were just discussing aspects of spirits. You have learned much of interest about them in the last day or so, I understand. I did not know so much about this process of them 'eating' each other. Or how Mr. Shaft's devices work." She sounds a little distasteful at the lst.
"The Hill is the most likely location for the Portal," Shaft notes.
Bernice closes her eyes, and sighs in resignation. "I might have known," she says ruefully. "It's been our fortune so far. Still, better to know than not to know." She nods at the other woman. "We've learned a considerable amount... precious little with only a few days left, however. That's why I'm hoping to contact another ally quickly."
"Were you and Islington able to find a way to contact Girard?" Shaft asks.
Islington pipes up from Bernice's arms, Yeah, she opted for the risk-her-own-neck method. You got a crystal we can borrow? He hops down and prowls through the boathouse, looking at Shaft's equipment.
"What sort of crystal, and what is the risk?" Herbert asks.
You want crystals, we got crystals, the chimpanzee says cheerfully as he goes to some recently repacked crates and starts undoing his work. Quartz, pyrite, Black Stone, what?
Incapacitation, possible death, Islington says absently. A big one. Oh, this'll do, he says, pointing to the Lens of Archimedes.
What? Death? You didn't say anything about dying to me. Slate sticks her head in through the open door.
Death isn't very likely, Islington says, in a not very reassuring way.
Ooh, the good one, Caliban says. Can I lend a hand with it, or does the Doc have to do it herself? he asks of Islington.
"The chance of regaining one ally could deprive of us another?" Shaft asks, looking at Bernice with concern. "You're certain that he cannot be contacted by mundane means?"
She has to do most of it herself, but you can help get the stuff together. We can do it here if you can clear a space on the floor for a pentacle, Islington tells Caliban.
Bernice hastens to explain, "If I'm attacked or something, I could lose my way, but otherwise this should be fairly straight forward. Given how little time is left, I'm not sure we have any other options." She brushes up against Slate with her shoulder, trying to be more reassuring than the cat in her arms.
Slate whuffles unhappily. I didn't like this guy that much.
The chimpanzee nods. Okay, someone needs to keep an eye out if the constables come calling, he suggests to his master, then starts clearing a space, preferably one out of direct eyeshot of the door.
"Hopefully the man has only gone as far as Boston," Herbert mutters, and takes up a position near the door, where he can peek outside. Despite the claimed risks, he's curious to see actual magic at work - and how the Lens might help or hinder it.
Bernice touches her forehead to Slate's side. "It's not a matter of whether we like him, dear," she says, though she leaves out the fact that she rather did like him. "He's a magician, and we've got precious little help of his sort right now."
"Perhaps Slate should come all the way inside," Herbert suggests. "If there's a possibility of getting lost, then surely a Companion is the best sort of beacon."
Chalk good enough for the pentacle, or we need something fancy? asks Caliban of Islington.
Slate comes all the way inside, despite the lack of room for her. One leg dimples the side of a crate with her weight. It's not so much the 'lost' you have to worry about as the cord breaking, Islington explains helpfully. As long as she's got the cord she can't get too lost.
Something fancy. You've got thyme, right? Islington asks Caliban.
Herbert closes the door. Despite the crowding, it's still safer than people wondering why a horse is sticking its head into a boathouse.
In the kitchen, I'll nip off and get it, Caliban assures the cat.
Islington directs Bernice in constructing the ritual, which involves several typically arcane things: a five-pointed star in a circle, large enough for her to lie down in. It's drawn in a mixture of Bernice's blood and various herbs. /Candles go at each point of the star -- mismatched. /Doesn't matter as long as it burns,/ Islington says. Old Henry laid on Bernice's chest, her arms folded over it. /For protection./ The Lens placed at her feet. /It's a focus, will help her find her way to Mr. Girard./
Slate stands by Bernice's head, her own neck bent to whuffle at her mistress's face. You sure about this?
Islington says, Now's the first tricky part. You close your eyes and focus on the crystal lens. You want it to pull you away from your body. Once you're out -- you'll know that immediately -- then you need to focus on Mr. Girard. And nothing else. Don't get distracted. If something attacks you, then you'll have to defend yourself, but don't stop thinking, even for a moment, about why you're there and what you're doing. Which is getting the message to Girard. Got it?
While Islington is explaining things, the chimpanzee moves some crates to form a screen, so it won't be immediately obvious what they are doing even if someone were to peek in the door. G'luck, Doc, he says. We got yer back.
The doctor can't quite disguise the worry on her face when she looks up at her friend, but she smiles as reassuringly as she can. "I'm in good hands, dear. I'll be back as quick as I can." She listens closely to Islington, and nods as best she can in a lying position. "Focus on Girard and the message, no matter what. Defending myself... will it be like.. er, like defending myself in the real world?"
Probably not, Islington says unhelpfully. Pretend that it is, though. That'll help. Ready?
Bernice bites her lip. "Right. Ready."
Slate noses Bernice's forehead, warm breath blowing through the woman's hair. Great, Islington says. Light the candles, Caliban. Good luck, Bernice. Try not to die or become irretrievably lost! The Persian cat seems to have developed a warped sense of humor.
The chimpanzee uses a phosphorus match to light the candles.
Bernice closes her eyes, the scent of phosphorus acrid to her nose. Her mind goes to the lens at her feet -- and she's gone.
"Girard, Girard, Girard." Townes focuses with every fiber she can muster, picturing the man in her mind, his dark hair, his handsome face, his trim physique, his accent and his manner, the sincerity with which he spoke to her, the care he showed for Horus.
She drifts, naked, in a haze at once colorless and vividly green. In her arms is a heavy cold weight, familiar and reassuring in the unfamilar place. From her navel sprouts a green vine, that spirals to root in the ground below.
Bernice tries to ignore what must be her astral tether rooting itself, and clings only reflexively to the weight in her arms, simply muttering Girard's name over and over to herself. Somehow, the green of her surroundings and the vine are a little reassuring, and she tries to let go of some of her self-consciousness and worry to keep her mind honed in. She clasps the weight in her arms and imagines it to be the frenchman's smooth hands, and her eyes search, as if trying to pick him out from a crowd. "Girard, where are you...?"
As she focuses on Girard, the vine grows longer, and she flies away from the place where her roots are, through the colorless green void. No, not a void; there are other things here with her. They catch at her attention like sparkling lights and snatches of music. Some are melancholy and deep, some beckoning like laughter. Even if she finds Girard, how will she know him? She would not have recognized herself, not as some ground she's rooted in. And she wouldn't want him to see her like this.
Bernice's ethereal cheeks would color if they could. No, stay focused! If she hasn't shied away from witchcraft, she mustn't lose her head now just to the notion of being naked... it's not as though it's really her body as it is. She tries to remain confident in the notion she'll know Girard when she comes to him, concluding that she'll move toward him as long as she focuses on him, on those intense eyes and dexterous hands, on the flow of his writing, even on the worrisome, bawdy things he wrote about other women.
She floats on, the vine unraveling behind her, the only sign of her rapid speed the rate at which it grows. She feels a chill in the green. A strange darkness looms ahead of her, between her and her goal. It senses her, moves to intercept.
The ethereal woman clutches her token of defense, and tries to section the part of her mind holding Girard so that she can will herself to move around the cloud in her path... not that she's sure exactly how to move other than by being drawn to the object of her focus.
The darkness is too swift, and Bernice too unsure; it engulfs her. She feels the touch of hands on her shoulders: gentle yet strong, masculine fingers. The sense of a face close to hers. The blackness is a cloak swirling from its -- his? -- shoulders. A voice whispers to her, soft, welcoming. Shhhh. Stay with me. Think of me.
Bernice's heart almost leaps, but at the cloud's advice, she continues to focus her thoughts on the man she is seeking out. If this is where she's meant to be, she reasons, then she won't be pulled away.
Her thoughts propel her forward, into the man's embrace. The dark figure cradles her to his chest -- but her desire to see Girard is not sated. She tries to drift on, through the darkness, past it. A dark head bends next to her ear, whispering again, Shhhhhh. You're here, I have you. Think on me, stay with me. Fingers run down her back, like the touch she imagines in her mind.
The wispy young woman trembles a little, those fingertips trailing along touching on more than just the arch of her back, but on a longing she tries to push aside. No, she's still being drawn by her thoughts... this isn't right. Bernice squirms, focusing harder as if the pull of her thoughts should plunk her from the cloud's grasp. Fingers curl around the token she's brought along, which she imagines to be the cold steel barrel of Old Henry.
Her squirming isn't enough to free her, but the token in her arms solidifies in her grip, feeling like Old Henry. Her left hand wraps over the steel barrel, right finger rests over the trigger, her thumb at the hammer, in the familiar grip of long practice. It's entirely unlike the unfamiliar sensations from the stranger holding her, beseeching her. Don't, he whispers, lips against her ear, long dark hair like silk against the skin of her neck. Don't let yourself be tricked. This is where you want to be. You know that, don't you? A hand touches her stomach, near the vine that grows from her navel.
Bernice's breath catches and flutters, the caress of silky locks by her throat and whispering lips at her ear giving her pause, unfamiliar sensations, ones that she's never dared allow herself to consider in her reclusiveness... but when a hand strays toward her umbilical, an icy shock of fear stabs through her, and abruptly she lashes out with the butt of Old Henry, trying to throw the murmuring shade off so she can point the barrel and let the hammer fall. "You're not Girard..." she thinks. "I'm being drawn to him... he wouldn't tell me this... not with what's at stake."
The shade grunts at the impact of the rifle butt, shifting back a foot. An angry growl follows. You'll stay! he threatens, and his hand grabs for the vine.
A gasp, and Bernice tries to slip forward so that the cord remains slack. Even as she does so, she's pulling her rifle token to her shoulder and instinctively using it the only way she knows how. She aims and pulls the trigger.
As she pulls the trigger on the rifle, in the green beyond the dark figure's shoulder, Bernice sees the spreading wings of a falcon, sprouting from the shoulders of a nude man. The BANG of the rifle is resounding in her ears, louder still than in the real world. The dark figure reels backwards and away from her, smoke boiling from half its now-shapeless head. The fingers on her vine yank backwards, blossoming pain all through her abdomen.
The newcomer holds a silver knife in one hand, and at the BANG of the rifle, he sees Bernice. He dives towards her assailant, slashing.
The doctor lets out a hoarse choke of pain, feeling like the essence of her being is going to be ripped out through her belly. Her legs kick helplessly at the aether, Bernice trying to will herself forward to take the strain off her precious tether. At the sight of the new arrival, she skips a beat in astonishment, then levers the ghost of Old Henry to chamber another round of... whatever it is it fired. "Remember what Islington said," she reminds herself. "Defend yourself, but keep thinking of Girard."
The falcon-winged man arrives as Bernice's next shot slams into the body of the dark thing. Her forward momentum took the strain from her cord for a moment, but when the assailant staggers back again there's another searing blaze of pain. Pain fills her mind, blotting out her vision, making it almost impossible to think.
Bernice's cry is a strangled whimper, and it's too much to try aiming and firing again. She simply struggles forward now, grasping blindly to grapple, anything to keep her soul from being yanked out by the roots, or so it feels like.
For a moment that feels like eternity, it seems futire -- then suddenly, the pain eases. It takes a while for her to regain her senses; the first thing she feels is a touch on her shoulder. Then a voice: "Miss Townes? Mon dieu, Miss Townes, speak to me!"
When she can see again, she sees the familiar face of Phillipe Girard, with Horus's wings at his back and unsettlingly nude. He doesn't seem aware or concerned by this fact. One of his hands is at her vine, prying the last black finger away from it. Black smoke trails from his knife, and a darkness roils away from them, a severed arm the last thing extended in their direction.
"G-.. Girard... thank goodness," whispers Bernice. A certain part of her wants to embrace him, but now that she's finally found the object of her focus, her self-consciousness comes flooding back, and she nearly curls into a ball in the aether, threatening to tangle herself in her own tether. Instead, she puts a hand to the one on her shoulder, and recovers enough to speak more loudly. "Thank goodness it's you, muh.. Monsieur Girard." She squeezes his hand almost fiercely. "I knew I'd find you."
"Mon dieu." He pulls the severed hand off and tosses it into the aether, then meets her eyes. "What are you doing here? Do you know how dangerous this is, mademoiselle?" He shifts his grip on the knife, looking around them. Then he does embrace her, with one arm and both wings curling protectively over her.
Rowan2 says, "Well, Bernice might want to linger, but it's not a good idea. >:)"
Bernice's back stiffens, and she goes rigid in Girard's arms, but under the blanket of soft feathers and the relief of having found her way she relaxes, if just a little. "Yes, I know... I had to come, however. We've learned much more about the Game since you had gone. There is much more at stake than any of us realized, and now we all, Closers and Openers alike, are working toward a goal of both saving the spirits in this world, and beating back a threat from the next. I implore you to return, to help us as only a magician can. I can explain more when I see you again."
Girard looks into her eyes, a thousand questions in his own. "If it was worth risking your life to make this request -- then I shall return to the Game, Mlle. Townes. Take these." He draws back, but the feel of his wings remain, and she realizes that the falcon's wings sprout from her own shoulders now. "This is no place to tarry. Go swiftly, mademoiselle, and I will join you as soon as I may."
A look of relief and gratitude washes across Bernice's face, mixed with a little startlement when lent falcon's wings spread away from her back. A few experimental wingbeats bouy her, and she can't help a giddy little smile. "Thank you, Girard," is all she can think to say, and already hugged close to the man, she impulsively presses close to daub a kiss to his cheek, propriety be damned. Then, with cheeks burning, Bernice all but leaves feathers in her wake, borrowed wings quickly carrying her back down her own tether.