An Indifference of Larks: A GliTch Quest

[X] [Conversation] Gacha Games As An Investigation Into The Ethical Philosophy of Villainy: A Lecture (Reccilda, Sallarchos, a Cultist Whose Name You Should Maybe Know)
[X] [Conversation] The Doom Of All Things And You (Claire, a Cultist You Don't Recognize)
[X] [Chancery] A Visitor 🔥

---

Article:

"Let them call me a monster. Let my name be cast in darkness for all time. I don't care.

All I have ever known is that this world means nothing to me without Flavia. That any world which would let her die is not a world that deserves to live.

This world is worthless, yet I shall give it worth. This world is broken, yet I shall make it whole.

The malignity of this wretched world shall be cut and cauterized - by the villain."

- Empress Kriemhild
Verderben Prinzessin IV​

---

You eye your plate warily, uncomfortably aware of how the bickering going on in the realms of spirit eerily echoes the nonsensical argument happening around you in the Prosaic world.

Some cultist brought chicken lo mein, and you accidentally took some before realizing it wasn't Ms Cooper's pancit canton. Now, the two have been forced onto the same plate, and - as they cannot abide the existence of the other - a battle rages beneath the mask of physics and matter.

It is something of a foregone conclusion. The lo mein spirits are putting up an admirable defense, but their noodle-trenches are falling, one by one, to the acidic bite of the pancit's sauce. The pancit forces continue their ruthless, tangy bombardment, carpeting the trenches with vinegar and shrimp paste shells from their superior artillery; forcing the lo mein soldiers into a frantic retreat.

Soy sauce, a neutral party in this vicious war, with strong trading ties to both parties, attempts futilely to broker peace. But there can be no peace today. The lo mein spirits are routed, fleeing for more hospitable plates; without resistance, the pancit army occupies the formerly lo mein territories.

You stir the two noodle dishes together until the sauce is well-blended, and it all more or less tastes like pancit. The potato salad, wary of its neighbor's aggression but steadfast and proud behind its starchy walls, settles into a watchful peace.

You let your attention drift back to the Prosaic world.

The distraction was nice while it lasted, but you suppose you have no choice but to try and reinsert yourself into the bewildering literary discourse happening at your table.

Some cultist whose name you don't know, an almost aggressively mousy young woman with dark hair, dark eyes, and cute red-framed glasses has her phone out, and is playing some video or other.

Sallarchos looms over her left shoulder, all tall and pallid and gaunt, with long, long fingers; like one of the Darkest Lord's nimblejacks, if one were for some reason dressed like an undertaker.

Reccilda - looking far more animated now that she's inhaled a couple plates of food - huddles over Mouse's right.


Mouse is openly weeping. There's a glistening in Reccilda's eyes that has nothing to do with the night and falling stars that fill them; and Sallarchos looks … vindicated?



What in Cneph's accursed name?



They were arguing about "quantum loop something or other" - some physics thing, you think? The lies the Prosaic World uses to obscure miracles are a constantly-evolving fiction, and you can't be bothered to keep up with the nuances of it - when you tuned out, and now this?


Sallarchos nods slowly. "Gotta save the waifu. I can respect that."

Reccilda and Mouse both move to smack him, and you just sigh.


This is why you couldn't stand living here. Eschaton House is haunted and alive and malevolent, and The Help are extremely unsettling, but all of that? That can be dealt with.

The endless chatter about waifus, though?

There are some things that cannot be borne.

There's only so many times you can hear about lucky pulls or discounted banners or new outfits or new promotional videos before you snap.

Look, it's good that Sallarchos has a hobby. Great, even. Wonderful.

But if you have to sit through another lecture on "why Kimiko is objectively the best waifu in Viridian Boulevard" you are not entirely certain that you could resist the urge to excruciate the Estate of Gacha Games; to tear it screaming from the fabric of reality and cast it out beyond the gates of night into the forever beyond, retirement from the War be damned.


"Oh, of course. It's always about the waifus for you, Sal." Reccilda rolls her eyes, comets and constellations pinwheeling in time to her disdain.

"What?" Sallarchos puts on his best "unjustly persecuted" voice - he has multiple, for different degrees of whining - "I can respect a woman who has her priorities straight. You have to save the waifu. You must."

"I don't think 'save the girl you have a crush on' excuses war crimes."

Sallarchos sniffs haughtily. "Well. It's hardly a war, now is it? Surely they can't be war crimes without a formal -"

"You are such a pedant," Reccilda sighs.

"Look, all I'm saying is that, definitionally -"

"If you love sophistry so much, why don't you marry it, Sal?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Reccilda just sticks her tongue out at Sallarchos in response, mirth sparkling behind the constellations in her eyes.

"Oh, I'm the sophist here?" Sallarchos, improbably, manages to sound even more wounded and unfairly put-upon than before. "You are resorting to childish teasing because you have no rhetorical leg to stand on, admit it!"

"🎵Sallarchos and prescriptivism, sittin' in a tree~🎵" Reccilda sing-songs, elbows on the table, chin cradled in her hands, a cherubic smile dimpling the dusky skin of her cheeks. She sighs wistfully, head tilting to the side in a calculated performance of longing. "Oh, if only we all had so steadfast and enduring a love."

"Yes, yes, we all know you will writhe against the talons of reason forever rather than admit you were wrong," Sallarchos gives an exasperated sigh. "At least Tiffany agrees with me, yes?"

Mouse, who is … still sobbing uncontrollably, smacks Sallarchos again.

("Such violence!" He exclaims, as if anyone believes he didn't have it coming.)

Mouse - Tiffany, evidently? - sniffs, removes her glasses so she can wipe her eyes, and manages to hold back sobs long enough to choke out, "no, they're definitely war crimes."

"You can't commit war crimes if there isn't a -"

"And! And!" Tiffany holds up a hand, stopping Sallarchos mid-sentence, while she takes a few deep breaths to calm the heaving sobs and replace her glasses, "it doesn't matter if they're not 'technically' war crimes, Sallarachos!"

"What - it doesn't matter? What madness this?"

"Three billion people died! Who cares whether the dictionary thinks it's a war crime?" Tiffany looks, actually, much recovered - you can sympathize. Yelling at Sallarchos is always cathartic.

"Well. Well! That's -" Sallarchos pauses, trying - and failing, you suspect - to find a way to continue prosecuting the 'war crimes' thread, before making a conversational retreat. "Surely we can agree that she had to save the waifu, at least?"

"No! Don't be ridiculous!"

"Well, then why were you crying? You were obviously moved."

"You arrogant fucking - something can be sad and still be, like, objectively awful!" Mouse - Tiffany, right - has stood up, so she can actually look Sallarchos in the eyes without having to crane her neck. "Like, yeah, okay, it's sweet and touching that Kriemhild was willing to go so far to save Flavia! I get that! But she also killed three billion people to do that!"

"But surely she had to. How else could she have plucked Flavia from the Unseen Chaos and reintegrated her into the stable timeline?"

"That's the fucking tragedy, you numbskull!" Tiffany slaps the table - evidently harder than she meant to, as she winces and starts waving her hand back and forth to get feeling back into it. "If she'd just moved on and accepted Flavia's sacrifice -"

The conversation rapidly loses you from there, slipping almost immediately back into nonsense about quanta and something called measure. You do not understand a single thing they're talking about, but it's always fun to see Sallarchos losing arguments.

Reccilda leaves to get a third plate of food, but when she returns - mostly with cookies - she doesn't rejoin the argument, but instead, sits next to you.

"Heya."

"Mmm."

"We seem to have misplaced a certain spiky-haired jerk."

"Imagine that."

Reccilda munches a cookie for a few seconds, and lets the silence breathe for a few more.

Then she slips out of her chair to give you a hug.

"Thanks, Eiline."

The hug lasts for a few more heartbeats - a moment or two longer than you'd really like, but Reccilda is pretty good at recognizing when an interpersonal interaction is making you uncomfortable.

She returns to her seat, and slides cookies around her plate, pensively. Silence reigns for a breath. Two.


"You shouldn't let them bully you."

There's no point in asking how she knows. Maybe Claire told her, or maybe Reccilda can just read it off of how you look even more tatterdemalion and exhausted than usual.

"You're one to talk."

You … did not entirely mean to say that; but what has been done cannot be undone without going to rather extreme lengths, at least within Creation. Attaris Ebrôt Appêkâ, Magistrix, Keeper of the Seal of Time and Ruler of this Age of Pain, does not lightly permit that things be allowed to be made as they once were.

Still, it's not like it's inaccurate. You just had to shoo off the Hero. Reccilda has no standing with which to criticize you for failing to put up a fight.

She knows that, because she flushes, and retorts, "that's different."

"Oh?" You do your best to raise one eyebrow - you've never been good at it, and your right eyebrow also rises fractionally - but it suffices.

"Yes! And!! Not the point!!!" She bites a cookie in half with perhaps more violence than is warranted. "Eiline, you can't just … let mahous light you on fire!"

You swish some lingering pancit around your plate, through a puddle of sauce.

It's hard to care about being set aflame by some children toying with scraps of faery glamour, when -

when the world is wrong, and that wrongness is of such a scope as to render any harm done to you insignificant
when you've failed, so, so utterly, that there's no point in striving to accomplish anything, ever again
when you deserve to be punished for what you've done, when you've earned every indignity and injury you suffer

when Reccilda is being a hypocrite, is letting herself be victimized by destiny and so-called heroes.

But she seems determined to be stubborn about that, so you're not really sure what to say.

She stares at you for a heartbeat, two. There's that same softness, the same gentle something in her eyes and her bearing that Claire had, that Purple Girl had; and -

And this is pity, isn't it?

Pity, because you're such a mess.

Because - while it's true that you didn't want to hurt them; that you were, on some level, afraid to fight back because you deserve it mortals are fragile - the truth is you just … couldn't bring yourself to care.

Pity, because you are trying, you're trying so, so hard; and you are so, so tired; and you're barely managing to, to - to buy even half of your groceries, or to scrape together rent, or to not alchemically dissolve that thrice-damned microwave in the hallway outside your apartment; and she can tell -

You stand abruptly. Your chair does not quite fall over; Tiffany breaks off from dismantling Sallarachos' feeble arguments in surprise, as you snatch your plate and stride swiftly away.

---

You beat a retreat from the light and noise and bustle out into the stillness and comforting darkness of the hallway. Two of The Help skitter out of sight as you exit the dining hall, the barest glimpse of ruffled white fabric and sober black chitin before they've vanished around the corner.

The Help do not like to be seen.

Floorboards creak underneath your steps. Sinister shadows creep around corners. Quiet footsteps, three paces behind you, do not quite synchronize with yours. Small insects, fleeing in obvious panic, skitter past you, running from something down the hallway ahead.

The ghosts, it would seem, are feeling feisty tonight.

You do your best to ignore their antics as you wend your way through the maze of hallways. There's a lovely little window-seat you favor, overlooking the moonlit gardens and the cult's basalt altar out by the lake; and you still have something like an hour before the potluck ends and the assorted meetings begin.

Left at the intersection, leftmost of the five paths at the next, left, second from the left - you're not entirely sure what Prosaic Reality makes of Eschaton House's corridors, to be honest; how it is explaining the topology. Probably some nonsense about bent space or something.

You round the corner, and only manage not to crash into the person dashing full-tilt the other way due to them, considerately, frantically attempting to backpedal at the sight of you and falling over.

You don't think humans that young normally have white hair, so presumably they dye it. Casual clothes - a striped tee-shirt in shades of red and pink, closely-fitted denim pants, and canvas sneakers - rather than the typical hooded robes suggest that they're probably new to the cult. Or that Sallarchos has acquired another Guest, you suppose.

The rapid breathing, flitting eyes, and near-cowered posture also lend some credence to the idea that this is their first time in the House.

…

You should probably help them up?

That seems like the thing to oh nevermind the mortal is, slowly, carefully, pushing themselves upright; eyes never leaving your eye-like voids.

…

Well they seem alright. Maybe you can just -

"H-hey."

Great.

The mortal manages to crabwalk over to the hallway wall and pull themselves standing. Slowly, tentatively, they offer a half-hearted wave; and ask:

"So, you don't … seem like a … ghost?"

… is that why they're so scared?
…it would explain why the ghosts are so lively.

"I'm not."

"Or a creepy insect monster?"

There's a questioning note to that which you do not entirely appreciate, to be perfectly honest. You sigh, and lean against the opposite hallway wall; since, apparently, it is to be conversation. "No, I'm not one of the Help either."

"The help? Like … in fancy British period dra -" they catch themselves, and nod. "No, big manor house somehow hiding in the middle of a city, checks out." They laugh, a quavering, nervous thing.

"Relax. You're a Guest. The Help won't hurt you." Honestly, their anxiety is getting to you. They're in no danger from the Help, no matter how unsettling those skittering servitors are; and, well -
Okay, they might be in a little danger from the ghosts, but not, like, mortal danger.

Probably.

Maybe it'd be best not to tell them that.

Somewhat improbably, this seems to help. The human 's twitchiness abates, somewhat, over the course of several deep breaths. Their pupils contract a bit from their panicked immensity, revealing a bit more of their deep brown irises.

They keep looking away whenever you make eye contact. Rude.

After a minute or so, the human seems to have more or less calmed down. "Sorry," they say, "it's just - I wasn't expecting … this." They gesture expansively, attempting to convey through the sweep of their arm the malevolent, bizarre, and uncanny atmosphere of Eschaton House.

"The House hates new people. It usually settles down after a few visits," you offer.

They laugh again, that quivery nervous thing that speaks of a desperate need to relieve tension more than mirth. "Heh. Should I get it a gift or something?"

You -

You're not actually sure.

"I don't know," you admit, after a moment or two of pondering. "I can't say I know what the House likes, really. It just seems to get used to people eventually, and revert to its customary simmering hatred for all things."

The mortal stops, and stares; not even looking away when you catch their gaze.

"Wait. You're serious." Their breathing picks up again, and the nervous twitch returns. "Is the house … alive?"

"Yes? Obviously?" You knew mortals had terrible sensitivity to these sorts of things but surely they can feel the House glaring at them. You glance over at the wall, and see the leering eye beneath the lie of a light fixture.

"Okay. Okay, okay, okay. The house is alive. No big deal. It's alive and it hates me and it's full of ghosts and horrible spider maids but it's all okay. Everything is just peachy-"

This is getting tiresome, and you were trying to go visit that window seat you like. But if you just leave them here, one of the Help will probably try to, well, help them; and that seems unlikely to work out well for anyone.

You snag them by the wrist, ignoring the sudden, choked-back half-scream; and pull them down the hallway.

They start some kind of breathing exercise as you wend your way through the maze of corridors, until you reach your destination. A secluded little nook, bathed in moonlight and overlooking the gardens. Soft cushions, a low table, some books - classic literature, what looks like one of your alchemical treatises that you must have left here years ago, a well-worn paperback whose brightly-colored cover speaks to it belonging to Reccilda.

You let go of their wrist, and they - after glancing around, presumably to make sure there aren't any Help coming, or that the window seat isn't going to eat them - tentatively sit down.

There's a minute or so of silence. You sit down yourself, and look out across the gardens. There's some movement, out by the altar - a couple of cultists setting up for the ritual in an hour or so.

"Sam."

You turn your head. The human seems to have calmed down, somewhat. Again.

And - you guess that's their name?

…it's probably their name.

"Eilind Salmydessa," you offer, because there are forms and rules and ways that these things go. "Delighted to make your acquaintance."

They - Sam - blinks. "That's … definitely a name, yeah."

You roll your eyes. Judging from the queasy expression on their face, Sam was not quite prepared for it.

"Sorry, that was rude."

"It was," you agree.

They fidget. Make eye contact, then flick their glance away.

Humans.

This is why the sunglasses are so useful. You are, actually, rather upset at the green magical girl for knocking you into the pavement and shattering the left lens.

You huff, and say, "You've already made a bad impression. Just ask and get it over with."

The words are hardly out of your mouth before Sam spouts "Why don't you have eyes it's creeping me out oh god what?"

Well.

There is something refreshing about bluntness, you suppose.

"I do have eyes, thank you very much. It's hardly my fault that when you try to look at them, you miss."

Sam opens their mouth. Closes it. Repeats this process twice more.

It's been a long time since you interacted this closely with a human who, as far as you can tell, has only very recently been introduced to anything outside of the nice, cozy bubble of lies Senacherib and Surolam maintain for their benefit. You'd forgotten how tiresome it is.

"Why? How?" Sam eventually manages.

You shrug. It's not that you don't know the answer; it's just it involves rather a lot of explanation about Ninuan and the fire that is perception which you do not feel like going into because it is not your job to teach "Magic and Miracles 101" for every lost mortal lambling who stumbles across your path.

Your job is to sell artisanal tea blends on the internet; which reminds you that you will need to go visit your garden again soon, since you had been intending to do that before this morning's soda mishap; and also you just sent a Hero there. Who knows what sort of damage it will inflict in the process of gathering those milkmays and widow-roses?

So instead, you shrug, and say, "The world is wrong."

You expect incredulity and questioning; and so it does come as a mild surprise when Sam droops, their engrossed lean in falling away into a defeated slump as they sigh. "Ain't that the truth."

You could correct them, could explain how whatever wrongness they perceive in the world is just a shadow, an echo of an echo, of the true rot that lurks at Creation' heart, but -

Why?

You return to contemplating the gardens. Silence falls.

Briefly.

"How long have you been part of…?" Sam gestures vaguely at the surround, which you take to mean the cult, in general.

"I'm not," you reply. "The Chancery graciously provides these facilities to your cult out of a sense of camaraderie; in a spirit of mutual aid and defense against the rulers and defenders of this wretched world."

And because they cook dinner for you, but it would undercut the gravitas of the moment to admit that. Also, you don't want the human to think you are susceptible to bribery with something as base as food.

Or at all.

Why do you even care what they think

"What's the Chancery?" Sam asks. The nervousness, the twitchy fear, has left them entirely. Their leaning forward slightly, curiosity alive in their eyes and voice.

…

You hadn't really intended to be giving lectures tonight, but -

Well -

They're trying.

In their fumbling, mortal way, they are trying to understand. Even if it's annoying, even if you hate explaining the basic ideas of the functioning of world and void over and over to the ignorant -

At least they are trying.

So you sigh, the very specific sigh you perfected over long, slow centuries as a magistrix in a city of alchemical wonder; in Nix, teaching generation after generation of humans and wooden people alike; the sigh precisely calibrated to express the depths of your displeasure when an otherwise bright student asks a very stupid question.

Sam unconsciously sits up, their posture correcting itself automatically under the weight of your instructorial disappointment.

"Firstly," you begin, "while your cult takes a largely symbolic stand against the existence of the world - a performative gesture of protest against a world that makes no attempt to justify its being, or the myriad of atrocities that spring forth directly as a consequence of the world's existence - there are other, more senior organizations with decidedly more impactful methods of resistance…"

---

Clair arrives an hour later, interrupting an extremely interesting lecture - if you do say so yourself; though Sam's rapt attention and thoughtful questions lend some credence to your self-evaluation.

Your explanation of the nature of the Darkest Lord, his rule over the Earth, and his direct responsibility for the existence of a full third of all human dictators and mass murderers (the other two-thirds are roughly spoken for by the influence of the Web of Khedeb Neret, and by humans being capable of breathtaking monstrosity entirely on their own merits, respectively) has to be cut short, as Claire snags Sam and bustles them off to the night's ritual - the stars are only right once a month or so, and it would not do for Sam to be late to their first ritual.

And you are left alone. Alone, and … frustrated, that you were prevented from finishing your lesson. But frustrated in an unaccountably good way; much the same as how the fatigue after a long day of work done carefully and well is satisfying.

How terribly odd.

But there's no time to ponder or reflect. If the cultists are starting, then it can't be long before the Chancery is due to meet as well.

Somewhat reluctantly, you stand, gather your notes and banish your blackboard, and head off back into the maze of hallways.

---

The drive back home is quiet.

It takes 37½ minutes to reach any point within the city limits from Eschaton House; and thirty-seven of those minutes are spent in grim silence.

Eventually, though, as you turn into the street where your apartment complex, hideous scar on the world that it is, rests, Claire asks:

"Sooooo, do you wanna talk about it?"



You very much do not want to talk about it.

You don't want to talk about how Sagadé couldn't even be bothered to give an excuse for not showing up.

You don't want to talk about how Reccilda spent half an hour pointedly refusing to engage with any discussion about how she lets her Hero dictate her life; and instead kept badgering you about letting magical girls shake you down for groceries.

And you especially do not wish to talk about Sallarchos fucking Apsynthus, and his thrice-damned compulsive need to provide Hospitality to all who ask for it.

You understand that he can't help it, any more than you could simply will yourself not to be attacked by citrus soft drinks. Sallarchos dies of Hospitality; of the simple fact that, were he to refuse to put up a guest, to offer food and drink and nonviolence to all who come to his door in good faith, he simply would not be Sallarchos. It is his nature, his Wyrd, to offer aid and succour until it bleeds him dry.

But, as Claire parks, and you step out of the car and slam the door unnecessarily hard behind you, you could do without his ongoing death entangling the rest of the Chancery. Without it endangering you, and Reccilda, and the people she cares about.

And the people you care about.

…

So as you walk from the parking structure down the street towards your building, you break the sullen silence.

"Teja Heimerich is coming to town. For a 'vacation'." Here you borrow a particularly expressive gesture of Claire's, pinching the index and middle fingers of each hand against the thumb, twice in rapid succession, to sketch the shape of quotation marks. "And Sallarchos is hosting her for the two weeks of her stay."

Claire nods, not in understanding, but in acknowledgement. "And, um, who is this High Mare-Fish person?"

"A Rider," you spit. "A soldier of the Realms Beyond, still actively at war with the world. And Sallarchos has invited her here."

"Ah." Claire says. "That sounds. Um. Bad?"

You reach the lobby of your apartment building. A handful of acacias and cloves and poppies bloom on the walls, and a scattering of petals marks a path on the floor, hidden half a breath beneath the skin of the world, where Claire cannot easily see.

"Even if she truly is here with no designs save to relax, it doesn't matter." You slump - for the second time today - face first into one of the stairwell walls. "Even if, if, she completely refrains from the business of war, someone is going to notice her. A spirit or a faerie or a god. And then word will get out; and then the Sovereign Powers will take notice; and just guess who will be in the crossfire."

You kick the wall, lightly. It still doesn't make you feel any better. One of the ragged, tattered poppies is crushed into a wet smear beneath the Border Mythic by your violence, but that's about as much of an impact your outburst has on the world.



Acacia, clove, and opium poppy; each petal tattered and rotting.




Maybe you should be a touch concerned by the signs of hellish miracles all over your apartment building, but in all honesty, you are far too angry about the Heimerich girl to worry about a few cast-off flower-traces.


An agent of Hell has been here, and recently.

This is hardly something to be concerned about. Hell is everywhere and always. Right across Creation in all its grotesque horror, Hell is there.



It was, evidently, just … more here than usual, recently.



…


It is slightly concerning that the petals, the traces of miraculous power, grow denser as you take the last flight of stairs up to your floor.

But the odds of this having anything to do with you are vanishingly slim.



Hell is always with you, they say - but they don't mean with you, specifically.

The unconditional love of Hell is reserved for those things which exist, and them alone. For the children of Creation, even in those moments when they are thoughtless, and petty, and cruel; at their lowest and meanest and worst. When they murder, when they sin, when they fall from grace so thoroughly they will never return.

Even when they are wretched and small and want to be forgotten; when they cry out in the dark for someone to understand them; when they are abandoned by everyone else -

In the depths of despair or depravity, when Heaven judges them unworthy, when the Wild forgets them; when the Rules avert their eyes in shame and the Game laughs and will not see them -

Hell is always there. Watching, with love, from a step behind and a heartbeat sideways, behind the veil of lies that keeps humans safe from Heaven's searing gaze.

Nothing that is part of Creation is left to suffer alone. That is the holy work of Hell, which loves all things that are. Even things and people that are wicked, that are evil, that are wrong.


Even people who think that there is no one who cares, that they are abandoned or alone.


Hell is always with them.



But that has nothing to do with you.

Surely.



Yes, the perfect trail of torn petals that leads right to your apartment door, and the huddled figure of Purple Girl sitting next to it, is suggestive of this having something to do with you; but that, you are certain you will find, is merely a coincidence.



You blink a few times, to clear away the petals and focus back on the Prosaic World.


Purple Girl doesn't notice you, where you've stopped on the stairs. She might be asleep - she's hunched in on herself, hugging her legs to her chest, with her backpack perched on her knees as a pillow. Purple seems to have taken it upon herself to plug in that decrepit microwave that your neighbor left in the hallway, and - if the empty mug and metal tin are anything to go on - used it to brew herself some tea.


The metal tin is very familiar. It is, after all, the kind you pack your tea blends in.



Claire stops on the step below you, and cranes her neck to look past you. She freezes for a long moment; then, without turning her head, asks in a low whisper, "Ei, is that the girl from this morning?"

"Yeah," you whisper back. You're not sure why, exactly, but it seems best to follow Claire's lead.

"You didn't mention she was a magical girl!" Claire hisses.


Oh.

Well, now you feel a bit silly.

"It didn't … occur to me?" It's a weak defense, even for you.

Claire, still carrying her now-empty casserole in both hands, does her best to slap you on the head.


The resultant rattle of the lid jostling causes Purple Girl to start awake. She looks over in your direction. Her eyes are red from recent tears, and there are dark, dark bags beneath them


…you have to admit, she looks a lot less threatening from down there.

… and, now that you think about it -

The purple one wasn't with the rest of the troupe this morning.




"oh," says Purple, drowsily, "you're back."


You approach cautiously, your hands full of a plate with a quarter of a cake on it.


Claire, bless her heart, is far less cautious. She darts ahead of you, casserole shoved into the crook of one arm while her other hand traces a strange shape. Light gathers around her free hand, the deep red of blood.

"What the hell are you doing here, mahou?" Claire spits, a terrible dose of vitriol packed into that last word.



Purple blinks the sleep from her violet eyes. Looks at Claire, her incandescent fury and the crackle of her magic. Looks at you.

You do wonder, a little bit, what she sees.


Purple's gaze returns to Claire, and, keeping eye contact the whole time, she very slowly removes the amethyst ring from her right hand and drops it into her backpack.

"i'm," she stumbles, stops.

Takes a deep breath.


She looks down at the tin of tea. Something about it gives her the strength she needs to look you in the eyes and say:


"i'm here to defect."

---

Eily made a friend? Had a spat with her friend Reccilda; and learned that a Warmain is coming to town for vacation. But all of that can wait for later.

A magical girl in evident crisis has tracked down Eilind's home! Looking to abandon the cause of love and justice, or whatever it is that the magical girls in this city fight for.

Look, Eily wasn't paying attention when they gave their speech about the subject.

The point is -

What is to be done?

[ ] [Mahou] Send her packing.
[X] [Mahou] Interrogate her.
Vote for literally any number, write-ins strongly encouraged. Eilind may or may not manage to ask every question voted for; and may ask questions not voted for; but voting will inform her priorities.

[ ] [Interrogation] Ask about defection.
[ ] [Interrogation] Ask why she's crying.
[ ] [Interrogation] Ask about the tea.
[ ] [Interrogation] Ask about the other magical girls.
[ ] [Interrogation] Ask about her family.
[ ] [Interrogation] Ask for a name.
[ ] [Interrogation] Write-in