FEBRUARY 2021 EVENT: PART TWO

[robbies]

 

CHAPTER TWO, PART 2: THE LIVING ISLAND

Everything you never wanted to see.

YOU CAN’T DO A LITTLE BECAUSE YOU CAN’T DO ENOUGH | JUST A DREAM FROM YESTERDAY | DARKNESS HELD ITS BREATH | YOUR FRIENDS WHEN THINGS GET ROUGH | COME AND PLAY WITH ME

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YOU CAN'T DO A LITTLE BECAUSE YOU CAN'T DO ENOUGH

Perhaps you’ve been on tenterhooks since you woke up to find that your friends, your family, your neighbors somehow went missing in the night. Perhaps you’ve been hitting the pavement and knocking on doors trying to find them. So far, your efforts have been for naught. There’s been neither hide nor hair of the missing, and every attempt to find them has met with a dead end.

Until February 13.

In the afternoon, a strange, unsigned message goes live on the network. What is the meaning of “Living Island”? Does it have anything to do with what’s going on? There’s no elaboration… until midnight, when every neighbor’s television set turns on at full volume, hissing static and garbled noise as the dials turn and adjust. Several disjointed clips follow, ending on a mural that depicts the same words from the post.

“Living Island.”

The following morning, you’ll find that stranger things are beginning to happen. Some of you will be woken up to the blankets and sheets being yanked off your sleeping bodies by a powerful force. Others will find that when they step out of their morning shower, a message has been written in the steam on their medicine cabinet's mirror. Depending on how quickly you shower, you may only be able to see part of the message — but running the hot water longer and allowing the steam to fill the room will reveal it in its entirety:

“LIVING ISLAND.”

As time passes, you’ll find that the same message shows up every time the bathroom steams up, whether you’re in the shower or not. The same force that turned your TV on seems to insist that you pay attention to what it’s trying to show you, and its behavior escalates the longer you refuse. Characters will find that books go flying off of bookshelves, drawers are yanked out of dressers and desks, and breakable objects are smashed. Trying to prevent the spirit from destruction won’t go your way: If you try to catch or grab something that’s about to be thrown, you’ll find it ripped out of your hands anew and smashed anyways. If you tried to take all of your chairs down from where they’ve been stacked on top of the dining room table, you’ll find they’re back atop it the instant you look away.

All that’s to say nothing of the rumbling. It doesn’t start until the end of the first day, but from time to time you’ll feel the house beginning to shake on its foundations, a dull groan as it struggles to keep itself from collapsing in under its own weight. As time goes on, this will get louder and louder until the house seems to roar of its own accord, an unyielding shriek that can’t be stopped until the force causing it backs down.

Attempts to make contact with the spirit will never go well. It does not seem to be able or willing to communicate with you beyond its own tantrums, and characters who try may find that the attempt rapidly goes out of control. Candles flare up and burn wildly, Ouija boards are ripped into pieces and planchettes go flying, offerings of food are knocked over or thrown, and the lights flicker manically in turns. While you may be able to get some sleep at night if you’re lucky, the only thing that will reduce the poltergeist activity is to pay attention to the message it’s sending you and figure out what it means.

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JUST A DREAM FROM YESTERDAY

Living Island. If ever there were a first step to stopping this madness, it’s figuring out what those words mean. But starting is always the hardest part, and with nothing else to go by than two seemingly unrelated, nonsensical words left behind by a force you can’t see much less communicate with, an already arduous task seems even more impossible. This is furthered by the reactions you get when you hit the street and start asking people if they know anything about Living Island. Most of them can only look back at you blankly, as if waiting for a punchline that never comes. Others actually take you seriously enough to consider the question, and to their credit, they do take their time racking their brains to remember where they’ve heard that name before, why it sounds so familiar. But the most you’ll get back from them is a sheepish shrug of the shoulders and a reply that it sounds like something from TV. It gets to the point where their answers blend together, each one more unremarkable than the last. Save for the one you get from the last person you haven’t asked. Living Island. I’m sorry, what was that? What the fuck did you just say? Dale Harding and Rosemary Craven might be as far away from each other as possible, doing things around town that couldn’t be more different, but their reactions are the same. When they overhear you asking what feels like the hundredth person you’ve seen that day about Living Island, they look your way — Harding in the middle of his patrol or lunch break, Rosemary in the middle of grocery shopping. Harding looks honest-to-God surprised. Rosemary simply looks confused, even somewhat concerned. That's such a... strange name. Where did you hear that from? When they hear your explanation, they go quiet, mulling it over. Rosemary’s expression turns thoughtful. Harding’s, suspicious. If I remember correctly, that was a clubhouse the children around town used to play in. I haven’t heard about it in… goodness, I can’t even remember. Years, perhaps. It’s a play on “safety island” — another name for a bomb shelter — and the name of this… stupid kids show that used to be popular. I guess they thought it was cute, calling a place like that something fun. But where is it? Well, most of the shelters in town are still in use, and children aren’t allowed in them unless there’s an emergency. The only place I can think of is… The grade school. Administration ran out of funding before they could finish it, so they just scrapped it. Closed it off and just hoped for the best. Didn’t stop people from sneaking in. I used to bust them for playing down there all the time, the little shits. Harding’s mouth twists into a sneer that doesn’t reach his eyes, which are soft and miserable, while Rosemary waits patiently for any other questions and, when you have no others, excuses herself to go back to her groceries. Now you have something even better than an explanation: you have a destination.

Finding Santa Rosita Elementary is as easy as a fifteen minute drive from North Santa Rosita to Shadyside. Getting in is a different story. By day, the school is open for business and humming with activity, so you can’t very well go barging in and not expect to be reprimanded for disrupting class. This leaves you with three options: go before it opens, wait until school is over, or come in the middle of the night. Each have their own pros and cons, but all of them will get you the same result.

After hours, the school is desolate and still. The wind, the occasional slap of a naked branch against a window, and the squeak of your footsteps on the shiny, clean floors are the only sounds you’ll hear as you navigate the empty hallways. Most of the classrooms are locked, and the ones that aren’t don’t have anything any more unique or worthwhile to them than the occasional lunchbox left behind by a student or the classroom frog croaking in its tank. In a way, this is a good thing — it doesn’t leave that many places to investigate and makes your path that much more linear as you finally, inevitably and silently make your way downstairs into the bowels of the school.

The long corridor that awaits you in the basement is, in theory, not very different from the hallways upstairs. There are lockers lining both sides, dented and darkened with age and dust. The tiles are cracked, dirt and pieces of stone kicked up from exposed areas of the floor. Seemingly, this appears to lead to a dead end. But look closely at the wall and you’ll see the impression of a door, painted to match the walls. The lock is flimsy — in fact, depending on when you find it, someone may have already broken it. All that’s left is to enter and descend down the tiny room’s only feature: a ladder under a rusty steel hatch door, stretching down into darkness.

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DARKNESS HELD ITS BREATH

CW: gore, surgery

Stepping into the old shelter, the first thing that hits you is the stale, uncomfortably moist air. This first room is cavernous and dark, and your footsteps and whispers echo in spite of how quiet you might try to be. There’s a faint smell in the air, a trace of copper and rubbing alcohol that might make your eyes water, making your mouth feel unpleasant as it hits your tongue. As you get your bearings and begin to pick your way through the dark, you’ll notice traces of another smell — something simultaneously spicy and cloyingly sweet, a scent that seems to assault your senses and leaves you with a headache pounding at the base of your skull. Thankfully, there isn’t enough to do more than make you nauseous, but the smells warn of what’s still yet to be found.

As you continue through the labyrinthine warren, you’ll begin to find signs of human presence — some of the trashed rooms may be fitted with tables and supplies one might expect to find in a laboratory, meticulously labeled with typewritten strips. Several of these boxes appear to be old, covered in grimy layers of dust, while others are fresh and clean. All of them contain medical supplies. Eagle-eyed investigators might note that the untouched supplies tend to be the type contained in first-aid kits — acetaminophen, antibiotic ointment, simple adhesive bandages — while the ones that have been opened are for heavy duty surgical work — coiled IV lines and tubing, empty syringes, surgical gloves. One room in particular seems to have been fitted out for someone’s personal use, boasting a stripped-down bed, a chair and desk, and a comfortable recliner.

The trickle of water can be heard in the depths of the shelter, and as you emerge from one corridor that filters into a large chamber, it becomes immediately obvious where you are: This is an operating theater, with a table stationed beneath all manner of lights that can be adjusted and moved. A faucet drips monotonously in the back of the room, over a sink stained with blood with bits of grey, pulpy matter stuck in the drain. A bucket filled with blood and viscera ferments on the ground beside it. There are smears of blood, both dried and fresh, on the cloudy tiles, and a cabinet full of surgical instruments is slightly ajar. Looking at the instruments, characters will find that a couple of scalpels and a pair of tongs have dotted blotches where the metal was cleaned with water; whoever used these tools last didn’t dry them before putting them away. A small table near the operating area has a turntable sitting atop it, with a record already set under the needle: a single of Elvis Presley’s “Heartbreak Hotel.” There are a few other records sitting in the cabinet beneath it, including Big Mama Thornton’s “Hound Dog,” Frank Sinatra’s “Frank Sinatra Sings for Only the Lonely,” and James Brown and the Famous Flames’ “Think!”

In a separate area of this room, an oversized desk is piled with books and empty food containers that look as though they’ve been repurposed for one reason or another. These books are chiefly on anatomy and the medical sciences, though there are a number of books on psychology and how the brain functions. Though some of these books are water-spotted and dog-eared, there aren’t any notes written in the margins, nor are there any papers to be found. You can turn this area as much as you'd like, but all you’ll find is a couple empty cigarette boxes and some broken and bitten pens; the trash can next to the desk, filled with soggy ashes, seems to suggest that any papers that might have given you a lead were destroyed before you got here.

But the lab, with all its instruments, isn’t what you came here to find. There’s still at least one more room to be found…

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YOUR FRIENDS WHEN THINGS GET ROUGH

CW: gore, surgical trauma, amputation, lobotomy, brainwashing and interrogation, mouth trauma, eye trauma, ear trauma, body horror

The missing are being held in small, sturdy cages in a single room connected to the back of the operating room, dim and dank. The cages are placed equidistant around the room, ensuring that even if you try, you can’t reach out and make contact with your neighbors. The missing will find that they wake at approximately the same time, curled up on the ground in uncomfortable positions. Unlike your rescuers, your nightmare began far earlier than when you first awoke in this room, sore and disoriented. In fact, you could argue it started the moment you went to sleep on February 9th, leaving empty beds and concerned family members behind.

With no clocks or watches available to tell the time, you may not be able to tell how long you’ve been here. You sleep and wake, sometimes to a bowl of what looks like sticky rice lying in your cage that wasn’t there before. Sometimes, an overpowering smell will fill the room, faint at first; by the time you register it, it’s already overwhelmed you and sent you into a deep sleep. And when you wake, one cage will be empty. The inhabitant will be returned the next time you go to sleep and wake up, but not quite the same as they were before. They seem heavily drugged, discombobulated — or perhaps there's something visibly different about them. Whoever has taken you is doing a lot of work in their lab — and from the smell of things, meat work — and before long almost all of you will be sporting dressings of some type or other, fresh red seeping through the sterile cloth within a matter of hours.

Maybe you should try to keep each others’ spirits up. You don’t know how long you’ll be here, after all.

All of this goes on for a while — days, although it won’t be easy to count them given that there are no windows in the room. But nearly a week later… you wake to find that the front of your cage is unlocked. Unlatched. Open just an inch. Looking around the room, you’ll find that yours is not the only cage to have been opened — all of your cages have been unlocked.

Is it a mistake? Or are you really free?

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COME AND PLAY WITH ME

CW: blood and violence

Whether you’ve released yourself from your cage, or were discovered by a well-meaning friend before you could, or you’ve simply had your fill of exploring the shelter-turned-laboratory, the time has finally come to leave. Unfortunately, if things were that easy, you wouldn’t even be around by the time the scuttling sounds begin — somewhere down the hall, in the room behind you, fleeting and sly. It’s not an animal sound, a creature picking its way through the garbage and debris littered around the shelter. No, with the way it stops and starts every time you start and stop walking, this is a very deliberate, human sound. And if you don’t believe that, you’ll see soon enough when you see the naked, bone-white figure walk into view at the end of the hallway as casual as you please, their body smooth and sexless like a department store mannequin. They turn (your) their head and stare directly at you with (your) their wide, glassy eyes crinkled in thousand-yard delight. You hear your voice echoed back at you, airy and chirpy and so indescribably wrong it makes your blood run cold.

"Hi!"

Much like the Doppelgangers you encountered in January, these ones look and move like dolls, their limbs connected with ball-joints. However, whereas those ones were near perfect imitations of you and your friends, these ones look like they just fell off the assembly line. Their faces are unnaturally flat and plastic, like all the imperfections have been ironed out of them, but they are unmistakably yours. And when they open their mouths to squeal at you before running with all the unnatural speed not having a pair of lungs affords them, you’ll find that even their voices are perfect imitations — and not necessarily of your own either.

There’s no way to tell how many of these Doppelgangers are down here with you, hiding in the dark. They’re stealthy and sneaky, only coming out to attack when they’re sure you’re alone. Even if you’re not, they’re intelligent enough to come up with ways to separate you from your group, calling to you from another part of the shelter, mimicking a voice from someone they know you’ll listen to. Even if there’s no possible way they could be in Santa Rosita.

"Help me!"

"Is that you...? Oh thank God, I've been looking everywhere for you!"

"Please, don't leave me!"

Other times, they’ll take a more aggressive approach, allowing their limbs to pop out of place so they can sprawl on the ground, imitating a heap of discarded doll parts. Once you get close enough or turn your back on them, they’ll pull themselves together and attack, speeding towards you on fours like a crab.

There are two ways out of the shelter. The first one is the hardest: go back the way you came. With the low visibility, the number of Doppelgangers, and the confusing layout of the area, you’re more likely to get turned around and go in circles than you are to find your way back to the ladder — a location made even more difficult to discern since the hatch door has been lowered, blotting out all light from the room above.

The second way is the longest but also the easiest: head deeper into the shelter, past the operating room, through the rooms filled with broken furniture and ruined floors that are very easy to trip on — especially when you’re in the middle of running away. Eventually, you’ll come to another ladder, this one leading to an open hatch that deposits you into a dark passageway. The air up here is more fresh, but not necessarily pleasant smelling. There’s only one way to go — forward.

After what feels like an hour of walking, you’ll see a light at the end of the passage. Follow it and you’ll find yourself exiting a storm drain that drops you into the heart of Old Growth, just outside of West Santa Rosita.

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OOC INFO

Welcome to the second part of February’s event! You can use this entry to top-level for the event, but feel free to utilize the log and network communities as well.

There will be a top-level posted for NPC interaction tied to the second prompt below, wherein you can request to play out your character’s interaction with Harding or Rosemary. If you would like to have your character interact with either one of them, comment to the top-level with the name of the NPC you would like to thread with. You may only thread with one NPC. The mods will respond to NPC tags until February 28th.

Any questions can go in our FAQ thread below. Try to check and see if your question has already been answered on the plotting thread first here.

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Comments

> RESCUE

[blackscales]

Wrathion doesn't like it here.

The quiet is upsetting, the smell is upsetting, the overall sensation is upsetting.

Then, on top of that, the sight of the medical equipment induces a quiet, dull sense of panic.

It's been some years now since the Badlands, but far less time since he stepped foot in Blackwing Descent. The thought of something happening to Anduin sickens him, and the dull fear of being captured himself slows his steps. He wants to be angry, wants to tip the whole place upset down -- anger had driven him this far. Anger had kept him moving, looking, swearing revenge. Now he just feels unnaturally cold, his skin prickling.

Wrathion has seen the work of cultists first hand, and well knows even with all his power at his fingertips Xanesh had brought him up short.

Daylight had been right to question his plan. If he's captured now, he'll be no use to anyone.

He turns through the lab, picking carefully through the papers, then pauses as he steps out of the operating room. The cages generate another wave of nausea, but they are at least -- unlocked? Unlocked, and --

Wrathion is in front of Anduin's in an instant, flinging open the cage door sharply and dropping to fumble hands over him. To check for injuries, chains, anything that might impede their escape.

"Anduin," he whispers, "can you walk?"

[shalamayne]

Anduin could at least agree with the sensation of this place being upsetting; especially the smell. The fact that every time they passed out was preceded by the same disgusting scent would be something that remained with Anduin for a long time, along with the sensation of being made to sit in a cramped space for the last few days.

He sees movement in the room and holds his breath; either it's some kind of rescue or their captors have come to finish the job. He needs to be ready to fight if the latter is the case, to kick and scream and go down fighting like any Wrynn would. If he could look his father in the eye and say he did his best then Anduin would accept it.

Luckily for Wrathion the young King recognises his friend before it comes to that; eyes widening a fraction as the reality sinks in. They're going to be leaving this place, away from those responsible, breathing in fresh air again —

"I can walk." Anduin keeps his own voice low but can't help the sharp hiss of pain as Wrathion's hands touch his new arm, the pain instant and swift enough to let Anduin know he'll have to look when they get out of there. He shakes his head to clear to refocus, sighing when the lack of weight reminds him of something else he lost. Hair. How much he'd teased Wrathion about having to cut his....

"We can leave, but perhaps we should find those responsible and make sure they aren't able to do this again." With that Anduin is already making a move to get out of the cage, grimacing as his body begins to protest the sudden exercise. It's not as if he's been pain free all his life, Anduin knows he'll just have to suffer it a bit longer.

"Did you see any of them on the way in?"

[blackscales]

"Dolls," Wrathion admits, "nothing else. Who did this to you?"

His hands are still moving, roving over Anduin -- over his face, his cut hair, and his arm where he'd flinched. That means something, and Wrathion is determined to find out what even as he guides him out of the cage slowly.

The question of making sure they aren't able to do this again is an interesting one. Wrathion, of course, would merrily burn the whole place down if he could -- yet he equally doesn't want to be here a second longer than absolutely necessary. There's an uneasiness in him as he looks around, a tension in his normally nonchalant frame.

[shalamayne]

Dolls. Those cursed things. Anduin isn't surprised to hear they're nearby but he could have gone the rest of his life not knowing they were up and about again. He makes his way out of the cage as he grips Wrathion's arm for balance. The sudden rush of blood that accompanies the movement almost makes his head spin and for a few seconds Anduin idly wonders if he's going to pass out before the world suddenly rights itself again.

"I do not know who did this, they did not show their faces in the few times we saw them." Fingers dig deep into Wrathion's arm briefly as Anduin's mind reminds him of the few bits he does remember, of pain, noise, music and so many questions. Oh Gods, he'd told them everything and the guilt is almost overwhelming. They'd worked so hard not to let slip about things and they had pulled that information from Anduin like it was nothing.

Anduin knows he'll have to come to terms with that more than anything. Injuries can heal and hair can grow, but information cannot be taken back and he quickly sends a silent prayer to the Light that those responsible can't do anything with the intel they've gleaned.

"I don't know. But what I do know is that I was not the only one and I fear if those responsible are no longer here then there is nothing to stop them striking again."

[blackscales]

Anduin's fingers dig into Wrathion's arm, and in response he grips the man tighter -- studying his face intently.

"They will not take you again," he assures him, "I will see them burn first."

Even if burning right now is limited to matches -- it's no matter. Wrathion believes in the sentiment strongly enough to make it happen. He would find a way. Straightening slowly he makes sure Anduin is steady on his feet, able to keep them under him as he gives the man another once over.

"I'm afraid that will have to wait," he admits finally, "Anduin, we must get you to safety while we still can."

There is, after all, a chance their captors may return -- that they both then might be in cages.

[shalamayne]

How nice it would be to just let Wrathion go around, razing everything he deemed an enemy to the group. Anduin isn't even sure if he'd let the other or not, but he does know that right now it's too risky to let Wrathion pick a fight with whatever faction had started this war; he's not so naïve as to think of it otherwise. People would want to retaliate once others had recovered and Anduin can't help the small sense of dread. The captors had done it so easily, what was there that would stop them next time?

Anduin shakes his head to himself. No, he couldn't let himself think that way. Those that had been brought to this world seemed fine with banding together, if anything this was a major mistake of their captors, giving them all more reason to join ranks and Anduin does his best to hold on to that train of thought. It's easier than reading Wrathion's concern, Anduin doesn't want to know how bad he looks right now.

"You're right, though I worry that there are others left around here. Were there more of you?"

[blackscales]

"Plenty -- everyone will be seen to safety."

Presumably, anyway. In truth, Wrathion's concerns are far more focused on Anduin than they are on anyone else. Mortals are born and die all the time, and plenty more will die during the span of Wrathion's long life -- Anduin is different. He cares more for Anduin Wrynn than any of them, even if his lifespan is nothing to that of a dragon.

"You're injured," he prompts, because that is important. If they are to escape together he needs to understand Anduin's limits. To understand what he can and cannot do.

[shalamayne]

If the others are safe then Anduin has no leg to stand on, his own concerns naturally falling to others rather than himself. There's little room for argument and Wrathion prompting about injury only serves to get the message across; in this state he would be more hindrance than help. Especially if there is a large enough rescue party to be dealing with things.

"Not quite, though they have done something to my arm. I know that whatever this is, it pales on comparison to what happened to some of the others."

Anduin doesn't know all the specifics, but from the glimpses he'd seen and the things he'd heard he knows that a sore arm could be considered a win. Just thinking about it has him flexing his new fingers, blue gaze briefly glancing at the hand that is now as part of him as any other limb. What had been the purpose?

"If our enemy is not here and the others have been rescued then I see no reason to loiter."

[blackscales]

His arm. Wrathion nods, eyes lingering on it as he thinks. Anduin is unable to cast, and with his arm injured he'd struggle to defend himself too.

"The way back is long," he warns, "with plenty of our doll friends littering the halls. Have you been elsewhere in this facility? Do you know if it has another exit?"

One that might be quicker to get to? Or, potentially, safer -- assuming all the dolls are mostly behind them? This was a shelter, he recalls. How are the shelters built? Do they normally only have the one entrance and exit door? Having it be back up into the building seems... unwise, should the building collapse. Then again, these people had peculiar ideas about how things should be done. He couldn't be sure they didn't think that way.

[shalamayne]

It's difficult not to feel a little useless in that moment. No spells to be able to cast, only one good hand and the non-dominant one at that. Yet a part of Anduin Wrynn stubbornly refuses to be bested by this place. Before he may have been a little more willing to listen to reason to think of something being different to how it's portrayed, but now it's gone too far. He won't give this place the satisfaction of being on the back foot and Anduin clenches his fists, making a silent resolve to himself that this place would not see him suffer again.

"We will deal with those dolls if they cross our path, though it would be wiser for them if they did not. I have not seen anything else of this place but this room and the one I was in when they were questioning me. We shall have to take the route that brought you here I suspect."

[blackscales]

He thinks a long moment, nods finally. The potentially for getting lost is, surely, less if he follows back the path he took instead of seeking a new one. They can only hope that the way is being cleared by fellow rescuers following down to seek out the rest.

"Stay close," he says, and finally releases his hold on Anduin -- watches to make sure he's steady before drawing a knife and glancing back toward the operating room. It will be unpleasant to walk through, he imagines, for both of them. That's the way he came, though, so that's the way he begins to move.

[shalamayne]

Anduin stays upright and stable when Wrathion finally lets go, a small relief to the young King though he won't speak that out loud. It feels amazing to not be cramped up in a cage but the severity of the situation at hand has him delaying the celebrations for now. It's imperative they both get out in one piece and Anduin suspects that nothing will be made easy for either of them.

"I shall. You do not happen to have a spare one of those by any chance?" Anduin isn't sure if Wrathion is the kind to have a dagger in the boot and the wry expression on the blonde's face says he's not expecting it either. He'll be keeping his blue gaze focused on their surroundings, making sure to watch for anything that can be used as a weapon.

"You said those doll creatures were in here?"

[blackscales]

Wrathion shakes his head at the first question. The knife he has isn't even one designed to be wielded in this way -- it looks distinctly like a kitchen knife. Beggars can't be choosers, however, and Wrathion would rather be armed with a kitchen knife than not at all.

The second prompt has him glance back. In the dim light, his features furrow.

"Several of them. Be on your guard, they are more intelligent than we might give them credit for."

Carefully he begins to step forward, pushing his way back through into the operating room and trying not to let his eyes linger on the contents. The goal is to get out safely, now, not to dwell too heavily on this place. They'll learn nothing by getting trapped and dying here.

[shalamayne]

Anduin would have wielded a butter knife or a teaspoon if that had been all there was to hand, so he cannot truly judge Wrathion for what looks like a kitchen knife. Some weapon is better than no weapon and he gives a small nod at the mention of being on his guard. The last few days(?) have been awful and it doesn't end yet, Anduin knowing he won't be comfortable until he's back in his assigned "home".

Even then that's not safe though he banishes that thought, instead opting to blatantly ignore his current location of walking through the operating room. Blue eyes remain steadfastly focused on the way ahead, though the remnants of a song do echo through the young King's mind as they make their way through the room.

"The last thing we need is for them to be more intelligent, though we shall deal with them should we cross paths. I would suspect those in charge here will have taken the important things with them by now." Which brings up another question for later. How did they know the rescuers were coming? Anduin rubs the back of his neck, still vaguely surprised by the lack of hair.

It's only when they reach the next room that Anduin pauses, ears straining as he hears something faint from further down the hallway. "Voices?"

[blackscales]

Voices.

They all quiet for a moment, leaving only eerie silence, then one picks up again -- the familiar, thick tones of Magni's accent.

Lad, one prompts, is that you? We've been looking all over for you!

Wrathion feels a jolt of unease. If Magni were here, surely he would have known? Unless he only just arrived -- yet no, something about this feels wrong. He wants to hope, but hope is a dangerous thing.

"Don't listen," Wrathion says firmly, and moves to stand more deliberately in front of Anduin. Whatever game this is, he's not in the mood for it. Right now, the goal is to leave as quickly as possibly, before this place gets the better of them.

[shalamayne]

Anduin is also frozen in place, listening to see if he hears anything else. It had sounded like something but now he's not so certain and even reaches out to put his hand on Wrathion's arm.

"Let's g —"

He doesn't finish the sentence when the thick accented tones of Magni Bronzebeard begin to echo through the halls. Fingers dig instinctively into Wrathion's arm again as Anduin does his best to ignore it. He knows that it's simply one of those creatures mimicking but it doesn't change the heavy pang in his chest at the stark reminder that he's no longer home. No longer in his own world. Nothing is familiar about this place and this creature drives that nail home harder than anything as it talks in a voice Anduin had grown fond of.

"You're right, it cannot be." Even as he says it Anduin can't help but sound a little unsure. "He would have said something before now?"

[blackscales]

He would have, if he could, but more than that --

"Would Magni sound so calm, seeking us out here?"

In a basement, filled with horrors? If nothing else, he'd surely be out of breath from fighting all the dolls on the way down. The voice calling them sounds quite cheerful, and that is... wrong. He lifts a hand to gently touch the one digging into his arm, cold fingertips trying to press comfort into Anduin's one good hand.

"Ready?" he prompts softly. After all, if he's going to step ahead and swing his knife he'll need to likely let go of Anduin for a moment.

[shalamayne]

Magni would never sound so calm in such a situation, there would be a multitude of emotions coming through in that thick accent. Right now what sounds like Magni sounds as if they are merely reading out loud from something.

Anduin feels his emotions shift inside of him, turning from homesickness to annoyance and disappointment so easily. How rude of this place to take what meant most to them and turning it into a mockery, to torment and tease them of what they were essentially missing. How dare they...

"Of course. We shall leave this place and not look back." The young king lets go of Wrathion's arm, somewhat reluctant to lose that comforting touch. "The rest can be dealt with at a later time once we have regrouped."

[blackscales]

Wrathion studies Anduin a long few seconds as he lets go, the expression on his face. The twist of emotion.

Anduin Wrynn always felt everything so keenly. His own pain, the pain of others, and no doubt he feels this too: the loss of his companions back home, the longing to see them again, the regret that this voice is nothing but a trick.

He moves through the doorway, kitchen knife in hand, and as he turns finds himself face to face with... a rather poor imitation, in his opinion.

Hello there, it chirps, and although sound of his voice is technically correct it's also all wrong. He works his jaw, annoyed.

"I sound nothing like that," he complains, and ducks quickly as he moves to drive it hard into a wall. There's a loud crack, and he growls as he feels it begin to try and grab for his throat.

[shalamayne]

Anduin's sympathy is swiftly turning into ire, a classic staple of any Wrynn King it would seem. Normally he would have more patience, try to figure out a way that benefited everyone when it came to such conflict, but no, not in this place. Things have gone too far and Anduin can feel even his own patience severely wearing thin. The Light is not here to guide him and he knows the reality; that their enemy would kill them and not think twice of it. That was, unless, they were the other sort, the ones that liked to experiment on their prey.

They turn the corner and despite everything, Anduin's reflexes kick in hard enough that he comes to a complete stop. There's a poor version of Wrathion there, something that had made an attempt but on probably a description more than anything else. Anduin doesn't even have it in him to make any kind of comment, instead making a move to cover Wrathion's back in the event of others showing up. The creature seems to be going for the throat and if Wrathion doesn't block it, Anduin is going to do his best to grab that thing's wrist, ignoring a pleading voice in the distance that sounds awfully like Jaina Proudmoore.

"They need to know when to give up!"

[blackscales]

Powerful doll hands move to choke Wrathion and he grabs at the arm of the creature the same time Anduin grabs for its wrist, forces it away and slams it into the wall again. He can feel Anduin's frustration, and hear the distant sound of another voice.

"Don't listen to her," he grunts. That isn't Jaina Proudmoore, whatever it is. "We need to move quickly, I'm afraid these creatures don't stay down for long. How fast can you move?"

Anduin is in pain, he knows. Can he run? There's no point him pushing himself too hard if he'll only collapse before the reach the exit. A measured pace that reaches their destination is better than a short spring that falls short. Could he carry him, if need be? Wrathion isn't sure -- he could potentially support him and help him move, which is better than nothing at all.

[shalamayne]

"I have no intention of doing so."

Anduin knows Jaina would never stoop to such a low to begin with. It's almost insulting that these things would believe that either of them would fall for it and Anduin makes sure that Wrathion has his other self under control before letting his hand drop. They do need to move quickly, if the voices were anything to go by then there would be a veritable herd of them headed their way.

Could he run though? Absolutely. Moving quickly would be painful but Anduin knows it would hurt all the more if one or both of them were caught by these things and the one imitating Wrathion gets an annoyed glare.

"I can move as fast as needed." That or Anduin will go down trying. His legs are crampy from lack of movement, but they aren't injured enough to keep the young man from attempting a hasty exit. That and there is simply no intention whatsoever of lagging behind and getting Wrathion caught up in all of this; it's already bad enough that the other has put himself at risk to help. "Let's go."

[blackscales]

Wrathion nods curtly, slamming the doll into the wall again and darting across the room quickly. He checks out into the corridor beyond, glancing back at the creature as it slowly begins to drag itself together from where it had crumpled to the ground. They're hardy, but he doesn't have time to make sure it stays down permanently -- he isn't certain what that would even take. Some of them have re-attached limbs, he knows. What would be a lethal blow for them? To the head, chest?

He pauses long enough to make sure Anduin is keeping up, darts forward and dodges just as another doll lunges out and reaches for him. Anduin, please, it's saying, with Jaina's voice, and Wrathion struggles with it as it grabs him, sends them both awkwardly slamming toward a small table before trying to drive the knife into its head. Close combat is absolutely not his style -- he needs a weapon with more range. A problem for the future.