unknownseas | WEEK 7

Another Saturday gone and just like that you wake on Sunday, down five of your number. The largest dent taken out of you at once so far - it's surely noticeable, the head count being cut by a third. Almost enough to make you wonder how many of you will even be left by the next motive or two. Surely this isn't a sustainable rate for body counts to increase... right?

There's a new and, it looks like, final wing of the building to explore, bringing everything full circle. Maybe you'll get some more answers to some of the questions and mysteries of this place there - or at least, you can certainly hope for them. Time to turn your investigative eyes towards one last batch of rooms, who knows what you might find?

Angel remains around at night, her appearances much more common now that... well, she's certainly seen a downtick in necessary surveillance work, hasn't she? The app giving you a line to The Professor remains open, and well... whatever's going on with that ouija in the library continues to happen! You're not suffering from a shortage of leads, at least, even as things get more bizarre.

Something's going to have to give here, eventually. Right?

SUNDAY | MONDAY | TUESDAY | WEDNESDAY | THURSDAY

[ ooc: Welcome to your last player case week! AC is over here, regains as always are over here, and... well, enjoy! After this we get to take our big turn towards the Serious. ]

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Della! [Zerinda screeches so loudly she's surprised no one comes running. But that never happens on Thursdays, does it? There can be so much noise and no one knows, no one comes to help, not until morning, and then Friday starts-

But valuable seconds are trickling by and she forces herself to stop thinking. Zerinda Radeucan is and has never been a thinker. She's a doer and being a doer she does the only thing she can: she leaps into the water, four layers of skirts and boots and all. It might not have frozen but it's cold enough to shock her bare skin, enough to nearly make her yelp in surprise but the rush of chlorinated water up her nose stops that abruptly.

She has to break through the surface, sputtering and gasping and struggling against the weight of her clothing. Help Della, she needs to help Della. She spits out a mouthful of disgusting water, her eyes and nose burning, before taking a deep breath and diving back down with an outstretched arm to try to grab an arm, a sleeve, a metal leg- whatever she can.]

[ Della tries to breathe, and in doing-so sucks in water. It results in her coughing, choking. She's stunned and it's cold and her leg, it's getting water in it--but something (someone) grabs her arm and she

She's too resigned to fight it, is what it is. Her worst nightmare, that the odds--they're too much for her. That she's completely stoppable. That in the end, her ingenuity will just result in failure.

She's 30 pounds of wet duck. Pull away. ]

[30 pounds of wet duck is nothing compared to 8 years of wrestling chickens from the maw of a few hundred pounds of wyvern who thinks he deserves an extra treat.

Zerinda's grip is like iron and, after a moment, it becomes hot iron. Once she's sure she has Della, she pulls her tightly against her chest and starts to kick her way back up. Her feet feel like they're weighed down with stones and her eyes are burning but if she can swim through an undead-infested lake and only come out of it with a few bites and a near miss at getting stabbed, she can save a duck from drowning.

So she swims, one arm holding Della and the other clawing through the water while her legs work overtime. She can do this, she got them into this and she can-

They break the surface and she spits out another mouthful of pool water, thick sections of loose dark hair falling over her face while she chokes and frantically looks to Della to see how she is.]

[ Well, she's inhaled quite a it of water. But, she's also automatically gasping for air, so she's coughing a lot. And, not really fighting being pulled? Despite being soaked. ]

[You know what? She'll take it! Coughing and not fighting is better than silence and not fighting.

She jerks her head, trying and failing to push her hair out of her face, before she adjusts her grip on the duck and starts swimming for the edge of the pool.]

You're okay, Della, you're okay. [Her voice sounds hoarse to her own ears from coughing but talking put loud has always eased her nerves, even when there's no one listening.] Almost there, you're alright.

[When her hand touches the hard edge of the pool she pulls them both forward, half-draping both herself and Della over it. The arm that was supporting her goes to Della's back and Zerinda gives her a firm smack to keep her coughing.] See? Fine! We're-we're both fine.

[ She's choking up water, and when that smack goes, oof, that's quite a bit of water and probably a bit of dinner too. That's funny. There was never anything to throw up, on the moon. The thought follows, where is she?

Not that she can really focus on it well. She's shivering, even though the water was...well, cold but not freezing. It's the shock, maybe? Probably. Shivering and coughing, that's just how things are for her. And...you know, completely leaning against Zerinda. ]

[Heaving Della up out of the water and onto her stomach (carefully avoiding anything that's not water splattered there) on the tile isn't hard. Getting herself out of the pool is what proves to be almost impossible. Her trembling arms take three tries before she can drag herself up and she has to lay flat on her face to regain her breath, one arm immediately wrapping around Della's middle. She's shivering, which is both good and bad, and it takes a long few churns of the hamster wheel that is her brain for her to remember to grab her wool cloak and wrap it around Della. Gregor the Whiny Skull rolls uselessly off and groans.]

You're okay, you're okay. [She speaks softly, voice still a hoarse whisper.] You're- Ancestors, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

[ Della inhales and exhales. She...she can breathe again. She's not dead? She can breathe, and...what is that? What's...?

Her brain's too panicked to process anything, except a distant, rumbling murmur. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

She stays like this for awhile. For...well, for the remaining minutes of the nightmare. ]

WEEK 7

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cw: emetophobia

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