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[Tomcost]

((Revolution! A la James. I hope Erin can turn Niklas chairs into steel. I presume that one of his arms is obsidian, judging by the blackish color and its tendency to break into a lot of deadly bits. Another idea to break into the jail: hateful mushroom epidemy. Anyway, I hope your praying succeeds, miau))

((About the trial: I didn't hurt anybody, or at least not anybody who is still alive))

[Harry Baldman]

At the Brotherhood of Fine Furniture and Other Odds and Ends...

Niklas lays his cards on the table and gives a reliable inventory of the things he currently has in his possession.

"I have four gold coins as well as all these armor pieces and weapons. If you want I could go put some competition out of business for you. I need chairs. As many as all this stuff will pay for and as many as you're willing to give me for putting rival businesses out of business."

The man chuckles.

"Your offer is tempting, but alas, we have no true rivals. Any other people in the furniture business are to us as a common street fiddler is to a virtuoso in his prime. We can offer you chairs of many kinds. There are the common, yet quite impeccable variety - those are one silver each. There are novelty chairs, which can be quite unusually large and unusually small - these cost from two to three silvers. And then there are our specialties - powerful, dangerous chairs beyond the imagination of common men, prepared to order in no more than an hour or your money back - naturally, these carry costs of their own, but I am sure we can come to an arrangement with your available supplies."


In Undefined Space...

Timothy decides to go for broke and demand satisfaction of some sort.

"Oi! You's all see dat, right? Had costume an' everyfing! Why's I hear not-laughin'?! You better not be tries to trick me!"

The voices remain quite silent. Well, at least as far as Timothy can hear, anyway. Okay then. Guess they're not going to be of any help. Time for him to do this on his own.

[Telekinesis roll: 3]

In the next few moments, Timothy finds out that it's actually pretty difficult to gather up a whole bunch of dust with just the power of his mind. This is rather troubling, but he supposes he can make do with sheer imagination. After all, there's little one can't do with the power of the undefined stuff that litters this place, apparently. He concentrates upon the pile.

A shape begins to slowly form - it is indeed a hippo skeleton, Timothy guesses, though admittedly lacking in detail and articulation. He's afraid he's unsure how joints work, exactly. And that thing doesn't look very alive to him. All in all, things aren't looking very good.


In the streets of Shriekpot...

Kevin, quite terribly mangled at the moment from his amazing meeting with the many walls of this neighborhood, goes ahead and tries to pray to the gods for something. It's customary, after all.

However, the only thing he can hear in his mind is distant laughter of some unspeakable description. Presumably Velusius. That guy's kind of a dick sometimes, he's heard.

[Kevin will roll: 5-1]

Luckily, though, the laughter appears to have been exactly the sort of negative reinforcement Kevin needed - he feels sufficiently righteously indignant to not die just yet, as that would be rather silly and anticlimactic, not to mention it would be playing right into that dastardly death god's hands. No sir, he will survive in some form!

As he takes a moment to reaffirm his existence beyond a shadow of a doubt, he hears voices approaching.

"Aw, there he is! Look at 'im! I think most of him is plastered over the walls here."

"So, what do we do?"

"Eh, drag him along. It'll be good exercise."

One of the guards hooks Kevin's idle carcass on Sigmund's spear and drags him along. Meanwhile, Sigmund and his good buddy Scott argue on who is the master, noble, slave and indentured servant here, and they clearly don't seem to be in agreement. The guards just snicker, idly whispering remarks about married couples to each other.

And so the assorted people are guided to the local guard headquarters - Sigmund and Scott are certainly familiar with the building, and the reception fellow appears to remember them as well.

"Ah, I remember these people. They were here this morning, I believe, on the matter of the imprisoned tree-headed thief."

"Well, hopefully they'll enjoy their stay. Right, buddies?"

"We will need to process them, at any rate. What are your names, people?"


On the deck of the shrieking ship of Shriekpot...

Morton wonders who this Justine person might be.

"Justine? I don't believe I've heard of this person, an old compatriot I believe? It seems that must of the people you worked with have moved on to helping Master Artiste, what ever happened to Justine? Makes sense that you were in the exorcism business, you had stellar advice about it previous."

"Justine? Um... well... she's dead. Fell on a fence. Absolute tragedy, really. Whole town exploded, and she went right out the window. Can't say I knew her very well. In fact, she was a bit creepy. Diviners are like that, you know. Still, a real shame that happened."

[miauw62]

Pretend I'm dead (well, soul-in-the-afterlife dead, not undead-dead.)

((I shouldn't have a pulse or any vitals, so...))

[Tomcost]

Sigmund just plainly stated his name in an unexpressive fashion

He then turned to to Carlson:

-I will surely enjoy this more than being stabbed, so you can bet on that.

[Xanmyral]

"Oh dear, apologies for bringing up such a subject then Sir Mage Art, although I have to say that I don't quite know that about diviners, I know little about magic to be quite honest. My only dealings with mages has been now in my second chance, and when I bought a particularly bad batch of tea materials from a mage in my first life." Morton said in response to the subject matter. He gave another look at the light in Art, then pondered something.

"Sir Mage Art, do you believe that perhaps your light will come back faster if closer to things that emit light? It is a strange thought I had, maybe it absorbs light from its surroundings. You may recover it faster in the day time, I imagine."

[Xantalos]

How much would it cost for two metal chairs that have giant spikes all over them?

[Innsmothe]

I am Scott Yaleson, noble consort of [insert husbands family here]'s manor. Can you at least treat me with some bloody dignity!?

[Tomcost]

Sigmund made a comment to Scott:

-I don't know what do you regard as being treated with dignity, but not being insulted, beated or otherwise aggravated is actually a distintion for criminals, you know. Just be polite for now, please. Probably, it would be better for your body integrity than complaining all day.

[Yoink]

>Try to simply imagine the hippo back alive(undead) again, like I did with my firework launchers.
Draw on memories of them whilst alive/undead. He can't be dead for good, can he?!

>Also attempt to silence that nagging feeling of guilt!
"Hey, I not just lets dis badness happen for nothings! I gotsta goes back home, after all! 'Sportant!"

[Spinal_Taper]

Darren clears his throat.
"Excuse me, but I would like to propose a deal with you. If you are able to speak with me, please speak, or nod. If not, shake your head."

[Harry Baldman]

In the guard headquarters of Shriekpot...

Kevin, hoping to get away both scot and Scott-free, plays dead intently. Considering that he is mashed horribly and has no life signs that he knows of, this proves extremely easy. He just stays still! Man, having no heartbeat has never been more useful.

Sigmund, meanwhile, just goes ahead and has himself booked all peacable-like.

"I will surely enjoy this more than being stabbed, so you can bet on that." he mentions to Carlson.

"I'm sure you will - we've got the most civilized jails for hundreds of miles in any direction. Now, what's your name?"

"Sigmund GrimDrake," he says in all seriousness. Carlson laughs.

"No, no, you see, we want your real name."

Scott, since it's his turn and all, goes ahead and provides his name.

"I am Scott Yaleson, noble consort of Yaleson's manor. Can you at least treat me with some bloody dignity!?"

"I don't know what do you regard as being treated with dignity, but not being insulted, beated or otherwise aggravated is actually a distintion for criminals, you know. Just be polite for now, please. Probably, it would be better for your body integrity than complaining all day."

"What, you're that guy's husband? You're... oh."

Carlson snickers, realizing something.

"Oh, I know who you are! You're the dead guy!"

"He does not look very dead to me."

"Well, he used to be dead, y'see. Got hit by a cart, smashed him, like, BOOM," says Carlson, punching his fist into his right palm with a loud slap. "His boy-toy didn't take it well. Total whackjob, that guy. And a necromancer to boot. I believe you can guess what happened next, eh?"

The man at the desk nods, looking mildly uncomfortable.

"Yes. No need to elaborate."

"I'm glad. So, what do we do with this guy on the ground?"

"He appears deceased."

"Well, guess we can take his stuff and bury him, then. The plot's still got room, right?"

"Oh yes, definitely."

"It's a plan, then! So... you four," Carlson says, pointing at four guards standing nearby and chatting. "Disrobe this guy, sew him into a bag and chuck him into a hole. And fill it up this time as well, will you?"

The four guys grumble, saying that it's their time off, at which point Carlson glares at them in a rather unpleasant fashion. They recoil mildly, then scoop up Kevin from the ground, then start dragging him off through the corridors.


On the deck of the shrieking ship of Shriekpot...

Morton kind of regrets bringing the subject up, though it's certainly good to know one's share of history nevertheless.

"Oh dear, apologies for bringing up such a subject then, Sir Mage Art, although I have to say that I don't quite know that about diviners, I know little about magic to be quite honest. My only dealings with mages has been now in my second chance, and when I bought a particularly bad batch of tea materials from a mage in my first life."

"Well, diviners are weird. They keep trying to read everything. And they're good at it, too. Of course, they aren't as creepy as those mentalist people, but hey, creepy's creepy, right? Granted, I didn't even know Justine very well. She was just sitting in a corner and babbling the entire time we were in Emlocke, and what's weirder is that she did the same thing during the planning sessions. Weird as heck, you know."

Fortunately, the length of Art's answer allows Morton to come up with an idea. Possibly even a good idea!

"Sir Mage Art, do you believe that perhaps your light will come back faster if closer to things that emit light? It is a strange thought I had, maybe it absorbs light from its surroundings. You may recover it faster in the day time, I imagine."

"I guess, you know. It seems to be coming back, anyhow."

Art looks out at the town.

"You know something, let's go out on a walk. There's plenty of stuff to do in town, I imagine. And just standing around here doing nothing is getting a bit maddening."


At the Brotherhood of Fine Furniture and Other Odds and Ends...

Niklas, carefully weighing the options he's got, goes on and explains his desire.

"How much would it cost for two metal chairs that have giant spikes all over them?"

"Well, that would depend on several things. Questions, sir, before we proceed."

The man clears his throat, then launches into an unbroken tirade of questions.

"How large would you like the chairs? How large would you like the spikes? What metal would you prefer the chairs to be made of? Would you prefer the design to be stylish, comfortable or optimally aerodynamic? Would you like the spikes to be poisoned, and if so, how poisoned would you them to be? Do you wish for the chairs in question to be obviously deadly? How intimidating or pleasing to the eye would you like the design? Any particular requests or markings, any desires? Chair design is serious business, I assure you."

He looks like he means it, too. His eyes seem to convey the gravity of the situation in a rather effective fashion.


In Undefined Space...

Timothy refuses to give up - the hippo must live, oh yes! He focuses upon the undefined nature of the void, trying to inject meaning into it like he did before. The hippo statue moves slightly. Then a little more. Then it looks at him

"Hi," it says. Timothy looks at the statue. Could this really be the hippo, risen from the dead like some sort of messiah for his age?

"No, not really. Sorry," the hippo says, promptly exploding into tiny pieces once again, the dust of its bones disintegrating into the void. Timothy has but a single question.

"Hey, I not just lets dis badness happen for nothings! I gotsta goes back home, after all! 'Sportant!"

He gets a distinct impression that this place is trying to tell him something. Or, to be exact, ask him something. After a moment of listening, he thinks he's got it.

'Where is home?', they seem to be asking.


At the engineers' gate of the City of the Dead...

Darren tries to open up some form of dialogue with the gibbon.

"Excuse me, but I would like to propose a deal with you. If you are able to speak with me, please speak, or nod. If not, shake your head."

The gibbon nods, its eyes kept solidly on a spot that Darren guesses must be in the middle of his chest.

[Innsmothe]

I'll have you know that the 'dead guy' is a transfigured construct of a peculiar infernomancer, who is partner toa very powerful necromancer to boot! Would you like to annoy those sorts of people? Return the remains to the haunted ship at the docks as a gesture of supplication, or at least neutrality.


...And please don't speak of my husband in such a manner. *haughty sniff*

[Tomcost]

Sigmund frowned, he hates when his name is not taken seriously. It was not his fault, it was his mother's. Damn bitch. Anyway, he decided to explain the embarassing situation that led to his last name:

-That IS my actual name. My mother had an affair with a farmer called Grimes. When she got pregnant of me, her husband, whose surname was Drakers, had a legal dispute with the farmer about who was my real father. The local judge was on a funny mood that day, and decided that I was the son of both, so he set my legal surname as a mix of both.

((I don't know how much control do I have about my character backstory, but I hope that this can be canonized, hopefully compensating my lack of ability to come up with names))

Pseudo edit: (([sarcasm]Right, tell them about our master's location. Excellent idea! So that they can kill him and we die.[/sarcasm]))

[Xantalos]

I'd like the chairs to be made out of steel, about the same size as the one that serves as my hand currently but with 6-inch spikes all over them. Optimally aerodynamic, if you could, and deadly, yes. Intimidating is preferred. No markings necessary, the blood of my foes will do. What would be the cost for two of those?

[Xanmyral]

"Hm, you do have a point. I was actually about to comment how I'm starting to become a touch worried about the others, it has been a while since they've left. Surely they haven't gotten into any trouble, yes?" Morton sounded more like he was trying to convince himself than Art. "Either way, a walk would be wonderful, I'm hoping that if I get used to this form more I should find it easier to get around so it is well due. Places always take on a new look after dark afterwards, there are many things one can only see when others have left."

[Well, funny thing I was actually planning on having Morton of gotten too worried to stay on the ship and search for the others. With Art wanting to go on a walk, that simply simplifies matters.]