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Before you know it, you are striding into range of the last single diner in the room, and you find yourself holding your breath – but Strange-Staining does not activate, and the man barely bothers to look up at you while he works away at his meal. Now, all that is left is the pair in the back – one of whom was staring at you when you came in – well, everyone was, but he was really staring.
Or at least, that's the impression you got. Hopefully, he was just hoping that you were a streetie, just like all the other men in here.
Pattern's Perdition, what a disgusting thing for you to hope for.
As you draw near to their table, you are able to take a little solace that there are still no Strange prints on the floor. But the real test will come once you are in range of the back entrance to the room. If these men were the ones who left those prints, you would only be able to tell once you were right on top of them. You take a series of deep, steadying breaths, and shift yourself up right a little more. If anything is going to happen here, odds are it is going to be now. You swing around one final table and start down the final stretch. It is at this point that you see that both of them have these large cloth sacks. The one with his back to you has his on the ground, with the drawstring tied shut, but the other – the one that was staring earlier – his is on the bench next to him, with its mouth wide open, pointed right at him. Now, there is nothing to indicate that those sacks are anything but sailors’ seabags – and no hints that they have anything more dangerous than old laundry in them. But the sight of them is enough for you nearly trip over yourself. You know that you jumping to conclusions, but you can’t help it.
Eight years you lived in Scrimshaw Mount, without any risk of getting caught or killed – well, at least <span class="mu-i">imminent</span> risk. But since you have been left to your own devices, the ground under your feet has all but given away, leaving you struggling for a few more days – no, a few more hours of safety. And of course, things went so incredibly poorly at the Blue Boy that it is enough to give you the sweats and the shakes. At this point, no matter how improbable any risks might be, it actually feels as if it would be more irrational to <span class="mu-i">not</span> be panicked and afraid.
Only a matter of steps away from being within of the floor under their feet and their boots, the one with the seabag at the ready tries to talk to you.
“Puella.”
You are unsure if he is trying to solicit you, like the other salts of earth in here, or he is trying to get you to turn towards him so he can get a better look at you. Every fiber of your being wants you to put your head down. But you cannot, as doing so might tip him off that you are looking for footfalls.
