>>5603112>>5603135>>5603136>>5603302>>5603430>>5603504>No, no more safer routes. You’ve got monsters to have fuck with. Leap from here with Morne and the hag and get right into things.>Wait, what does dhampir smell like?“Wait. What does your sister smell like? Is it that.. distinct?” Your nose crinkles.
“It’s unique to her. It falls somewhere between blood, wine, and lilies.. a bit of monster girl scent, too. It’s so pungent in the air she must be somewhere close.” The hound tries maintaining his composure, but he can’t quite contain the wagging of his tail. “I knew it.”
“Wonderful–then I can get your sister’s blessing for our little agreement!” You clap the wolf on the back. “Let’s go. How about the quick route down?”
“The quick route down?” A look of bewilderment crosses the hag’s face, but the wolf’s eyes sharpen.
“Of course. We haven’t a moment to spare.” He catches onto your meaning quick. In just a moment, his arms wrap tight about your hips and over the hag’s hunch. The color drains from her face. “You ready? There’s no going back from here.”
“Dearie, wait.” The hag cuts in. “What is–”
You, the wolf, and the hag go flying from the wall with all the grace one might expect of you and a wolf and a hag flying from a wall. You twirl in the air, a squirming bundle of fur and cloth and steel, the old lady screaming as the air whistles about you–all the way down into the QUARTIER DE DEVOTION far beneath. The blaring of trumpets and tolling of bells from below seem to herald your arrival.
You hit something and go ducking into a roll, wolf lithe and light on his foot as he can be with your cult in his arms. Your world turns over once, twice, and then three times as you enter another brief free-fall.. and finally, you stand rightside up again, makeup smudged and hair tousled as you catch your breath. It was a five second leap that felt like five long sentences.
As the hag pukes up whatever she ate, you ease yourself up against a wall and look the district over. The QUARTIER DE DEVOTION, unlike the QUARTIER DE PUNITION, looks a proper village–not a half-standing rock-carving facsimile of the capitol, but a real, proper town, white stone colonials and pastel paints, almost coastal..
Your sudden drop-in seems to have been overlooked by virtue of some kind of a.. “festival” being set up. The road ahead looks busy with stalls being done up, clotheslines overhead draped with banners, trumpets and horns from somewhere far away.
>Pass through the festive street.>Go for a back alley look.>Ask a zealot nearby where the party is.>Look closer at the banner. They appear to depict someone.>Write-In. 