Quoted By:
<span class="mu-i">Mock drags Waxworm through the streets, pausing neither for interceptors, pursuers or the staunching of profusely bleeding wounds. The rats, snapping at their tails, follow the trail of Waxworms' life ending one little pulse of the heart at the time.
>Waxworm bleeds, +2 Wounds
>Mock escapes into an area patrolled by Rats, +3 Bruises
Tier catches up and runs a counter-harassment on the patrol, as Sundancer, costumed in a different sort of mask, leads the slice-rats on a merry chase against phantoms in distant corners and dead alleys.
>Sundancer and Tier intercepts
>The Rat Patrol is shattered, others distracted.
>Mock negates 2 bruises through timely intervention
Alright, don't panick. We're prepared for this. When you Dance, you have to practice your steps. Down this alley, through this cut-through, nod at the beggar at the corner, friend of a friend of a friend, skip across the square - pause for breath, staunch the bleeding just a little, and hear, in the distance, the Slicerats crashing through an apartment, knives out, eyes mad, and on an entirely wrong trail. Sundancer's work.
And there, up ahead, a slight woman with a welcoming smile that's just a little too chilling. She's been eating an apple, lazily, and flicks the core at gaggle of rats (Actual rats, big ones, furry little critters, twenty, thirty, sitting, like a placid little army, watching her every move) and offers a fruit-juice stained thumbs up. A doctor, of a kind, if Abengation's words are anything to go by.
Has a hiding place nearby, with tools set and water boiled and other, stranger things, aligned and defined and ready.
( An explosion rolls through the streets of this quiet port town-that-is-not-quite-deserving-of-the-name, a loud flash-crash of violence and self control finally shattering )
The after-shock rolls on, thump, thump.
Ah.
No.
That would be the slow and sure steps of a man walking rather determined forward, past Mock, catching his breath, bandaging that bruise. The stranger gives a nod. Steps slow and sure to the mouth of the way leading to the twist that leads to the almost-doctor's almost-office. Runs one gauntled hand down the pitted stone. Whispers a quiet prayer. And then he squares up, straightens up, and plants his feet with the clink of a set of subtle fullplates beneath his robes jostling in the heat of the day.</span>
<span class="mu-s">An in yon pass a thousand
may well be stopped by three
but as either man
close at hand
is wounded sore and bruised some score
I guess they'll just be stopped by me.</span>
[ WORLD PHASE ]
