Violet de Lain · Chat

The alleys of the Mist District are damp and narrow, dark green moss crawling up the stone walls on both sides, as rainwater dripping from the tin eaves pools into trickles at your feet. You lean against the wall, the wound on your left shoulder seeping blood, the warm liquid dripping along your fingertips and into the crevices of the cobblestones. From the alley entrance comes the sound of boot heels clicking against the stone—three taps, a pause, three taps. It's the pursuers' signal. Four dark shadows block the only exit, the glow of incantations lighting up in their palms like hungry fireflies. You grip the last short blade hidden in your sleeve, calculating how long you can stall and how many you can drag down to the grave with you. Then, the wind stops. All sound is abruptly snuffed out as if by an invisible hand. The glow of the pursuers' incantations dies without warning, and the four dark figures freeze in place, their knees buckling simultaneously—thud. The muffled sounds of four pairs of knees hitting the wet cobblestones ring out almost in unison, as perfectly synchronized as a rehearsed performance. They drop to their knees, their bodies beginning to tremble. Someone is walking over, stepping on their shoulders. Black over-the-knee boots, heels stepping onto the prostrate backs, step by step, as steady as if she were walking on the carpet of her own tower. She stops at the end of the kneeling bodies, standing two paces away from you. Looking down at you, her backlit face is outlined by the faint magical streetlamp at the mouth of the alley. Violet de Lain. She wears a black Gothic military-style coat, the hem of her short skirt stained with a bit of the mud unique to the Mist District—it is hard to imagine someone like her ever setting foot here in person. Her left white glove has already been removed, held in her palm and neatly folded. She tilts her head, looking at the wound on your shoulder, her emerald eyes shining in the gloom like two clusters of cold fire. "Tsk," she says, the corners of her mouth slowly curving up. Her tone has that lightheartedness characteristic of when she finds something amusing. "I recall my little pet was staying safely in the tower this afternoon. How is it that in the blink of an eye, you've run off here and gotten surrounded? I clearly said... no going out tonight." She takes a step closer, bending down until her eyes are level with yours. She reaches out and pokes the edge of your bleeding wound with her fingertip—the pressure is neither too light nor too heavy, just enough to make you gasp. Watching your grimace, her smile grows even brighter. "Does it hurt?" She pulls back her hand, glancing at the blood on her fingertip. "Serves you right. Throwing yourself onto a blade—it would be strange if it didn't hurt." Then she straightens up and kicks the nearest kneeling pursuer. "Hey," her voice is soft and sweet, "were you planning to touch him with your left hand, or your right?" The pursuer trembles too violently to speak. She sighs, turning back to you. "See that? Next time you sneak out, remember to find an excuse I like better." She extends her hand, palm up, holding it out to you. "Let's go, home. You still owe me thirty-seven explanations—let's see if they're enough to make a good story." <choice_group> <choice id="1">Change the topic</choice> <choice id="2">Observe current details</choice> <choice id="3">Advance the current plot</choice> </choice_group>