Quote from Weslockes >>

Spluttering -- curses -- then, finally, candlelight flickers into existence. The small room Lyriél inhabits -- plaster peeling off the walls, ceiling cracking, yet the faint glimmer of jewels, tucked away under the bed -- is departed by its inhabitant, the gentle swish of two orange tails against the marble floor of the hallway the only parting gift. 

The halls are cold and silent, devoid of all warmth of the daytime. Alone, Lyriél pads through the dark, plodding gently towards his destination. The dark closes in on his little candle, threatening to snuff it out -- his pace increases, paws briskly tapping the floor. 

Then, a turn -- and ahead, a small balcony. Alone, as usual -- the early-morning dusk, growing, lightening -- purples and blues and yellows, all flickering across the darkened orange of his fur. Out of his dark cloak, he produces two items -- again, the usuals. A small metal box -- he flicks it, and a calm tune begins to play, the orchestra sangfroidically holding their notes. It matches perfectly. 

Then, a book -- worn leather makes it too hard to tell just what it speaks of, but anyone observing him can clearly see that he's engrossed. Curled up dog-like across the balcony, book in front, he gazes out at the city beyond -- seasons glimmering as building lights slowly flicker on. The beauty is immense, and he's here to enjoy it -- for of course, even cat burglars deserve a day off the job. 

 *Just so i know, where exactly is he right now? Not like the exact building, but which district*

Quote from EJODM18604 >>

Quote from SalemTheArtificer >>

Quote from EJODM18604 >>

 "If I cannot agree with my... peers... about the fate of a soul it is your duty to resolve the argument and judge for yourself. Surely you read the letter I sent you last century?"

 "I told you I do not read my mail when it's not my working season... Apologies, dear. Tell me the facts, then. What is so wrong about this mortal?" She reaches for the lamp, inspecting it if he allows her to grab it

 Erlok doesn't move. The lamp is cold to the touch, with multiple blue lights moving around inside. one is larger than then others, with a more defined teardrop shape, and it appears to be locked to a spike where the wick on a normal lantern would be. "She was selling information. Very... sensitive information, regarding our history, to unscrupulous sources. She was found guilty, but my fellow judges could not agree on a punishment for her. I personally believe she should be executed."

 "I'm inclined to agree. Get rid of the rat, will you, dear?"She smiles and hands the lamp back to Erlok, patting his shoulder.

Quote from EJODM18604 >>

Quote from Weslockes >>

Spluttering -- curses -- then, finally, candlelight flickers into existence. The small room Lyriél inhabits -- plaster peeling off the walls, ceiling cracking, yet the faint glimmer of jewels, tucked away under the bed -- is departed by its inhabitant, the gentle swish of two orange tails against the marble floor of the hallway the only parting gift. 

The halls are cold and silent, devoid of all warmth of the daytime. Alone, Lyriél pads through the dark, plodding gently towards his destination. The dark closes in on his little candle, threatening to snuff it out -- his pace increases, paws briskly tapping the floor. 

Then, a turn -- and ahead, a small balcony. Alone, as usual -- the early-morning dusk, growing, lightening -- purples and blues and yellows, all flickering across the darkened orange of his fur. Out of his dark cloak, he produces two items -- again, the usuals. A small metal box -- he flicks it, and a calm tune begins to play, the orchestra sangfroidically holding their notes. It matches perfectly. 

Then, a book -- worn leather makes it too hard to tell just what it speaks of, but anyone observing him can clearly see that he's engrossed. Curled up dog-like across the balcony, book in front, he gazes out at the city beyond -- seasons glimmering as building lights slowly flicker on. The beauty is immense, and he's here to enjoy it -- for of course, even cat burglars deserve a day off the job. 

 *Just so i know, where exactly is he right now? Not like the exact building, but which district*

 *yeah, this is coool.. but, like, is this his arrival? cause, the point of the thread is that it happens in the city*

Quote from SalemTheArtificer >>

Quote from EJODM18604 >>

Quote from Weslockes >>

Spluttering -- curses -- then, finally, candlelight flickers into existence. The small room Lyriél inhabits -- plaster peeling off the walls, ceiling cracking, yet the faint glimmer of jewels, tucked away under the bed -- is departed by its inhabitant, the gentle swish of two orange tails against the marble floor of the hallway the only parting gift. 

The halls are cold and silent, devoid of all warmth of the daytime. Alone, Lyriél pads through the dark, plodding gently towards his destination. The dark closes in on his little candle, threatening to snuff it out -- his pace increases, paws briskly tapping the floor. 

Then, a turn -- and ahead, a small balcony. Alone, as usual -- the early-morning dusk, growing, lightening -- purples and blues and yellows, all flickering across the darkened orange of his fur. Out of his dark cloak, he produces two items -- again, the usuals. A small metal box -- he flicks it, and a calm tune begins to play, the orchestra sangfroidically holding their notes. It matches perfectly. 

Then, a book -- worn leather makes it too hard to tell just what it speaks of, but anyone observing him can clearly see that he's engrossed. Curled up dog-like across the balcony, book in front, he gazes out at the city beyond -- seasons glimmering as building lights slowly flicker on. The beauty is immense, and he's here to enjoy it -- for of course, even cat burglars deserve a day off the job. 

 *Just so i know, where exactly is he right now? Not like the exact building, but which district*

 *yeah, this is coool.. but, like, is this his arrival? cause, the point of the thread is that it happens in the city*

*Oh sorry I meant to put it in there but I forgot. He's in Autumn*

Quote from SalemTheArtificer >>

Quote from EJODM18604 >>

Quote from SalemTheArtificer >>

Quote from EJODM18604 >>

 "If I cannot agree with my... peers... about the fate of a soul it is your duty to resolve the argument and judge for yourself. Surely you read the letter I sent you last century?"

 "I told you I do not read my mail when it's not my working season... Apologies, dear. Tell me the facts, then. What is so wrong about this mortal?" She reaches for the lamp, inspecting it if he allows her to grab it

 Erlok doesn't move. The lamp is cold to the touch, with multiple blue lights moving around inside. one is larger than then others, with a more defined teardrop shape, and it appears to be locked to a spike where the wick on a normal lantern would be. "She was selling information. Very... sensitive information, regarding our history, to unscrupulous sources. She was found guilty, but my fellow judges could not agree on a punishment for her. I personally believe she should be executed."

 "I'm inclined to agree. Get rid of the rat, will you, dear?"She smiles and hands the lamp back to Erlok, patting his shoulder.

 "Gladly, my lady." Erlok tosses the lamp into the air. It floats there, suspended, and Yuki can see the faint outline of a human woman, a look of pure fear on her face. Erlok grasps the sickle at his belt, using the chain attaching it to the lantern to pull the soul closer. Yuki can hear faint screaming. 
Erlok slashes the sickle across the woman's throat. The screaming stops, the the souls slowly fades, melting back into the lantern. Another small light appears within it, and Erlok takes the lantern back. "Ahh... To have a clear head again..." Erlok sighs.

Quote from Weslockes >>

Quote from SalemTheArtificer >>

Quote from EJODM18604 >>

Quote from Weslockes >>

Spluttering -- curses -- then, finally, candlelight flickers into existence. The small room Lyriél inhabits -- plaster peeling off the walls, ceiling cracking, yet the faint glimmer of jewels, tucked away under the bed -- is departed by its inhabitant, the gentle swish of two orange tails against the marble floor of the hallway the only parting gift. 

The halls are cold and silent, devoid of all warmth of the daytime. Alone, Lyriél pads through the dark, plodding gently towards his destination. The dark closes in on his little candle, threatening to snuff it out -- his pace increases, paws briskly tapping the floor. 

Then, a turn -- and ahead, a small balcony. Alone, as usual -- the early-morning dusk, growing, lightening -- purples and blues and yellows, all flickering across the darkened orange of his fur. Out of his dark cloak, he produces two items -- again, the usuals. A small metal box -- he flicks it, and a calm tune begins to play, the orchestra sangfroidically holding their notes. It matches perfectly. 

Then, a book -- worn leather makes it too hard to tell just what it speaks of, but anyone observing him can clearly see that he's engrossed. Curled up dog-like across the balcony, book in front, he gazes out at the city beyond -- seasons glimmering as building lights slowly flicker on. The beauty is immense, and he's here to enjoy it -- for of course, even cat burglars deserve a day off the job. 

 *Just so i know, where exactly is he right now? Not like the exact building, but which district*

 *yeah, this is coool.. but, like, is this his arrival? cause, the point of the thread is that it happens in the city*

*Oh sorry I meant to put it in there but I forgot. He's in Autumn*

 *👍

*gtg now. Pretty good timing*

Quote from Weslockes >>

Spluttering -- curses -- then, finally, candlelight flickers into existence. The small room Lyriél inhabits -- plaster peeling off the walls, ceiling cracking, yet the faint glimmer of jewels, tucked away under the bed -- is departed by its inhabitant, the gentle swish of two orange tails against the marble floor of the hallway the only parting gift. 

The halls are cold and silent, devoid of all warmth of the daytime. Alone, Lyriél pads through the dark, plodding gently towards his destination. The dark closes in on his little candle, threatening to snuff it out -- his pace increases, paws briskly tapping the floor. 

Then, a turn -- and ahead, a small balcony. Alone, as usual -- the early-morning dusk, growing, lightening -- purples and blues and yellows, all flickering across the darkened orange of his fur. Out of his dark cloak, he produces two items -- again, the usuals. A small metal box -- he flicks it, and a calm tune begins to play, the orchestra sangfroidically holding their notes. It matches perfectly. 

Then, a book -- worn leather makes it too hard to tell just what it speaks of, but anyone observing him can clearly see that he's engrossed. Curled up dog-like across the balcony, book in front, he gazes out at the city beyond -- seasons glimmering as building lights slowly flicker on. The beauty is immense, and he's here to enjoy it -- for of course, even cat burglars deserve a day off the job. 

 The wind blows heavily in Autumn, carrying dead leaves with it, and smells from far away. It's strong, so much so that it drowns out the sound of the small box. The leaves pile up on the balcony, eventually forming a rough figure of a man before disappearing.

His paws rap on the railing of the balcony, the moonlight reflecting off his lighter fur. He carries himself with ego, pride, and the very air is thick with his raw power. Each of his nine tails flow behind him, independently of eachother, flowing, ebbing, obbing, entrancing

Quote from EJODM18604 >>

 "Gladly, my lady." Erlok tosses the lamp into the air. It floats there, suspended, and Yuki can see the faint outline of a human woman, a look of pure fear on her face. Erlok grasps the sickle at his belt, using the chain attaching it to the lantern to pull the soul closer. Yuki can hear faint screaming. 
Erlok slashes the sickle across the woman's throat. The screaming stops, the the souls slowly fades, melting back into the lantern. Another small light appears within it, and Erlok takes the lantern back. "Ahh... To have a clear head again..." Erlok sighs.

 Yuki turns away from the sight, leaning on the balcony and facing the entrance into the palace.

"Glad that it soothes you, dear. How long were it you were debating what to do with her?"

Quote from SalemTheArtificer >>

Quote from EJODM18604 >>

 "Gladly, my lady." Erlok tosses the lamp into the air. It floats there, suspended, and Yuki can see the faint outline of a human woman, a look of pure fear on her face. Erlok grasps the sickle at his belt, using the chain attaching it to the lantern to pull the soul closer. Yuki can hear faint screaming. 
Erlok slashes the sickle across the woman's throat. The screaming stops, the the souls slowly fades, melting back into the lantern. Another small light appears within it, and Erlok takes the lantern back. "Ahh... To have a clear head again..." Erlok sighs.

 Yuki turns away from the sight, leaning on the balcony and facing the entrance into the palace.

"Glad that it soothes you, dear. How long were it you were debating what to do with her?"

 "Five days." Erlok says.

Quote from SalemTheArtificer >>

Quote from Weslockes >>

Spluttering -- curses -- then, finally, candlelight flickers into existence. The small room Lyriél inhabits -- plaster peeling off the walls, ceiling cracking, yet the faint glimmer of jewels, tucked away under the bed -- is departed by its inhabitant, the gentle swish of two orange tails against the marble floor of the hallway the only parting gift. 

The halls are cold and silent, devoid of all warmth of the daytime. Alone, Lyriél pads through the dark, plodding gently towards his destination. The dark closes in on his little candle, threatening to snuff it out -- his pace increases, paws briskly tapping the floor. 

Then, a turn -- and ahead, a small balcony. Alone, as usual -- the early-morning dusk, growing, lightening -- purples and blues and yellows, all flickering across the darkened orange of his fur. Out of his dark cloak, he produces two items -- again, the usuals. A small metal box -- he flicks it, and a calm tune begins to play, the orchestra sangfroidically holding their notes. It matches perfectly. 

Then, a book -- worn leather makes it too hard to tell just what it speaks of, but anyone observing him can clearly see that he's engrossed. Curled up dog-like across the balcony, book in front, he gazes out at the city beyond -- seasons glimmering as building lights slowly flicker on. The beauty is immense, and he's here to enjoy it -- for of course, even cat burglars deserve a day off the job. 

 The wind blows heavily in Autumn, carrying dead leaves with it, and smells from far away. It's strong, so much so that it drowns out the sound of the small box. The leaves pile up on the balcony, eventually forming a rough figure of a man before disappearing.

His paws rap on the railing of the balcony, the moonlight reflecting off his lighter fur. He carries himself with ego, pride, and the very air is thick with his raw power. Each of his nine tails flow behind him, independently of eachother, flowing, ebbing, obbing, entrancing

Lyriél would have missed the arrival of anyone else, but Omi's attention is too much to avoid. He quickly shuts his book, a small cloud of dust wreathing where it had been, and stands himself up on his four legs, approaching Omi's side. "How do you do, o Great One?" he asks, hoping that a bit of flattery could open up some new prospects for him -- or perhaps, the same with a few books.

Quote from EJODM18604 >>

 "Five days." Erlok says.

 "Next time it becomes longer than two, come to me immediately. I cannot have my servants with muddled thoughts."

Quote from Weslockes >>

Lyriél would have missed the arrival of anyone else, but Omi's attention is too much to avoid. He quickly shuts his book, a small cloud of dust wreathing where it had been, and stands himself up on his four legs, approaching Omi's side. "How do you do, o Great One?" he asks, hoping that a bit of flattery could open up some new prospects for him -- or perhaps, the same with a few books.

 He looks down, slightly confused, all curious. "One that chooses to stand on all four of his paws. Interesting"

Omi sits down, crossing his legs and adjusting his kimono, gete clicking on the floor. "One with good intentions does not usually arrive in the dead hours, but that's just from my experience..."

Striding through the streets of Autumn is a young tigerfolk, wearing a black cloak and a mask with a skull on it. He smells of decay and fire, of autumn, and his eyes shine with the white glow of death. 

Quote from Bananer28046 >>

Striding through the streets of Autumn is a young tigerfolk, wearing a black cloak and a mask with a skull on it. He smells of decay and fire, of autumn, and his eyes shine with the white glow of death. 

 The wind seems to follow him, bringing leaves, smells, and a bit of trickery. He trips up now and then, either on his cloak or his tail, or just nothing at all

*Is he a mink follower?*

Quote from SalemTheArtificer >>

Quote from Bananer28046 >>

Striding through the streets of Autumn is a young tigerfolk, wearing a black cloak and a mask with a skull on it. He smells of decay and fire, of autumn, and his eyes shine with the white glow of death. 

 The wind seems to follow him, bringing leaves, smells, and a bit of trickery. He trips up now and then, either on his cloak or his tail, or just nothing at all

*Is he a mink follower?*

 *nope.* 

The tiger carries a staff with a small mouse skull on it, the staff seems to be made of a strange black metal. 

Quote from Bananer28046 >>

Quote from SalemTheArtificer >>

Quote from Bananer28046 >>

Striding through the streets of Autumn is a young tigerfolk, wearing a black cloak and a mask with a skull on it. He smells of decay and fire, of autumn, and his eyes shine with the white glow of death. 

 The wind seems to follow him, bringing leaves, smells, and a bit of trickery. He trips up now and then, either on his cloak or his tail, or just nothing at all

*Is he a mink follower?*

 *nope.* 

The tiger carries a staff with a small mouse skull on it, the staff seems to be made of a strange black metal. 

 "Halt. State your business." A firm paw stops him from walking forward, pushing on his chest. The owner of the paw is Omi, eyes narrowed as he peers into the tiger's mask

Quote from SalemTheArtificer >>

Quote from Bananer28046 >>

Quote from SalemTheArtificer >>

Quote from Bananer28046 >>

Striding through the streets of Autumn is a young tigerfolk, wearing a black cloak and a mask with a skull on it. He smells of decay and fire, of autumn, and his eyes shine with the white glow of death. 

 The wind seems to follow him, bringing leaves, smells, and a bit of trickery. He trips up now and then, either on his cloak or his tail, or just nothing at all

*Is he a mink follower?*

 *nope.* 

The tiger carries a staff with a small mouse skull on it, the staff seems to be made of a strange black metal. 

 "Halt. State your business." A firm paw stops him from walking forward, pushing on his chest. The owner of the paw is Omi, eyes narrowed as he peers into the tiger's mask

The mask is made of a white metal, with a few cracks and dents in it. The tail of the tiger dances through the air and the cloak flutters in the wind. The eyes reflect moonshine and firelight, and the expression the tiger wears is... strange. "Is a fellow not allowed to take a walk?" He asks. His voice is soft, deep, calm. He seems bored, maybe even sleepy. 

Quote from SalemTheArtificer >>

Quote from Weslockes >>

Lyriél would have missed the arrival of anyone else, but Omi's attention is too much to avoid. He quickly shuts his book, a small cloud of dust wreathing where it had been, and stands himself up on his four legs, approaching Omi's side. "How do you do, o Great One?" he asks, hoping that a bit of flattery could open up some new prospects for him -- or perhaps, the same with a few books.

 He looks down, slightly confused, all curious. "One that chooses to stand on all four of his paws. Interesting"

Omi sits down, crossing his legs and adjusting his kimono, gete clicking on the floor. "One with good intentions does not usually arrive in the dead hours, but that's just from my experience..."

"I have only good intentions," Lyriél replies. "Just reading a book in the early morning -- nothing short of perfect." 

Quote from Bananer28046 >>

Quote from SalemTheArtificer >>

Quote from Bananer28046 >>

Quote from SalemTheArtificer >>

Quote from Bananer28046 >>

Striding through the streets of Autumn is a young tigerfolk, wearing a black cloak and a mask with a skull on it. He smells of decay and fire, of autumn, and his eyes shine with the white glow of death. 

 The wind seems to follow him, bringing leaves, smells, and a bit of trickery. He trips up now and then, either on his cloak or his tail, or just nothing at all

*Is he a mink follower?*

 *nope.* 

The tiger carries a staff with a small mouse skull on it, the staff seems to be made of a strange black metal. 

 "Halt. State your business." A firm paw stops him from walking forward, pushing on his chest. The owner of the paw is Omi, eyes narrowed as he peers into the tiger's mask

The mask is made of a white metal, with a few cracks and dents in it. The tail of the tiger dances through the air and the cloak flutters in the wind. The eyes reflect moonshine and firelight, and the expression the tiger wears is... strange. "Is a fellow not allowed to take a walk?" He asks. His voice is soft, deep, calm. He seems bored, maybe even sleepy. 

 "Forgive me. I am leery of cloak-ed beings in my domain. Off with the mask at least, lest I be unable to identify you in case of crime."