Bad Luck/Prologue

Part 1

In a world not very different from ours, the continent of Australia was never quite «conquered» by the Englishmen, but rather the Aborigines – The People – allowed them to settle there, as long as some rules were being kept. Traditions must be upheld. The Stories must be told.

The continent kept its old name: Anangu.

Today, the White Man is still the dominant on Anangu – probably because there were never that many of The People to begin with. They keep mostly to the Red Centre, the desert that dominates the western middle part of the continent. Meanwhile, the coast is littered with White Man's cities.

One of those cities is Cairns, a small and seemingly insignificant town by the north-east coast, at the bottom of the Cape York Peninsula and the top of the Great Barrier Reef. Its main attraction is a university of which the administration is quite proud, in connection with a decent, if not particularly big, hospital. Like everything on Anangu, culture is important to Cairns, and they host a popular library and a theatre. The latter can boast of good relations with the local Aborigines, which is never a bad thing.

There is more going on in Cairns than meets the eye, though, although you could probably say that about any place on the continent, if not in the world itself.

And some unlucky few are about to get a closer look at exactly what goes on beneath the surface...

Cynthia Hawk

There is nothing special about you. Okay, so you're a unique individual with your own quirks and specialties, but so are everybody else. There is no reason why you should be having these dreams. Or is there? You can't help but think that there is something frightfully familiar about them, like something from a half-forgotten dream... Well, ha ha. That's exactly what they are anyway, right? Dreams. Maybe it's just some sort of Deja Vu – people have those all the time. It doesn't have to mean that you've met HER before; that horrible, magnificent, alluring, terrifying, magical Lady of the Lake. Besides, that's exactly it. These are dreams about magic. There is nothing scientific about it whatsoever. It's stupid, really, and you've tried telling your mind as much with several concoctions, most of them of your own invention. Tonics against sleep. Tonics against dreams. Pills to drive you so far into the sleep cycle that dreams become out of the question, and remembering them even more impossible. There are pills for everything nowadays, and you know how to medicate yourself. And science always prevails, right? So you keep experimenting. Your mind is your own, and you'll find the ways to keep it like that.

Useless. Every night she rises like smoke from her glassy pond in your mind, and somehow - although you choose not to believe yourself - you know that it won't be long till she rises out of your dreams, and into everyone's nightmares...

We shall start with Cynthia Hawk, a young prodigy studying at the university and working in the hospital. She has lived in Cairns all her life, first with her father, and later, when he died (disappeared?) on her own.

As we start our story, Cynthia is in her lab at the hospital. She got it for a project she's doing at the university, involving chemistry and some disease or other. It has, as of late, turned rather frustrating. She's disturbed from her work as a hospital nurse enters the lab with a worried expression.

Cynthia looks up at the nurse walking inside, disturbing her and making her more frustrated on her work. Cold eyes looked into the nurse's.

CYNTHIA

Do you need anything, nurse?

The nurse wrings her hands. She's not much younger than Cynthia, but obviously inexperienced.

NURSE

Miss Hawke, it's the patient in room 241... I wouldn't bother you, but the doctor isn't here, and... I'm afraid we might be losing her.

Cynthia remembers the one she speaks of. One of the aboriginals, the dark people who lived on Anangu before civilized people found the island-continent. Some hikers found her out in the bush, passed out, and brought her to the hospital. Nobody's been able to determine what exactly it is that ails her, but it's some sort of wasting disease. Cynthia's been contacted for expertise twice before.

Cynthia thinks about it; she could gain some experience and information about it if it'd work.

CYNTHIA

Very well Nurse, I will see what is wrong with her. Meanwhile, try to get one of the other doctors there as well. Who knows that we need more of them.

Cynthia puts down her work and leaves to room 241, to the aboriginal that requires her aid.

As she enters the room a pungent smell enters her nose and she quickly drags up her surgical mask. Another nurse is hovering over the patient, cleaning her body with a wet towel. She's painfully thin, with several cords connected to her frail form, administering fluids and keeping track of her unstable vitals.

Cynthia eyes the frail figure that lies on the bed. Something made her go back to being unstable.

CYNTHIA

(almost snapping at the nurse cleaning the patient)

When did her vitals drop to unstable again and did you give her the medicine that she needs?

Cynthia moves forward to the bed and checks her vitals, trying to find out what is wrong with the young woman. (int+medicine+equipment bonus of 3=10dice yields 6 success)

Cynthia expertly and in barely any time at all deduces that the nurse was right to worry. Despite the medication your strange patient has been given, and despite the fact that she did seem to be stabilizing for a while, she's definitely failing fast now. It would also seem like her body has given up - if she was unplugged she wouldn't last very long at all. Knowing how hard it is to save a body that isn't helping with its own natural stamina, it would be tempting to give up on her. And not waste any more expensive medical substances better distributed elsewhere.

Cynthia, knowing what is wrong with the patient, knows that trying anything would be useless. It pains her to see someone suffer or die and she wasn't able to help them. Cynthia sighs, what must be done must be done. As sad as it is. Cynthia straightens her back and looks at the nurse.

CYNTHIA

You can stop now nurse, her body is failing. There is nothing what we can do to help her, her own body has given up the fight.

Cynthia eyes the patient with pain in her eyes, another one she couldn't save.

CYNTHIA

(looking back at the nurse)

Get the other nurse back in here; I will give her a time of death. Start unplugging her.

With cold eyes Cynthia helps the nurse unplug the patient.

As Cynthia leans forwards to take the drip out of the black woman's nose, her patient suddenly and with great strength grabs hold of her arm!

ABORIGINAL

(rasping)

You are also hers!

The aboriginal falls back onto her pillow.

From the fancy heart-beat box ((*shifty eyes*)) comes the long, even tone that signals the failing of the heart.

Shock enters Cynthia's eyes, did she... She must be. But how? How did she know? Thousands of other questions came up in Cynthia's head. She shakes her head; now is not the time to think about that. Without even looking back at the nurse – who doesn't seem to have noticed anything strange whatsoever – she keeps her eyes to the now dead patient.

CYNTHIA

Nurse, Time of death: 18:37, [date], [year].

With that she starts unplugging the woman, still having chills going over her back.

Cynthia ponders what just happened. It seems like the nurse didn't see it happen. Did it happen or was she imaging things? Either way this gives more questions than answers. She shakes her head slightly again. Now is not the time Cynthia! Someone just died, in a strange way but still. She keeps working and helps the nurse, feeling quite alert of what the now dead patient said to her.

While she's got keys to stay around after regular hours, she's decided to leave the hospital, as the earlier incident has her seeing dark shadows all over the white walls. She exits through the main entrance, passing that horrible activist who's been keeping her stand by the reception lately. She wants the hospital to abolish the use of several controversial substances, many of which Cynthia actively uses. She's currently packing up her booth, but glares viciously at Cynthia as she passes.

Cynthia Hawk walked away, on high alert cause of jumping shadows. Walking past the activist she notices the glare the woman sends her. She gives her an cold glare back, what she uses save lives, something better than standing in a booth the whole day doing nothing. Trying not to get more irritated at the woman she quickly keeps walking, heading home.

Since the park is closed, she walks around it rather than taking the shortcut through. Before she's come far, though, the activist woman, Rose, comes running up behind her.

Cynthia Hawk hears someone behind her running and looks behind her. Seeing the woman that stood in front of the hospital the whole day in the booth. She wondered why she was following her; doesn't she have other things to do?

ROSE

Hey! Hey, wait up! There's an aboriginal at the hospital; do you know her?

As she comes up, her sneer is replaced by a worried look. Cynthia looks at the woman with cold eyes.

CYNTHIA

I shouldn't be saying anything about patients in the hospital. Why do you ask?

She eyes the woman. Curious why she asked her about the woman that just died this day.

ROSE

I'm the one who found her. Me and two friends; we were hiking just a ways up-river. I'd just like to know if she's gonna be okay. Last I asked I didn't get very much of a reply...

Cynthia eyes the woman, sympathy in her eyes.

CYNTHIA

Normally I wouldn't say anything about patients, but... Since you found her, you and your friend are the only ones that have some relation to her. I...

She sighs. This is always hard to do.

CYNTHIA

I am sorry to say this to you, but she... passed away today.

Cynthia looks into the eyes of the woman, trying to see any kind of emotion in them.

The activist looks first startled, then resigned.

ROSE

Well, she was in a bad shape. My friends say we should just be happy it wasn't anything contagious.

(intelligence+empathy check to read her mood=3 yields 2 success)

Cynthia realizes that the activist really holds genuine concern for the dead woman, and is disgusted at her friends for not showing the same level of empathy. Maybe she isn't as bad as Cyn thought when seeing her booth from the side, though she's clearly misguided.

Cynthia understands the true genuine concern about the woman that had passed away. The woman might not have been as bad as she first thought, she might be a friendly woman. At least it would be polite to give her name, as being the one who gave the time of dead.

CYNTHIA

Again my apologies, ...Miss. I was the doctor that gave the time of death. The name is Cynthia Hawke.

She holds a hand towards the woman. Who knows she might be someone worth giving a try.

ROSE

(taking Cynthia's hand)

Rose. Rose Green.

(she makes a face, and sighs theatrically)

My parents fight for the rainforest.

Then her head drops again.

ROSE

(muttering)

I can't believe she's gone. She seemed so strong, and... well, she was a fighter. Even had a spear. Old-fashioned, I know, but the natives are that much closer to the land. It doesn't seem right that she should die while - well.

(she blushes slightly, then laughs awkwardly)

Sorry, I don't mean to ramble. Hey, would you like to go grab a drink? It could be, like, her wake.

Cynthia takes Rose's hand and shakes it.

CYNTHIA

Even the strong can fall, as sad as it is. And sure, why not, I have nothing else to do for now.

Cynthia smiles, a rare smile at the antics of the woman.

CYNTHIA

Shall we go to the Back Alley bar? It's nearby. While there we could talk more about her.

She nods her head towards the general way of the bar. Rose agrees, and presently, they arrive.

Bartleby Johansen

There is nothing special about you. Okay, so you're a unique individual with your own quirks and specialties, but so are everybody else. There is no reason why you should be having these dreams. They've become an obsession, and probably not a particularly good one. If you had any relationships they would've been long gone, as all you can think about is HER. That wonderful creature of light and shadow, regal atop of her larger-than-life lynx. You don't even know her face. Maybe she's veiled, maybe you just forget it upon waking, but you have no idea what she looks like. And all the same she keeps following you around, as it were; even into the waking world. It was quite the shock when, in the middle of an elaborate tale, you found yourself describing everything you could remember about her to a total stranger, whom instead of gifting you with money gave you a look as if you were mad and hurried along. Are you going mad? It's difficult to say, but you certainly have been plagued by various symptoms. And by cats. Where have all those darn cats come from, anyway? Sometimes, it's almost like they're following you. Watching you. Some of them aren't exactly cats, either. But what can you do? Telling animal control that you're being stalked by a lynx isn't very likely to have a positive outcome, now, is it.

It wouldn't be so bad if only you knew what she looked like, though. And if your potential madness is going to chase away most customers anyway, you might as well just stick to chasing her through your dreams...

Bartleby Johansen has been in Cairns for a while now, by his own standards, and the time might be coming for moving on. He's a travelling storyteller. There's always someone needs stories somewhere, and his are among the best. That's not pride saying that, or at least not just pride. While he might not look too impressive on the outside, in his ragged coat (Ruin), leaning tall and thin on his stick (The Equaliser), his mind is truly a place of wonders.

At the beginning of this tale, which is his by actions rather than words, Bartleby is looking for cats in the park. He's got his reasons. The park will be closing pretty soon; it's already dark. There are two other people in there, though; one little girl up past her bedtime and a teenager boy. He's seen the girl before; she's often in the background if he tells a tale, sometimes listening intently - mostly for the more tall tales - or rolling her eyes and running to the swing, if it's a woe-tale.

BARTLE

Hey, kid. Shouldn't you be home by now? Don't you know what happens to children when the darkness falls on this park?

(he pauses for effect)

They get eaten by Moonfang, the cat from the stars.

The little girl giggles, a little uncertainly, and looks up at Bartleby.

AMY

I'm allowed to be here until they close. Dad'll pick me up when he comes with the keys. Are there really cats in the stars?

Bartleby Johansen sits down next to the child.

BARTLE

Just one, these nights. Cats are very jealous, and Moonfang didn't like the other cats in the sky.

So, when it felt like it, it would eat up the other cats in the sky, and only left behind their eyes, and those eyes made the stars.

Think of that when you look up. All those stars are the victims of the last cat of the night. Looking down, helplessly, as Moonfang prowls our night.

The little girl gasps, but then nods thoughtfully.

AMY

Cats do have eyes like stars. But mustn't they be very big for us to see from all the way down here?!

BARTLE

Of course! The cats of night were very big. How else would they eat little girls? Earthcats only have little tummies.

The little girl looks slightly less comfortable, her eyes big and shiny.

AMY

But they don't eat grown-ups, right? If I stay with you until daddy comes I'll be safe.

Bartleby Johansen makes a show of considering the question.

BARTLE

Hmm. Probably. Cats are, of course, scaredy. Even Moonfang probably wouldn't try to eat you with me here.

Probably.

Frezak: And he's gonna get picked up for talking to a little girl late at night. Yay.

The girl nods, not quite sure if she should be comforted or not, when suddenly a cat shoots out of the bushes, hissing violently. Simultaneously, loud cursing can be heard from the other side of the hedge.

The voice sounds like a male youth. The cursing is not imaginative.

The cat is large, but otherwise seems like a normal house-cat. Just well-fed, probably.

Turning towards the cursing, Bartleby sees some hair that looks like it might be the teenage boy that was around earlier.

Still cursing, the youth steps around the bushes, glaring at the cat. His hand is bleeding. Noticing the pair of you, he self-consciously shuts up.

YOUTH

(mostly at Bartleby)

Sorry. I've been chasing this beast for ages now and, well. So much for gratitude! Stupid animal...

Bartleby Johansen nods at the girl.

BARTLE

Scaredy, jealous, and ungrateful.

The cat puts its tail high and majestically pads over to Bartleby, rubbing against his leg.

Bartleby Johansen frowns at the cat.

The cat looks up at Bartleby blinking once. They're silvery, the reflecting light making them shine like stars.

Frezak: Well, fuck. I'M GOING TO GET EATEN, GUYS.

Bartleby Johansen shoos it away with his foot.

The cat gives an offended meow, but doesn't go away. The youth gives you a queer look while edging closer.

YOUTH

Never seen her act like that with strangers before... Don't move, though; this is probably the best chance I'll have all night.

He's holding a collar in his uninjured hand.

The cat makes a sound halfway between a purring and a growl, but pounces away the moment the youth touches her fur. And in the process, manages to knock Bartleby over - though as it does so, it feels much, much larger than it was, reaching well above his hip. The youth curses again, but the little girl looks after the cat with huge eyes, making a scared gasping sound.

Bartleby gets up and swears loudly at the cat.

YOUTH

Well, I give up. She'll come home when she wants to. And instead of expensive food, the beast'll probably feed off little birdies. Mum'll kill me.

Bartleby Johansen shrugs.

BARTLE

Cats.

The youth sighs, rubbing a hand through his hair.

AMY

That wasn't a cat.

Bartleby Johansen shivers.

BARTLE

What do you mean?

The girl shudders, but turns it into a shrug with a bit of effort. Then she smiles.

AMY

Maybe it was Moonfang?

BARTLE

Hah! Maybe it was.

The little girl jumps at the sound of footsteps from behind, turning away with a huge grin.

AMY

(running towards the man coming down the path)

Daddy!

He picks her up with a laugh and comes up to others.

AMY'S DAD

(dangling a key before him)

We're closing now, guys. Time to get going.

Bartleby Johansen nods and walks out, keeping a paranoid eye on nearby bushes.

He hasn't earned much money today (expression+tales+resolve-1 small crowd-1 distracting dreams=3 dice yields 0 successes) but decides to go to the bar anyway. He's Bartleby the Magnificent. He can mooch a drink.

Bartleby keeps having that feeling, and particularly sees glints of light everywhere, like the starry eyes of cats... But he makes it safely to the bar without seeing any more of the things.

Finn Kovlovsky

There is nothing special about you. Okay, so you're a unique individual with your own quirks and specialties, but so are everybody else. There is no reason why you should be having these dreams. And to be honest, they're starting to scare you. That they've turned you into an insomniac, unable to sleep for more than a couple of hours each night, is one thing - but they've started seeping into your reality as well. Only three days ago you could swear that you were not alone when you looked into the mirror: Right behind your left shoulder, smiling teasingly, you could clearly see HER, the dreadful woman who stalks your every sleeping moment. When you turned to look she was gone, of course, but you know what you saw. After all, that gnarled face of thorns and bloodied roses is the only thing you've been painting for weeks, now. It's endlessly frustrating. No matter the motive, no matter the idea, no matter the careful intent – there she is. To begin with, you didn't even notice that subtle change in the face of the ever-present woman. But for each painting she's come closer. Grander. When she ate the boy was when you discovered that you couldn't stop painting, either; rather you've felt compelled to spend more and more time with the aquarelles. And now she's the only object left on the canvas. She's close; so very close.

But meanwhile, in your dreams, she's running away from you, her laughter teasing, and as fast as you run, you cannot catch her...

Finn Kovlovsky used to be in the army. Fought in a war. His prize for that was a crippled leg, which, considering how he was already a dwarf, means walking isn't something he does eagerly nowadays. He's retired now, of course, and lives off a mixture of funds and what he can earn from painting, having become a somewhat accomplished artist in his later years. His work consists mainly of landscapes, and even Cynthia has bought a couple of his better pieces. Nowadays, however, his inspiration has been in other avenues, and while he's become quite obsessed with working, he fears where the art is taking him, and would prefer to break away. It's just... not as easy as it ought to be.

Right now, Finn is trying to tear himself away from his atelier, resisting the urge to paint, and actually leave the house. (resolve+composure=4 dice yield 1 success)

Finn picks up a brush, bites his lip looking at the blank canvas, eyes wandering to his other recent projects. With a great effort he puts the brush back down and goes out the door, barely even noticing where his feet are taking him. Of course, there are few places a man can go at this time. It's not really a surprise when he finds himself in the narrow alleyway leading to the bar.

Finn looks at the door to the bar for a moment, before turning back with a sigh. Drinking probably wasn't the best idea while thinking so hard about not doing other things. He turns to leave just as someone starts singing inside, a lovely melody seeping through the door.

Finn leans on the cane, peeking around into the window to try to see from whom the voice is coming.

(wits+athletics=6 dice yield 0 successes)

The window, however, is just slightly too high up, small and foggy, and he doesn't manage to get anything worthwhile through it.

Finn Kovlovsky emits a string of vulgarities, mostly to himself for his inability to do such a simple chore, but with fascination and curiosity taking hold, he hobbles as quickly as he can into the bar, hoping not to be noticed.

The bar isn't very crowded. There's the barmaid, of course, or barrista or whatever nice word one uses for them these days, and a couple of men seated sporadically around a small podium, sipping from various beverages. On stage is a pretty young lady - the singer. She's got a better voice than body, though neither is particularly exceptional. Still good enough that only one of the patrons turns as Finn enters, giving him a cursory glance before dismissing him.

Finn Kovlovsky looks at the bar stools and not wishing to push whatever luck he has left, he decides instead to stand awkwardly by the entrance, watching the woman on stage.

The song is about roses. It might be something weird based on sleeping beauty, but instead of a witch and a spinning wheel, the princess pricks her hand on the thorn of a rose, which then slowly saps the life out of her, using her energy to grow the most amazing hedge of blood-red roses.

Finn Kovlovsky grits his teeth several times during the song, forcing out images of the woman that haunts his mind. He enjoys the song regardless, and stays to the end, if only to hear the outcome of the story.

The ending of the song is difficult to piece out, but there was a prince, and a kiss, and... something got turned into crystal? The roses? And the prince died, but managed to revive the princess. She fled the place, but as soon as she got outside of the rose-hedge, she withered up and died. After all, a hundred years had passed.

The patrons clap and cheer as the singer takes a bow. She looks a little sad, and you wonder if anyone but you paid the lyrics any heed at all.

Finn Kovlovsky watches the woman after her performance, thinking she may be one of those few people that might be pleasurable to speak with. , he approaches her slowly, being careful not to allow the cane to make too much noise on the barroom floor.

FINN

Uh...excuse me, miss. That was a nice story you sang there - where'd you learn it?

The singer looks a little startled, and smiles shyly at Finn. She seems to be one of those people who are far more comfortable on the stage than in "real life".

SINGER

I, ah, I wrote it. Actually. It's... based on a dream I had. I know it's not very good.

Finn Kovlovsky shrugs.

FINN

It's better than most of the shit that they sing in here.

The singer smiles wider, but attempts to hide it behind her glass of whatever she's drinking. Then she collects herself and mutters a "thank you" over the rim.

Finn Kovlovsky thinks quickly trying to make small-talk, a skill he once had but lost over the years. He smiles up at her.

FINN

I hope you'll sing it again sometime.

The singer shakes her head with a small, bitter laugh.

SINGER

I doubt it. Most of the crowd prefers things with more sex, less death, and more dancing. And I need to earn my drinks and money, not just sing what I like.

FINN

Yeah, well, everyone loves a fuckin' love song.

Finn Kovlovsky sighs with annoyance.

SINGER

(nodding at Finn)

They do, don't they. Not you, though? No sweetheart back home?

FINN

I've sweetheart back home, but she ain't a lady.

(he stops for a moment, then realizes...)

And she ain't a man, either.

The singer laughs genuinely, a rich, tinkling sound.

SINGER

Well, then! I'm not going to guess at that riddle, but please tell me you're not some crazy person who's obsessed with his gun...

Finn Kovlovsky gives a dark stare for just a moment too long.

FINN

No... No.

The singer arches an eyebrow, but seems to decide to shrug it off and not inquire further.

FINN

Well - I'd love to tell you to not to worry what the other folks think, but we both know better than that. Maybe you'll have another dream or somethin'.

The singer looks uncomfortable at that, but nods.

SINGER

Another dream. Yes... I'm sure I will.

FINN

Well, uh...you have a good night then, miss.

The singer nods, smiling again.

SINGER

You too. It was... nice talking to you.

Finn Kovlovsky turns around and walks back to one of the tables in the corner and sits.

Convergence

A tall man in a tattered coat and with an impressive stick enters the bar, giving the room a calculating look-over. (wits+subterfuge=6 dice to look for people to buy Bartle a drink yields 1 success)

The man – Bartleby – sees that today's crowd contains several men drunk enough to maybe share some booze. There's a group in a corner that's just taken out a deck of cards, and two other likely pairs. He decides, however, to try his luck at the barmaid. She doesn't look like one easily tricked, but kind enough to maybe give credit or pay for entertainment in liquid money.

(manipulation+expression+1tales-1 opposing composure?5 dice yields 2 success at Bartle's attempt at persuading the barmaid with his tale of woe and sadness and poor financial states, with some compliments thrown in.)

The barmaid narrows her eyes, but laughs at one of the more elaborate phrases.

KEENE

Just this once, okay? My boss'll have my hide.

She winks at Bartleby as she hands him a drink, and he almost drops the glass - her eye was that of a cat, just then!

Bartle decides he's gonna be very gracious, drink up and get home.

BARTLE

(thinking)

This day is getting worse and worse. If it wasn't for my impecuniosity, I'd have said it was the drink doing things to me.

Another pair enters the bar – Rose and Cynthia. They go straight to the counter, sitting down a couple of stools over from Bartleby. Rose nods the barmaid over, whom excuses herself from the story-teller and comes to take their order.

CYNTHIA

(nodding at Rose)

Go ahead and order, I will take the same.

She then looks behind her, still keeping an eye on the patrons in the bar.

ROSE

Two beers, Mari. Salty, like my tears. We're in mourning.

The barmaid rolls her eyes, but hands out the glasses.

Cynthia takes hers with a puzzled expression - the liquid isn't beer at all, but entirely clear, like water.

Cynthia eyes the beer, then looks at Rose.

CYNTHIA

Rose, are you sure this is beer? It's clear... Isn't beer supposed to be... coloured?

She looks back at the drink, not trusting it.

Rose gives her a queer look, in the middle of consuming her own drink.

Cynthia looks back at Rose, an eyebrow raised. Still not trusting the drink.

CYNTHIA

It's different than what i'm normally used to.

Having downed her glass, Rose smiles broadly at her.

ROSE

Seeing how they came from the same tap, I'm willing to vouch for it. But if you don't want it...

Cynthia looks at the drink and then back at Rose.

CYNTHIA

No... I will give it a try.

Trying to hide a grin coming up, somehow she feels she can trust Rose in a way. Strange. She takes a sip of the drink, seeing that it tastes the same as normal beer.

CYNTHIA

In memory of the Aboriginal, may she rest in peace.

Quickly getting a re-fill, Rose clinks her glass to Cynthia's in a toast.

This really is salty beer, Cynthia thinks as she gulps it down. And then she realizes it doesn't taste like beer at all anymore, but is suddenly rather like tears - and what's more, instead of emptying, the glass is slowly filling up, very nearly spilling over the edge.

(wits+athletics=1 dice yields 1 success in not dropping the glass from shock)

Cynthia manages to hold on to the glass, and the water doesn't rise above the edge of it, though this abnormally full glass is certainly creepy enough without spilling over. The surface of it looks... almost glassy, so still and pristine. And then a figure rises out of it. While she must be tiny to fit in that glass, she manages to take up Cynthia's whole view. She looks exactly like she remembers; pale, in a dress made of the very water she's stood upon, and a white veil over her head. She can still see that huge grin under there, though - that mouthful of broken glass.

Her voice is like waterfalls and tinkling diamonds and mirrors breaking.

HER

It's time.

Her voice sounds like thunder to Bartleby. Or like the purring growl of that cat - Moonfang? - from before. He jumps in his seat, turning to look for a source, but seeing nothing. It's just that voice.

HER

(echo)

It's time.

Finn feels the kiss against his ear, soft as flower-petals, but there are thorns to the voice that follows it. He doesn't need to turn his head to know there's nothing there. In his mind, his resolve not to paint must've broken down, for suddenly he can see the next painting perfectly before his eyes. The background is all that remains; a hedge of thorns. The subject is gone.

HER

(echo)

It's time.