i a m z u u l (iamzuul) wrote in poetic_minions,
i a m z u u l

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Now alone in the Cathedral, the bard lets his hands drop to his sides, still glaring in the direction the children HAD been, though no longer were. He could sense magic well enough to know exactly what had happened - that they had been teleported out of his grasp. FAR out of his grasp, he was sure. They had been planning on leaving when they pulled him up out of the basement, so it seemed only logical that the group was no longer within the Cathedral, or even within the CrossRealms. Which... well, sucked, really. Especially since he also was certain that it was Xane outside.

He let his eyes wander back towards the doors that led outside to the demons beyond, his frown fading. Who were those children? There was something.... something he couldn't quite touch on in his memory... were they familiar? He wasn't certain. Did he KNOW them? There was no way he could really remember. Those two were the ones Winter had spoken of... obviously, there weren't any other children wandering around the halls that Kestrel had zapped out to who-knew-where. With their hair coloring, they could have been Winter's... but she hadn't SPOKE of them as though they were hers. Did she even HAVE children? They looked old enough that he would have remembered them... if they were hers... long before .......

Reese frowned again and turned towards the hallway Winter had left out of, the one half-hidden behind a now-blood flecked tapestry. She had brought them out from behind there - perhaps he could find something on the other side that could... refresh his memory? Or perhaps lead to some kind of clue as to where they went. So he slugged through the blood, back through the shield that STILL held (as Winter's staff hadn't been transported, too) and up the stairs into the upper hallway. For the next hour or so he peeked randomly through the doors, checking out the mostly empty rooms, until he happened upon the one that the dysfunctional 'family' had lived in for the last few weeks. It was obvious that it WAS lived in, considering the dirty dishes in the kitchen - that, and the half-colored pictures that sat on the table, obviously from a child's hand.

He pulled the door partially closed behind him before moving towards the table, pausing by its side to lightly rest his fingers on one picture and turn it more upright to his view. It looked like a lizard, or a child's version of a lizard, scribbled in purple and colored mostly green with a little blue. Another frown touched his lips, and he tilted his head to the side, staring down at it. No, it wasn't it lizard - it was a dragon, though the wings weren't really defined. It wasn't half-bad, actually. Well, considering in most cases you had to ASK the kid what they drew; if one could figure out what it was at first glance, it was pretty good. He pushed the picture back to where it had been, ignoring the other and turning his attention towards one of the bedrooms. The first two yeilded nothing, little more than tousled beds and the curtains of one window pulled shut tight. On the other side, though, the first bedroom he entered obviously the one the children had stayed in. Again, pictures were scattered almost haphazardly on a small table in one corner, where the two had no doubt been collecting their images. He didn't bother looking through them - other than that, there was nothing in the room that really warranted investigation. A bag of jax and a doll didn't exactly tell him anything more than the crayola colorings did.

He was assaulted by a slight breeze when he pushed open the last door, as the window on the wall had been left pushed open. The curtains fluttered slightly with each breath of air, bringing the faint scent of the outdoors. Which contrasted greatly to the scent of blood that he couldn't exactly get rid of at the moment. >.< In this room, again, there was nothing that told him anything save for a pile of crumbled and shuffled papers on a small table, along with a vial of ink and a quill. None of the papers said anything - as though the writer had begun a thought and instantly became disatisfied after the first word. He only shuffled through them a moment before turning aside - it was obvious he'd find nothing there. The only other item left in the room was a small box on the bedside table.

The cover of the box was intricately carved, a rich cherry colored wood depicting a mountain scene overlaid with a celtic cross. He ran his finger lightly over the carvings, frowning lightly. Here, again, was something he couldn't quite wrap his mind around - only this he knew he HAD seen before, perhaps it had even BEEN his ... but he could attach any kind of value to it, whether it had really meant something to him in order to tote it around for any number of years. Then he tipped the lid upwards, and frowned deeper at the silver flute that lay within, slowly begining to tarnish from lack of polish. This, though, he didn't move to touch, almost as though he wasn't certain what WOULD happen if he did. Why wouldn't they have taken this with them? Something made of silver, musical instrument or not, was still of value and useful as an item of trade. It would even be cut up and melted down. Not that HE would do such a thing. But nevertheless it was a thought.

Well, the whole trip ended up fairly useless. Not finding any sign of whether or not the troupe had a destination in mind certainly didn't help in the action of FINDING them again. The only thing he DID find was his brace of daggers, which really would have been a pain to search out if it wasn't for the fact that the magic attached to the one was too easy for him to follow. Yeah, just follow the rising sensation of nausea. >.< And so, sticking the one back "in his pants" and tossing the brace over his shoulder, he'd wander back down stairs over an hour later, to lightly push open one of the doors that made up the entrance to the Cathdral, and display the bloody scene within to those still waiting outside. Hopefully not to step on them rutting. >.<

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