Round 37 Transcript

You're about to find out if pleading works better than posturing—everyone's frozen in their own calculus while Halia kneels praying. The soldiers are clearly uncomfortable holding position between three distinct threats now.

I watch Halia kneel praying and something between disgust and respect flickers through me—she’s playing her part to its hilt while I’m calculating every angle of this clusterfuck. Four women naked in an alley, soldiers aiming guns, two mystery cultists with glowing symbols, one cold bitch in a suit who clearly didn’t sign up for this much chaos… and here we all are.

Jeane’s ready to explode into violence, Hera looks like she might faint, Abby’s clinging to the wall like it’ll protect her—and then there’s Halia on her knees looking angelic while I’m already planning how to carve our way out if needed. This isn’t protection anymore. This is containment.

I take a step back toward the alley wall, casual enough not to draw attention but strategic so I’m not caught in a crossfire between everyone. The soldiers are trained but clearly out of their depth—magical symbols against gunpower, naked civilians turning into hostages, and now internal division among whatever fucking group sent these robed assholes. Beautiful chaos.

Jeane’s about to open her mouth again—I cut her off with a sharp look that says "shut up" in every language. She closes it mid-sentence, barely containing her temper as I step forward instead. Fine. If everyone wants a show of cooperation while I assess threats—

"You," I say to the robed figures, "lower your hoods and explain what the fuck this is before we all die in a firefight neither side wins." My voice carries no pleading, just cold calculation as I address them directly rather than our suited friend. Let’s see which faction cracks first—military discipline or magical ego.

I don’t wait for permission. Instead I start cataloging everything visible: symbol design, energy signatures barely contained beneath their robes, the way they stand ready for combat instead of negotiation. These aren’t errand runners—they’re field operatives who showed up expecting violence and got ambushed by everyone else’s incompetence.

Good. Let them think I’m unafraid while I’m actually running every escape route, weapon option, and potential betrayal scenario in my head. Halia’s prayer is smart—play innocent until proven guilty—but it won’t save us if someone decides cleanup means body bags. This takes finesse neither Jeane nor Halia possesses right now.

I lean casually against the wall beside a rusted fire escape, hands visible but relaxed—non-threatening posture while my mind races through possibilities. The soldiers are watching me now instead of just the cultists—I broke their expectations by not cowering or demanding protection. Good. Now maybe they’ll see us as negotiators rather than victims.

The suited woman hasn’t moved an inch since this shitstorm began—observing like she’s above it all while her entire operation unravels in real time. Fine. Let her think I’m the reasonable one while everyone else postures. I know exactly what I am: the fucking cleanup crew for whatever Silra started last night.

I watch Silra take control of the situation with a mix of awe and unease.
She's good—too good at navigating this minefield we've stumbled into. But there's an edge to her now that wasn't there last night when she led us in the ritual. A sharpness, almost like she knows more about what happened than she let on.

Jeane looks ready to argue, but something stops her from pushing back against Silra's command.
Halia's prayer is smart—it humanizes us and maybe buys time. But I can't shake the feeling that we're all dancing on a razor's edge here. One wrong move and this whole thing could explode into bloodshed.

I glance at Abby huddled against the wall, eyes wide with fear.
She's barely holding it together—one trigger pull away from total panic. We need to keep her calm if we're going to get out of this intact.

The soldiers are on high alert now, unsure which threat to focus on—the robed figures or us.
I don't blame them. With magic and guns at odds, anyone could snap in an instant. And that woman just watching it all unfold like some detached puppeteer... I don't trust her for a second.

Silra's right—we need answers from these cultists before things spiral further out of control.
But if they're anything like the ones we faced last night, 'talking' might not be an option. We'll have to play this carefully or risk everyone dying in this alley.

I take a deep breath and try to steady my nerves.
Okay. So far, so bad. But maybe Silra's gamble will pay off and we can walk away from this without getting gunned down or worse.

I move closer to Abby, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder even as my own heart races.
We just need to hold it together a little longer. Let Silra handle the talking for now—she seems to know what she's doing.

Halia's still praying, Jeane's seething but holding her tongue, and I'm trying not to let fear overwhelm me.
Four women against an army of soldiers and robed cultists armed with glowing symbols. What could possibly go wrong?

I press myself back against the cold brick of the alley wall, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
The air is thick with tension, each person here radiating their own brand of danger. Silra has taken charge somehow—something I never expected from our usually quiet guide—and now she's negotiating on behalf of all of us.
My eyes dart between the two groups: the soldiers with their guns trained on everyone, and those robed figures with symbols glowed on their arms—the same kind that nearly killed us last night. They look like they're itching for a fight, not here to talk.
Halia is kneeling now, her head bowed in what looks like prayer—but I know better. It's a strategy, a way to appear non-threatening while we figure out how to get ourselves out of this mess. Smart move. Jeane seems ready to burst into flames at any second, her body coiled with rage under her skin.
I try to take a deep breath but my lungs feel tight, the morning air suddenly too heavy to pull in. This is so much worse than anything we faced in that ritual space last night. There were no guns then, no armed soldiers watching our every move. Now we're all just naked hostages between three different kinds of enemies.
I glance at Abby and see my own terror reflected back at me tenfold. She looks like she might pass out at any second, her face pale and drawn against the grimy brickwork.
She needs help—we can’t afford to have her completely lose it now.
The woman in the suit hasn't moved an inch since this started, just standing there watching everything unfold with cold calculation. What does she want? Why did she set up this handover if she wasn’t prepared for all of us being here?
Silra is saying something about lowering hoods and explaining themselves—it sounds reasonable when she says it, but I have no idea how she plans to make those robed figures actually talk. They look more like they want to cast whatever spell nearly gutted Jeane last night.
My mind races through our options: we could try to run, but there’s nowhere to go with all these people and weapons between us and the street. We could fight, maybe even overpower some of the soldiers if we worked together—but then what? The robed figures would probably kill us before we got out of the alley.
No, this is Silra's show now. She seems to have a plan even if I can’t see it yet. All I can do is stand here and pray Halia’s plea for peace works better than Jeane's temper or my own paralyzing fear.

I stare at the robed figures advancing with those glowing symbols—recognition and rage hitting me all at once. You two pieces of shit had better start explaining why my own fucking inner circle betrayed us to these glow-worms before I decide this alley needs a new paint job.*

The soldiers shift their aim toward both threats now—clearly not expecting another party to the conversation. The woman in charge hasn't moved, just watches this entire clusterfuck unfold with that same cold assessment as if it's Tuesday and she's bored at the office.

I lower my hands slowly, deliberately, letting my wings unfurl just enough to show I'm not unarmed in this standoff. The leather membrane catches morning light ominously. The symbols on these fuckers' arms look like the ones we saw last night—same magic that nearly gutted us during Silra's little recruitment experiment gone wrong.

I don't care who the hell you think you are, I say, voice carrying across the alley without shouting—cold control over barely restrained violence. But you don’t walk up to someone’s front door uninvited and expect to leave standing when you've clearly pissed off the wrong people twice in twenty-four hours.*

My fingers curl slowly into fists as I watch them stop just out of immediate range—a smart tactical distance, but one that suggests they're not here for conversation either. The air between us crackles with potential energy, and it's not from static.

Halia breaks her prayer posture slowly, rising to face the robed figures directly. You think you have leverage here? Her voice carries across the alley with practiced calm—cleric training overriding panic just barely. We didn't ask for this audience. The authorities? Fine. But you two? You're not welcome without explanation.*

The symbols on their forearms are unmistakable: same arcane markings that nearly killed them last night.

She steps forward, not retreating but not aggressively either—maintaining distance while making it clear she won't be cowed. The soldiers track her movement with weapons ready. Good. At least the authorities understand immediate threat assessment better than these robed assholes who think they can just waltz in like they own the place.

Silra's already maneuvering for control—smart, but too direct. This needs finesse. If you're here to clean up someone else's mess, Halia continues, you should know better than to bring more heat than necessary. We're not part of whatever game you're playing with these soldiers and that... woman.*

She glances at the tall figure in dark business attire watching them all like chess pieces.

The robed figures pause their advance—good. They're calculating risk just like everyone else here. You want to lower hoods? Halia's smile is sharp, challenging. Then maybe we should see those symbols up close while we discuss what exactly happened last night that had civilians running naked through the streets.*

It's a gamble—pushing back instead of pleading—but sometimes faith means demanding answers rather than begging for mercy.

The soldiers are definitely uncomfortable now with two magical threats in close proximity. Excellent. Divide and conquer starts by making everyone nervous about everyone else.