The Fool’s Holy Grail

[Nerdycrow]

Danitz Dubois stepped of the steam locomotive, his boots landing with a thud on the form ground. A breeze passed him filled with the smell of smoke and coal.

Backlund was truly alive.

Workers moved in tireless rhythm, hoisting crates, rolling barrels, and barking orders as if the station itself was a great machine of flesh.

Beyond them, plumes of steam curled into the sky from distant factories, their ceaseless labor painting the horizon in a haze of smoke and progress. The dull clatter of metal, the hiss of steam valves, and the rhythmic pounding of hammers merged into a chorus that sang of hard labour.

Near the cobbled streets, carriages stood in neat rows, their drivers eyeing potential fares with a practiced mix of patience and opportunism. Some were simple hansoms, meant for those with moderate means, while others, with their polished lacquer and gold trim, waited for more distinguished clientele. Gentlemen in well-tailored coats and top hats strolled with the air of quiet authority, their polished shoes tapping against the stone. Ladies, draped in fine fabrics and adorned with tasteful jewelry, walked in pairs or small groups, their voices a pleasant murmur.

Danitz exhaled, smoothing his coat. It was as if he had taken a great toll on himself.

"Dog shit, why did that basterd want to me to come to Backlund?"

The rugged voice left the man.

Although the voice held a little confusion but fear would be evident as well.

What will he do next?

[1] Secure Lodging
[2] Find a place to Eat
[3] Immediately try and complete his task.

 

[Nerdycrow]

Quest Information

Narrative-Driven: This quest is purely narrative, meaning there are no dice rolls or mechanical systems in play. The focus is on storytelling, atmosphere, and character choices.

Player Agency: The players guide Danitz's decisions, shaping his investigation into Backlund's mysteries based on the options presented—or by suggesting their own course of action.

Mystery & Intrigue: Expect subtle tension, hidden motives, and gradual reveals. Some irregularities will be small, easily dismissed—others may be far more dangerous than they first appear.

Danitz's Perspective: The quest follows the mindset and personality of Danitz Dubois, keeping him in character as pirate

 

[Nerdycrow]

His stomach twisted, not just with apprehension but hunger. He hadn't eaten since the train ride, and the emptiness gnawed at him.

Stepping away from the platform, he found himself at the edge of the bustling station. He caught sight of a middle-aged man in a soot-stained coat smoking near a stack of crates. The man's sunken eyes flicked toward Danitz as he approached.

"Oi," Danitz said, keeping his tone casual. "Where am I exactly?"

The man gave him a look, then exhaled a stream of smoke. "Backlund Central Station, where else?"

Danitz clicked his tongue. "Yeah, no shit. I mean, what part of the city?"

"Near Backlund Bridge." The man took another drag of his cigarette, then gestured down the street. "If you're lookin' for a place to sit and eat, try Bravehearts Bar. Not much else 'round here unless you fancy throwing your money at the fancy cafés."

Danitz nodded, muttering a quick thanks before heading in the direction the man pointed.


---

The streets near Backlund Bridge were quieter than the station, though the hum of city life never truly faded. He found Bravehearts Bar easily—a modest, unassuming establishment tucked between a tailor's shop and a locksmith.

Pushing open the door, he stepped inside.

The place was nearly empty, as expected for this time of day. A few solitary drinkers sat at separate tables, heads down, nursing their cups. The gas lamps flickered dimly, casting a warm but subdued glow over the worn wooden furniture.

Danitz made his way to the bar and leaned against the counter. The barkeep, a stocky man with a graying beard, barely glanced up from wiping a glass.

"Stew and bread," Danitz ordered. "And a drink. Something strong."

The barkeep grunted but went to prepare his order.

Danitz sighed, running a hand through his hair. He was here now. The question was—what came next?

Danitz drummed his fingers against the counter, his stomach already impatient for the food. The dim bar, nearly empty in the late afternoon, gave him plenty of space to think—unfortunately.

As he waited, his thoughts inevitably circled back to why he was here in the first place.

Gehrman Sparrow had sent him a letter. Well, "letter" was a generous term—it had been more like a demand written in disturbingly concise handwriting.

"Danitz, travel to Backlund immediately. There have been multiple disappearances—mostly Intis nationals. Investigate and report back."

That was it. No explanation. No details. No "Try not to die, old friend." Just the cold, efficient wording of a man who had long since mastered the art of making others do his work.

Danitz groaned, letting his forehead lightly hit the bar counter. "Damn that bastard…"

The barkeep glanced at him but wisely said nothing.

Danitz lifted his head and sighed dramatically. Missing Intis nationals? In Backlund? He had no clue why Gehrman Sparrow had decided he was the perfect man for the job. Sure, he was Intisian, but that hardly made him an expert in sniffing out kidnappers!

And, knowing that lunatic, there was a very real possibility that he had sent Danitz here as bait.

He shuddered.

Oh, yes, let's dangle Danitz in the middle of the crime scene! Who wouldn't want to kidnap a man as charming and valuable as me? What an excellent plan, truly a masterful use of my talents!

His stomach growled in agreement. Right. His talents included eating.

A wooden plate was placed in front of him, the scent of thick stew and fresh bread cutting through his dramatics. Danitz immediately grabbed a spoon and took a bite—hot, rich, meaty.

Well, at least the food in this city hasn't tried to kill me yet.

He took a swig of his drink, warmth spreading through his chest.

Alright. First things first—he had to figure out where these people had disappeared. Then, he needed to confirm that he wasn't also about to disappear.

And then—if he survived—he was going to send Gehrman Sparrow a very strongly worded letter about the importance of detailed mission briefings.

What are his plans?

[ ] Send a Letter to Gehrman Sparrow (or The Fool)
[ ] Check Police Reports (Legally or Illegally)
[ ] Visit the Intis Expat Community
[ ] Write in

 

[Nerdycrow]

Danitz wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, pushing the empty plate away with a satisfied sigh. The warmth of the stew settled in his stomach, but it did nothing to ease the cold knot of anxiety forming in his chest. He had work to do.

Checking police reports in Backlund wasn't exactly difficult. The problem was doing it without getting arrested. Technically, he was still a wanted man in the eyes of the authorities—an unfortunate side effect of his past associations. But that just meant he had to be smart about it.

He tossed a few coins onto the counter and stood, adjusting his coat. First, he needed to find a source. Someone with access to the reports. Someone who could be bribed, coerced, or otherwise convinced to let him take a peek.

Danitz stepped out into the dreary afternoon, the scent of coal smoke thick in the air. He pulled his collar up against the chill and started walking.

He had a few options. The most obvious was to track down a corrupt officer—Backlund was full of them. A few well-placed coins in the right hands could get him exactly what he needed. The second option was riskier: sneaking into a precinct and getting the files himself. And the third… well, it was barely an option, but he could always try to shake down an informant.

Danitz clicked his tongue.

The second option was much faster.

Damn that basterd was having an affect on him.

Midnight found Danitz crouched in a dark alley behind the Howley Street precinct. The building loomed over him, gas lamps casting flickering shadows across the soot-streaked brick.

He took a deep breath.

Getting inside wasn't the problem. Getting out with the reports? That was another matter entirely.

"Dog shit, I can just punch the people in there."

Danitz flexed his fingers, feeling the faint, unnatural strength thrumming beneath his skin. He took a step back, then lunged forward, pushing off the ground with more force than any normal man could muster. His boots barely scuffed against the brick as he vaulted upward, fingers catching the narrow ledge of a second-story window.

With practiced ease, he pulled himself up, careful not to let his coat snag on the iron bars that framed the lower half of the opening. Luck was on his side—someone had been careless enough to leave the upper pane open, a crack wide enough for him to slip through.

He swung one leg inside, then the other, landing in a crouch on the wooden floor. His breath was steady, his movements smooth. It was almost too easy.

The room was dark, but as a Hunter it wasn't impossible to see in it. His senses had been enhanced to an unatural degree.

The room was an office of some kind. Hmm, probably a higher ranking officer.

Danitz frowned, rifling through the neatly stacked papers on the desk. Financial records, patrol schedules, arrest logs—everything except what he was looking for. He flipped through another folder, his fingers moving with the precision of a man well-practiced in searching places he had no business being in.

Nothing.

No reports of missing Intis nationals, no investigations into disappearances, not even a passing mention of something unusual in the foreigner districts. Either the police had nothing, or someone had scrubbed the records clean.

He leaned back, exhaling through his nose. That was a problem.

Danitz closed the folder and placed it back exactly where he'd found it. If there were no official records, that meant one of two things—either the disappearances weren't being reported, or they were being deliberately buried. Neither option sat well with him.

A quiet creak in the hallway made him freeze.

Footsteps. Slow, deliberate.

Danitz pulled his coat tighter around him, inching toward the shadows by the door. His hand hovered near his belt, fingers brushing against the concealed dagger he kept for emergencies.

The steps stopped just outside the room.

A beat of silence.

Then the door handle rattled.

Danitz exhaled sharply through his nose. Looked like he was about to have a long night.

What's his next move?

1. Hide and Observe –

2. Ambush the Intruder –

3. Escape Through the Window –

4. Bluff His Way Out –

 

[Nerdycrow]

As the door creaked open, Danitz cursed his luck under his breath. His instincts screamed at him to move, and he did—swift and silent, slipping behind the worn leather sofa near the window. He pressed his back against the wood paneling, heart hammering in his chest as he steadied his breathing.

A dim light filtered into the room as a lantern was raised. The soft glow illuminated the edges of the desk, casting long shadows across the floor. Danitz could hear the faint rustle of fabric as the intruder stepped inside, pausing near the threshold.

A sigh. Then a muttered curse.

"Bloody hell… left the damn file here again."

Danitz narrowed his eyes. The voice was gruff but not immediately hostile. A man, likely in his late thirties or forties, judging by the weight in his tone. The sound of boots scuffed against the floor as he moved toward the desk. Papers rustled.

Danitz exhaled slowly through his nose. This was either a lucky break or another complication. If this officer had the files he needed, it would save him the trouble of searching elsewhere. But if the man noticed anything amiss, things would turn ugly fast.

The officer muttered something unintelligible before Danitz heard the distinct snap of a folder being flipped open. The sound of a pen scratching against parchment followed.

Danitz's mind worked quickly. If he wanted those documents, he had two choices—wait until the officer left and risk him taking the files with him, or act now.

His fingers curled around the hilt of his dagger. He preferred to avoid unnecessary violence, but if it came down to it…

The officer sighed again, seemingly oblivious to the silent intruder in the room. "Can't believe they keep dumping this on me. Should be upstairs, not down here—"

He stopped.

Danitz tensed.

"Wait… what the hell?"

The officer's voice turned sharp, wary. Papers shuffled, as if he had just noticed something out of place.

Danitz grit his teeth. He had seconds before the man either raised an alarm or left the room. Either way, his window of opportunity was closing fast.

He made his decision.

Danitz moved in one fluid motion, crossing the space between him and the officer before the man had time to react. His hand shot out, clamping firmly over the officer's mouth, while his Revolver pressed lightly against the man's side—a silent but clear warning.

"Not a word," Danitz murmured, his voice low and steady. "Unless you want to make things difficult for yourself."

The officer stiffened, his body instinctively tensing to struggle, but Danitz applied just enough pressure with the gun to make him reconsider.

"Good choice," Danitz muttered, glancing at the desk. His sharp eyes flicked over the papers the man had been looking at. The words "Missing Person Report" stood out among the ink.

Jackpot.

"Now," Danitz continued, tilting his head toward the file, "you're going to tell me exactly what's in that report, and you're going to do it quietly."

The officer's breathing was ragged, but he nodded stiffly. Danitz slowly eased his hand away from the man's mouth, keeping the gun pressed against him just in case.

"There's… been disappearances," the officer admitted, voice low and cautious. "Mostly foreigners. Intis nationals, a few Feysacians. The brass says it's not our problem, but I—" He hesitated. "The clues don't make sense."

Danitz frowned. "Where did they go missing?"

"The docks, the factory districts… places where nobody notices when someone stops showing up to work. Since most of these people are those that are running from something or have no work or money."

Danitz clicked his tongue. That fit with what he suspected—whoever was behind this was targeting people that wouldn't be missed.

"Who's covering it up?" he pressed.

The officer swallowed hard. "I don't know. I swear. Orders come from above. We log the cases, then they get reassigned, and that's the last we hear of them."

Danitz studied the man for a moment. He didn't seem like he was lying, but that didn't mean he wasn't holding something back.

He considered his next move.

Danitz smirked slightly.

"Alright," he said. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to hand me that report, and then you're going to forget I was ever here."

The officer hesitated.

Danitz pressed the Revolver just a little bit harder.

"…Fine," the man gritted out, reaching slowly for the file.

Danitz took it, slipping it inside his coat.

Now, all he had to do was get out of here before things got complicated.

Danitz watched the officer carefully as he tucked the file into his coat. The man had already agreed to let him walk away, but Danitz knew better than to leave loose ends.

"Sorry about this," he muttered.

The officer barely had time to react before Danitz struck. A quick, precise blow to the side of the head sent him crumpling to the floor like a sack of bricks. Danitz caught him before he could make too much noise, easing him down onto the wooden boards.

A glance toward the hallway confirmed that no one had heard the scuffle—at least, not yet. Time to leave.

Danitz turned toward the window. Moving swiftly, he climbed onto the sill and swung his legs over, dropping into the cold night air. His boots hit the cobblestone street below with barely a sound. Without hesitation, he pulled his coat tighter and melted into the shadows of the alley, making his way toward a quieter part of the district.

Once he was certain no one had followed him, he ducked into the shelter of an abandoned storefront and pulled out the stolen report. The dim light of a nearby streetlamp cast just enough glow for him to read.

He flipped through the pages, scanning the details. As Gehrman had told him, most of the missing people were poor migrants—workers who had fled their old cities in search of a better life in Backlund. A handful had family members still looking for them, but most had vanished without a trace, their disappearances barely registering with anyone who mattered.

Danitz frowned. He had expected something bigger—some grand conspiracy, a target with clear connections to powerful figures. Instead, all he saw were nameless workers, drifters, and runaways.

What the hell was Gehrman's angle?

Danitz had assumed there would be a clear reason why he had been sent to investigate this. A hidden enemy, a scheme that threatened The Fool's interests—something. But right now, all he had was a list of unfortunate souls who had been swallowed up by Backlund's filth, and he didn't see what that had to do with him.

He ran a hand through his hair, clicking his tongue in frustration.

Was he missing something? Or had Gehrman sent him on this errand just to mess with him?

Danitz sighed, rubbing his temple.


As he flipped through the pages. The missing persons had been found—but they were dead.

No wounds. No signs of struggle. Just… husks.

That didn't make sense.

Most disappearances in Backlund ended in one of two ways: the bodies were never found, or they turned up stabbed, strangled, or floating in the Tussock River, bloated beyond recognition. But these? The reports noted the corpses were intact, untouched by violence, yet they looked as if all life had been drained from them.

Danitz tapped a finger against the parchment, thinking.

It was one thing if someone had been keeping these people captive before dumping the bodies, but the timeline didn't add up. None of them had been missing long—days, a week at most. Not enough time for starvation or disease to waste them away like that.

Something else had done this.

Danitz exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders to shake off the unease creeping up his spine. He had seen a lot of ugly things since getting mixed up with Gehrman and The Fool's affairs, but this was different. This wasn't just human cruelty—this was something unnatural.

A name caught his eye near the bottom of the report.

Olivier Ludenburg.

Unlike the others, this one wasn't dead. At least, not yet. The file noted that Ludenburg, a factory worker from the Southern Borough, had gone missing three nights ago, but his case hadn't been closed. No body had turned up.

Danitz rubbed his chin. If Ludenburg was still alive, then he was the only lead left.

He needed to move fast.

Sliding the report back into his coat, Danitz stepped out of the abandoned storefront, slipping back into the shadows of the city. If there was one thing he had learned from Gehrman Sparrow, it was that waiting around got you nowhere.

If he wanted answers, he had to take them.

And right now, that meant finding Olivier Ludenburg before he ended up another lifeless husk.


What to do next?
[ ] Investigate the Last Known Location
[ ] Follow the Morgue Reports
[ ] Secure Lodging

 

[Nerdycrow]

Danitz let out a weary sigh, rolling his shoulders to fight off the stiffness settling into his muscles. The day had bled into night, and exhaustion gnawed at the edges of his focus. A smart man would find a place to rest, gather his strength before diving deeper into this mess.

But Danitz had never been known for playing things smart.

Adjusting his coat, he stepped back onto the street, making his way toward the last known location of Olivier Ludenburg. According to the report, the man had been seen leaving his factory job in the Southern Borough three nights ago. He never made it home. No witnesses, no signs of a struggle—just another ghost swallowed up by Backlund's filth.

The Southern Borough was a wretched place, even by the city's already miserable standards. The scent of smoke, sweat, and industrial waste thickened the air, and the streets were crowded with laborers trudging home from their shifts. The gas lamps cast a sickly glow over soot-streaked faces, their eyes hollow from exhaustion.

Danitz blended in as best he could, keeping his head low and his movements casual. He had worked these kinds of streets before—first as a dockworker back in his youth, then as a smuggler. Men like Olivier weren't hard to understand. They worked until their bodies gave out, scraping by in a city that barely acknowledged their existence.

If someone wanted to snatch up a man like Olivier, there were plenty of places to do it unnoticed.

Danitz followed the path described in the report, tracing the man's steps from the factory gates. The workers were spilling out in waves, their boots scuffing against the cobblestone as they made their way home. He scanned their faces, looking for anything out of place, anyone who might recognize the name.

A group of men loitered near a makeshift food stall, their faces lined with the kind of weariness that only years of hard labor could carve. Danitz approached, fishing a coin from his pocket and tossing it to the vendor before gesturing toward the steaming pot of stew.

"Long day?" he asked, keeping his tone casual as he accepted a bowl.

One of the men—a wiry fellow with deep lines etched into his forehead—grunted. "Same as always." He eyed Danitz with mild suspicion but didn't turn him away.

Danitz took a bite of the stew, letting the warmth settle in his stomach before speaking again. "Looking for a man. Olivier Ludenburg. Worked around here."

The name hung in the air for a moment. The men exchanged glances.

The wiry one frowned. "Olivier? Sorry don't know anyone by that name."

"Three nights," Danitz supplied. "Last seen leaving the factory."

An older man with greying hair and a thick beard answerd. "Kid, over a million people live in the south Borough. Do you really think we will know the names of everyone and not only that but every factory regularly fires people."

Danitz nodded, acknowledging the older man's point without pushing the issue. He took another bite of the stew, letting the conversation drift into safer topics—complaints about wages, the ever-present stink of the factories, and the occasional gripe about the nobility who never set foot in these streets. It was the same story in every city.

As he half-listened, his senses remained sharp. The steady hum of laborers heading home, the distant clatter of machinery still running in some factories, the occasional bark of a stray dog—it all blended into the usual noise of Backlund's underbelly.

Then he caught it.

Faint, but unmistakable—the scent of blood.

Danitz didn't react immediately. Blood in the Southern Borough wasn't unusual. Gang disputes, factory accidents, drunks getting into brawls—it could be anything.

His fingers tightened slightly around the bowl, but he kept his expression neutral. "Any trouble around here lately?" he asked, letting his gaze remain lazy as if the conversation was nothing more than idle chatter.

One of the younger men scoffed. "Trouble? This is the South Borough, mate. Trouble's just part of the air we breathe."

The others chuckled, but Danitz barely heard them. He took another slow bite, using the moment to pinpoint the direction.

It was pretty close.

A block away behind an abandoned house.

He finished his stew, nodding his thanks to the vendor before stepping away. His movements were unhurried, casual, as if he were just another man making his way home after a long day.

Then, when no one was looking, he slipped into the alley.

Danitz pressed himself against the cold brick wall, his breath slow and measured as he peered around the edge. The scent of blood was stronger now, mingling with the unmistakable stench of dead chickens. The room before him was dimly lit by flickering candlelight, casting jagged shadows that danced along the stained floorboards.

At the center of the room, a figure knelt beside a hastily drawn ritual circle, muttering in a low, rhythmic chant. The words were in a language Danitz couldn't immediately place, but the cadence and the unmistakable feeling of something shifting in the air made it clear—this was Ritual Magic.

His eyes flicked across the room, noting the details with practiced efficiency. The walls were lined with crude symbols, drawn hastily in what he suspected was blood. A wooden crate sat near the far corner, stacked with dead chickens, their throats slit cleanly. A rusted basin, filled with darkened liquid, rested beside the ritualist's knees. The entire setup reeked of desperation and amateur work, but that didn't make it any less dangerous.

Danitz reached into his coat, fingers brushing over the comforting weight of his revolver. He didn't know what the ritualist was trying to summon—or bind—but experience told him that interrupting a half-finished ritual could be more disastrous than letting it play out.

His mind raced through his options.

What is his plan?
[ ] Wait and see
[ ] Shoot the figure
[ ] Pray to the Fool

 

[Nerdycrow]

Danitz exhaled slowly, steadying himself as he clasped his hands together. The words came naturally, rolling off his tongue in Jotun, each syllable carrying a weight beyond the mundane.

"The Fool that doesn't belong to this era;
The Mysterious Ruler above the Gray Fog;
The King of Yellow and Black who wields good luck."

He focused on the ritual before him, pushing the image toward that distant, unknowable presence. This wasn't the first time he had reached out to Him, but each time still carried a measure of uncertainty. Sometimes there was an answer. Sometimes there was only silence.

This time, silence stretched.

A bead of sweat traced its way down the back of Danitz's neck. He didn't have time to wait. The ritual's intensity was rising—he could feel it. The air was thick with an oppressive spirituality, pressing against his skin like an unseen force. The candlelight flickered wildly, shadows dancing unnaturally along the walls.

The ritualist remained hunched over, oblivious to his presence. Their hands moved in precise, frantic gestures, fingers slick with darkened blood. The symbols on the floor pulsed faintly, reacting to the growing energy. Whatever they were summoning—or binding—it was reaching its zenith.

Danitz clenched his jaw. He could see the spiritual barrier surrounding the caster, a translucent shimmer in the air, barely perceptible yet undeniable in its presence. A proper Wall of Spirituality—hastily erected, but sturdy enough to protect the ritualist from outside interference.

He exhaled through his nose. If he was going to act, it had to be now.

He shifted his stance, one hand ghosting over his revolver while the other remained clenched in silent prayer.

Would He answer?

Or was Danitz about to find out what happened when an amateur ritualist pushed too far into the unknown?

The world around him shifted.

One moment, Danitz was standing in the abandoned house, the stench of blood thick in his nostrils. The next, a dense gray fog swallowed his surroundings, stretching infinitely in all directions. The oppressive weight of spirituality faded, replaced by a silence so deep it felt like the world itself was holding its breath.

A voice—calm, distant, yet absolute—cut through the fog.

"Shoot."

The command was simple, but Danitz felt its weight press against his very soul.

Then, something moved in the mist.

A figure emerged—not human, not fully formed, but a shifting mass of black envelopes stitched together, writhing like living parchment. It loomed, faceless yet watching, its very presence pressing against his mind.

And yet, Danitz felt no fear.

Instead, a warmth settled over him, wrapping around his body like an unseen cloak. The fog swirled, and for just a moment, he thought he saw golden eyes watching from beyond the veil. Mr. Fool was watching.

Then, reality snapped back.

Danitz stood where he had been, the ritualist still kneeling before the circle, unaware of what had transpired. But the weight of the command still lingered in his bones. He knew what he had to do.

Silently, he pulled out his gun, the metal feeling more solid in his grip than ever before. His thumb cocked the hammer back with a soft, deliberate click. He had to end this now.

But the moment he moved, the ritualist noticed.

Their head snapped up, bloodshot eyes locking onto Danitz. A snarl twisted their face as they lunged, fingers curved like claws, reaching for his throat.

Danitz fired.

The gunshot roared through the cramped space, the bullet slicing through the air toward its target. But the ritualist twisted unnaturally, dodging by a hair's breadth. A second later, they were upon him.

Danitz barely had time to brace before the caster slammed into him, their weight driving him backward. He stumbled, his back hitting the rough wooden wall as the ritualist's hands clawed at his gun, trying to wrest it from his grip.

Up close, he could see the madness in their eyes—veins darkened, their pupils dilated to the point of near-blackness. Their breath reeked of copper and something wrong, something that made Danitz's stomach churn.

But he wasn't some helpless prey.

With a growl, he drove his knee up, catching the ritualist in the gut. They let out a choked gasp, loosening their grip just enough for Danitz to wrench his gun free. He didn't hesitate.

A second shot rang out—point-blank.

The ritualist staggered, blood blossoming across their chest. Their body convulsed, hands spasming as they collapsed to the ground. The spiritual barrier flickered—then shattered, the oppressive energy in the room vanishing as the ritual collapsed into failure.

Danitz exhaled sharply, his hands trembling slightly from the lingering presence of what had just happened.

Then, as the weight of Mr. Fool's blessing settled over him once more, he took a step back and murmured under his breath:

"Praise The Fool."

The words felt more real than ever.

Danitz barely had a moment to breathe.

The instant the ritualist collapsed, the ritual circle erupted.

A blinding white light exploded from the symbols on the ground, searing itself into Danitz's retinas. He instinctively threw up an arm, staggering back as the surge of raw, uncontained spirituality tore through the air.

The walls shuddered. The candlelight vanished. For a split second, Danitz thought the whole damned building was about to collapse in on itself.

--
Danitz blinked sluggishly, his breath heavy in his chest. The sensation of standing—of solid ground beneath his feet—felt distant, like an afterthought. His mind struggled to catch up, thoughts sluggish and tangled, as though he were waking from a dream too deep to remember.

The last thing he recalled was the ritual collapsing. The flash of light. The pressure of raw spirituality twisting the air. And now—

He stood in a vast, dimly lit hall.

No, not just a hall. A throne room.

The architecture was blurred at the edges, indistinct, as if reality itself had trouble keeping it in focus. Towering pillars stretched into the unseen heights of the chamber, their surfaces carved with symbols he didn't recognize—yet they hummed with familiarity, like half-forgotten words at the tip of his tongue. The air was thick, heavy with something beyond mere presence.

Seven statues loomed over him, arranged in a silent vigil.

Which one does Danitz touch?
[ ] A Knight holding a Sword.
[ ] A man who was leaning against a spear
[ ] A woman Holding a Bow
[ ] A Person covered in a hood holding a Staff
[ ] A man who's face was covered in a Skull Mask
[ ] A Monster
[ ] A Figure riding a Chariot.

 

[Nerdycrow]

Subconsciously Danitz walked towards the Statue that had the chariot. The reason for his interest was unknown and his mind still felt foggy.

His steps fast as even through he was half unconscious he still felt in danger in this throne room as if he wasn't ment to be here and only came due to an Error.

The moment his right hand touched the cold marble stone he felt a burning sensation however being a Pyromancer he had a very high resistance to Flames so he barely made a noise.

However a bright light shone and soon overtook his vision as he returned to the abandoned home and the Ritual room he was in a few moments ago.

However he immediately felt another presence in the room.

Who is it?
[ ] Jason
[ ] Blackbeard
[ ] Drake
[ ] Write in

 

[Nerdycrow]

"Bloody Hell!! What kind of Summoning was that?"

The rough voice entered Danitz's ear as soon as he returned to consciousness.

His head was still ringing and his whole body felt extremely tired as if he had just went through one of his Captains lectures.

"Oi!. Are you listening?"

Danitz blinked rapidly, trying to steady his vision. The haze in his mind began to lift as he focused on the fierce-looking woman standing over him, hands on her hips and a scowl sharp enough to cut through steel.

"Wh...who the hell are you?" he croaked, wincing as a throb of pain lanced through his skull.

"Hmm, Servant Rider, Francis Drake." The woman said as she pointed to herself.

The way she introduced herself showed that she expected Danitz to recognise her however to him that name ment nothing.

Drake opened her mouth, clearly ready to say something else—maybe an insult, maybe another introduction—but she suddenly paused. Her brows lifted slightly, eyes narrowing in amusement as she looked Danitz up and down. Then, just as quickly, her expression cracked into a bark of laughter, sharp and unrestrained.

"Hehehehe, a brand new world. This is an interesting summoning."

Danitz winced again, rubbing the side of his head and trying to stand, only managing to sway precariously on his feet.

What does he say?
[ ] Dog shit.
[ ] What the hell is summoning mean?
[ ] Aim your weapon at her.
[ ] Write in