With what's left of the first night, the trainers mill restlessly, thinking themselves far too distraught to sleep. It's been a long night, though, and there is something to the heaviness the trick room lends a leadenness to the bodies of everyone trapped within. Despite their horror, people eventually begin forming small huddles on the floor, sleeping fitfully in their uncomfortable costumes. At last all have fallen asleep, all but those few who are faking it--and now ready to strike.
It would be difficult to judge time in the contest hall even under ordinary circumstances, but with the warping effects of trick room in play it is harder still. Trainers begin to come awake eventually, thoughts heavy and syrupy and bodies stiff from a night stretched out on the floor or draped awkwardly over seats in the audience. A few of the less lethargic individuals try to rally their comrades in hopes of coming up with a plan to eliminate the cult before they are themselves eliminated.
At first the trainers are sluggish and reluctant, but a scream from the stands is enough to shake even the most dozy awake, and as one they hurry towards the source of the noise. In a back aisle of the hall they find the cult's first victim. It's sreservoir, though its body takes some time to identify; if the bloody leaves scattered around the body are any indication, it was a razor leaf that laid open the innumerable long gashes that crisscross its face and torso. It's unlikely the grass attack killed it, but whatever slammed it into the floor hard enough to break several bones might have, or failing that, the blast of ice that still seals its corpse in place.
A second dead body is curled by sreservoir's side, blood streaking the corner of its mouth and soaking through its shirt around the knife plunged into its chest. While horrifying in its own right, at least Walker's body is easier to identify than sreservoir's.
sreservoir is dead. It was not a cultist. Walker is dead. He was not a cultist.
Forty-eight hours for discussion.
It would be difficult to judge time in the contest hall even under ordinary circumstances, but with the warping effects of trick room in play it is harder still. Trainers begin to come awake eventually, thoughts heavy and syrupy and bodies stiff from a night stretched out on the floor or draped awkwardly over seats in the audience. A few of the less lethargic individuals try to rally their comrades in hopes of coming up with a plan to eliminate the cult before they are themselves eliminated.
At first the trainers are sluggish and reluctant, but a scream from the stands is enough to shake even the most dozy awake, and as one they hurry towards the source of the noise. In a back aisle of the hall they find the cult's first victim. It's sreservoir, though its body takes some time to identify; if the bloody leaves scattered around the body are any indication, it was a razor leaf that laid open the innumerable long gashes that crisscross its face and torso. It's unlikely the grass attack killed it, but whatever slammed it into the floor hard enough to break several bones might have, or failing that, the blast of ice that still seals its corpse in place.
A second dead body is curled by sreservoir's side, blood streaking the corner of its mouth and soaking through its shirt around the knife plunged into its chest. While horrifying in its own right, at least Walker's body is easier to identify than sreservoir's.
sreservoir is dead. It was not a cultist. Walker is dead. He was not a cultist.
Forty-eight hours for discussion.
