by Ryn » Tue Jan 23, 2024 6:25 pm
Ryn is not one to hem and haw to defer a task. Leaving the Wyldclay's vault she makes her way through the House, staying out of anybody's sightlines, slipping through blindspots and mantling desks. On her way she smoothly grabs somebody's shoulder-slung briefcase, empties it's contents to replace it with the two magical items she's carrying and slips away to the Ghostpaths. In her version of Maldon, plainclothes agents are keeping an eye on the harbor and the estuary in particular, but never notice the shadow weaving through their loose net until it dives headfirst into the water with nary a splash.
Wrapped in the safe confines of her kanaf she passes through the turbulent chaos of the rift, swept by currents that roil and tear through worlds. Until the tearing waters calm as swiftly as they enraged, depositing her into the relatively calm of Earth-24212. Not that she knows or cares about such designations, this is simply the World of the Torn Veil to her. And immediately she feels eyes on her. Piercing and without blindspots through which to move, almost pinning her in place with their gaze. But they're slanted, bent by thinking iron and pressed sand, refracted from somewhere on the shore which is really from where her appearance is being watched. The living machine. Her 'wings' unfurl into strands swaying in the currents and with determined strokes she starts to swim. Obfuscate the relentless machine-eyes and slip away towards the ocean where it will lose track of her.
A good twenty minutes later she lets the waves carry her towards the jagged cliffs beneath the school. She waits for a particularly big one and dives into the current, letting it lift her up and throw her towards the rock. At the last minute she twists in the surf and plants a foot against an outcropping, letting the water press her against the rock without being slammed into it. When the water recedes she finds a grip with one hand and pushes off with hand and foot, gripping hold again a good seven feet higher on millimeters of outcropping. Within minutes she scales the rest of the cliff and holds on to the ledge. Planting her feet against the wall she pushes off and flips back and up onto the ledge in one smooth motion that lands her in a low crouch. She grins and darts across the grounds, sliding behind benches, pulling herself into trees and leaping to an adjoining roof as she evades even cursory glances.
Until finally she lowers herself from the lip of the dormatory roof on one arm to peer into the room holding her target. The Mirror filled with Wills...