It's Mailtime (Open)

[Ada Wong]

This odd occurrence in the sky has the nice mail lady clutching her mailbag close to her chest, her eyes glimmering with the strange beams of light that arc across the darkness. She doesn't know what the symbol that forms there signifies, but she has a funny notion that it wouldn't mean anything good for her mail service. Or, at least, the freedom of expression and joy that the mail exemplifies.

"I am sure you will be safe enough here," Dean had said. "Waiting to deliver that letter."

"Join or die." A voice from the sky declared, settling over the walled city before her like an insidious veil of pure intimidation.

Well, PM certainly isn't going to argue with either of those orders. There aren't any loopholes to slip through— no tears in the barbed wire fence that will allow for escape. Still, she is a grown mail woman who doesn't have to listen to anything anyone tells her to do. In fact, several warring parts of her urge her to resist, assist, or desist altogether.

Instead of doing any of that, the carapacian tucks her shiny black sword deeper down into her mail bag so that it is out of sight. She isn't joining anything, but she isn't about to just stand around and watch a city get blown to bits. If anything, she will stand further away, so that she isn't blown up as well. She might be a soldier of a most glorious and democratic cause, but PM isn't about to endanger the one letter that is in her care. The fate of it's papery, .jpeg-y contents lays in her jittery claws. It must be defended at all costs.

A determined telepathic hum resonating from her mind, PM steels herself against the bowstring-taut tension that sizzles through the air, the whole of the dunes vibrating with suspense as if they are about to implode with a single fell swoop. Her grey wrappings are tossed gently about by the now subtle and complacent breeze, as if nature itself is preparing for the bleeding destruction which seems liable to break loose at any moment.

PM looks to her companions, the boy of Light and the shadowy bird perched upon his shoulder. The dark-haired boy is disgruntled by the events taking place above, his face raised intuitively up towards the gloomy expanse above them which is marred by the yellowish insignia emblazoned upon it. She wants to encourage him to stay at a distance, to keep himself safe and with all of his squishy insides where they should be, but he seems to hold more potential than she could ever possibly know. He believes in his own ability, and that is all that matters. Even if he might be making a poor choice in Peregrine's opinion.

The bent and misshapen lump of torn metal that is all that remains of Dean Winchester's Impala has erupted and grown alight with vicious flame which laps eagerly at the coarse sands that surround it. Coloured and kaleidoscopic dashes of light, tinged with dark smoke and nighttime shadow, cast two figures that stand a small distance away from the gates in an eerie mixture of darkness and illumination. One, a weapon clutched in their self-assured grip, she recognizes as Dean. The other, significantly shorter, she does not know.

Something big is about to happen, and this Parcel Mistress doesn't want any part of it. Maybe afterwards, once things have settled down into a less precarious zone that screeches Danger, danger, danger! in her face, she will be able to locate Demetri Malius. As it stands, however, she highly doubts that New Babylon will still be standing by the time this whole altercation is over. So much for hope.

Casting another cursory glance towards the two nearest to her, PM wonders just what they were intending to do in the city of Nippur before that odd yellow symbol appeared in the sky. She also wonders if she will have to sort through the rubble later only to find their decimated corpses in her quest for the ever-mysterious and hidden Demetri Malius.

With a shudder, PM quickly swipes that thought to the very back of her mind. At some point, she will have to turn her attention inward to clear those dark musings away, so that her mind will glitter like the resplendent and golden streets of Prospit, fit for a mail carrier's straightforward thought processes. It simply isn't conducive to her beloved work.

Really, though. All she wants to do now is deliver the mail. These untimely interruptions, from being struck by Dean's car to the various conflicts surrounding this city, are getting rather out of hand. Thankfully the current company she keeps speaks politely enough, but she is quite sure that this wizard boy is a bit in over his head. Nevertheless, he speaks insightfully about what is about to take place, and PM nods in full agreement.

I hope that you do not intend to enter such an ill-intentioned fray, but I suppose that you have already made up your mind, whatever the case is, the Prospitian Monarch says, deferentially and with a light tapping of her soft-coloured carapace. But I must ask that you at least attempt to be careful. These are no easy foes, whomever they align themselves with. May the Light shine upon the most fortuitous path for your perusal, Lordling.