It's Mailtime (Open)

[Ada Wong]

A thousand-million shifting granules of sand play out around the Peregrine Mendicant after her departure from the Nexus. Her chalk-colored feet sink into the unstable ground lightly despite her impulsively reckless entrance, as if she has passed through an ordinary doorway rather than a spiraling portal.

When she looks upwards, great whorls of a gorgeous, intense blue flecked here and there with smoky orange spread across the sky like cream trickling languidly into chestnut-brown coffee. The air is clear and drier than a crypt left in peace for centuries. Great mounds of sand like the tumultuous swells of an ocean spread out in all directions, the heat shimmering in waves above them.

Ah, she says, admiring the lovely scenery.

AHHH! she exclaims, hardly an instant later, as a small human child causes her to stumble somewhat after knocking into her with their tiny little elbows. The startled carapacian barely has more than a few moments to regain her footing before whoever had shoved against her is gone, eagerly snapped up by the portal behind her.

The mailwoman is still feeling rather befuddled as several well-armed men approach, a number of reasonably intimidating weapons swinging from their belts. Sun-warmed metal glints in the light. She doesn’t bother counting how many of them there are, instead choosing to simply get the hell out of their way. They seem pretty tough, full of mangrit and gumption. PM doesn’t feel up to messing with that sort of nonsense quite yet.

They are apparently in hot pursuit of this child and do not pay her any mind as they, too, are swallowed up by the light of the Nexus. PM blinks after them for a moment, as confused as can be, when she feels something sift through the sand and press lightly against her foot. Curious, she peers down at the sand between her toes.

Oh! the Peregrine Mendicant coos, plucking up a rather dusty old envelope. It scratches lightly against her chalky carapace, catching on her fingers in odd spots where the material has been frayed. Humming delightedly, she flips it over in her hands, watching as the sun runs smoothly across the edges of the brown paper and casts it in an almost rosy light. She reads the recipient’s name.

“To whoemvre ti may concierge—" PM stops reading right there, because as a simple Parcel Mistress the contents of this letter should not, in fact, concern her. Besides that, the letter is written in what appears to be a child’s scrawl, loose bits of dirt embedded here and there on the small packet. Or maybe those are ironic pixels— she is not certain.

There is also no sender. PM is only mildly deterred by this; the fact that this letter is exceptionally vague should be of no serious import to a Parcel Mistress. She will not fail in this most noble of tasks. She will find whomever this letter concerns— concierges.

Her eyes shining with glee, the Peregrine Mendicant goes to tuck the letter into her satchel only to find that she does not yet have one swinging dutifully over her shoulder. Oh dear. This is a worrying state of affairs, indeed.

Pinching her fingers together in frustration, PM waves the letter in the air and gesticulates wildly about her head with it, tromping her feet a little for a more palpable effect. Once she has had her moment of inherent absurdity, however, PM ceases her ridiculous flailing. Silliness notwithstanding, PM acknowledges that she will have to use this Omnilium substance to create a new mailbag. Otherwise, this letter might be damaged by foul weather or scurrilous fiends!

Hmm… she muses to herself, the digits of her hands tapping lightly together. Suddenly, she crosses and snaps her fingers, the sharp sound crackling through the sweltering, breathless air. A-ha!

The carapacian considers the task of using Omnilium to summon her mailbag and mail carrier’s cap with a cautious line of thought that shrinks not from the impossible, but rather from the harmful and treacherous. Perhaps she should remove herself from so obvious a place of travel— if this Omnilium is so useful and valuable, there will likely be those who will want to take it for their own. But where to go?

Squinting against the sunlight and tugging her tattered hood a bit snugger around her face, the Peregrine Mendicant looks out over the horizon. There appears to be a small settlement a ways off, amongst the odd tree or shrubbery dotted here and there across the landscape like little specks of mottled green against windswept dust. Or, you know. Plants in a desert.

Weirdly elaborate descriptions aside, PM spots a choice tree on the horizon to do some summoning under. Yes, this tree will do nicely— it has several low-hanging boughs that would provide an acceptable amount of cool shade for her to rest her feet under, and there does not appear to be any puny princethieves skulking about in the shadows. Perfect.

After tucking the letter into a spare fold of her wrappings, PM sets off at an unruffled gait for the tree’s shade. She reaches it a short while later, the bends of her clothing casting long shadows over her pale carapace once she steps into the dim light. Small bits of shadow trickle over her frame in the shape of clustered branches and measly twigs. Her shell clinks lightly as she sits down upon the sand; it is uncomfortably warm, so much so that she can feel it even through the thick covering of her carapace.

Well, here she is. Best get right down to it, before anything potentially disastrous occurs. With another wary glance around, PM cups her palms together, feeling remarkably idiotic until a soft, fluttering glow appears between them, seeming much like a trapped firefly. As she slowly brings them apart to better examine this strange light, an array of prismatic colour glimmers over her claws, like gossamer paper twirling on a stick at a festival.

Wonderful, she remarks, errant gleams playing across her smooth features. Now, on to the actual summoning. Her satchel will have to come first, of course, as it is the most important part of her ensemble. The amorphous lightshow immediately shifts to accommodate this, bulging into such a greater size that PM has to eventually ease herself backwards a ways to better regard it. After scarcely four minutes have passed, the glow of the Omnilium fades and PM has a lovely yellow-coloured satchel lying across her lap, made up of a coarse, stalwart material.

Claws clicking together with glee, the Peregrine Mendicant slings the bag’s strap over her shoulder and slips the single letter under the top flap. Fantastic! Now for her mailperson’s cap. This is undoubtedly the second most important object that she requires, for it indicates to any wandering passerby that she has no time for their finicky shenanigans.

Like with her mail-carrying bag, the fascinating, shimmering display of bulbous Omnilium manifests itself between her claws, this time in a much smaller amount. It takes hardly a minute or two for her faithful blue cap to appear, and when it does PM is quick to snatch it up in her hands and place it ceremoniously upon her head.

Liberty. Reason. Justice. Civility. Edification. Perfection.

MAIL.

Yes, well. Ahem.

Anyways, now that she has her navy blue cap settled nicely atop her head far better than any crown ever could, PM thinks that she might just need a weapon to defend herself with. In the event of a raid on her collection of parcels and neatly-tucked envelopes, that is. The problem is, there are two possible weapons for her to choose from. One is the Regisword, sharpened and undoubtedly deadly, given to her by the Archagent of Derse. The other, unfortunately, would be the Ring, complete with the pearly Orbs Fourfold. WV's Ring. The one which he was supposed to don to save them all, and which she instead wore in a cutthroat flight of vengeance and untamed fury.

When it comes right down to it, she would choose the Regisword any day. The Omnilium summoning takes quite a spell longer this time, but soon enough she is holding the shiny black weapon aloft by its hilt, the blade glinting intimidatingly in the sunlight. Without sparing any more precious time to strike a heroic pose or goof off, PM slides the sword into her mailbag with the letter she must deliver, a faint svwoop marking its disappearance. Her dark eyes then slide to the village settled a fair distance away, gaze contemplative.

With a slight spring to her step hindered only slightly by the heavy sword in her pack, the Peregrine Mendicant sets off towards the village of Carrefore.

[Ada Wong]

The little town of Carrefore isn’t so bad. If she were under the purplish cover of night with a few sprigs of fog added here and there, PM might appear to be some sort of ghoulish, tattered figure haunting the sands that spill in between the loosely-strewn assortment of houses and shops.

The middle lane is terribly dry and cracked underfoot, but to be fair the houses alongside it have been treated no better by the harsh elements. Splintered wood and loosened shingles wheeze faint exhaust down onto the street below in heavy, parched pants. Dust— so much dust, clinging to pots and pans and the finest silver tucked into the sturdiest kitchen cabinets, is to be found everywhere. The dying rattle of tattered curtains against shutters is akin to a rattlesnake’s warning.

Peregrine Mendicant stares all around, almond-shaped eyes wide and curious. She has yet to stop and greet anyone, although there is no apparent lack of persons to reach out to. At some point during her stroll, Peregrine had worked the letter out of her satchel so that she could uncertainly knead it between her claws as she walked. She tells herself that it is to brush off the dried bits of dirt and not a much-needed distraction from the low-brimmed hats and tied waistcoats that stream around her, intermittently underscored by the occasional glint of mercurial silver.

Hot air congests over the ramshackle buildings; bits of gritty dirt crunch in the joints of her carapace with each sweltering gust of wind. A faint, indistinct pang of hunger travels through her inner chassis, but the mail lady has withstood longer spans of time without a morsel to spare. Unluckily— and it is just appalling for her to feel this way— unluckily, she is alone in her suffering in this particular instance.

Her feet rap loudly against the rickety steps of what appears to be the busiest joint in town, but the carapacian does not seek to peruse the shop’s wares. She rests in the shade for a moment, peering curiously around the establishment’s threshold as other patrons bustle out of its doors. On more than one occasion, she finds herself having to dodge a stray elbow or slung firearm. Raucous laughter and cheers roll out to tussle in the dust.

PM enjoys herself for a few minutes more in doing largely nothing but observe those who are coming and going from the building, the periwinkle blue-painted doors swinging wide and flapping about with the breeze. All at once, a shopkeeper bursts through the doorway and shoos her off of their front step with a broom brandished in the air. They shout horrid things about freeloaders and folks without a goshdarn dime and a head full of empty, to boot. After they are satisfied their verbal assault, they stoop down to sweep a bit of trash off of their porch, give it a cursory glance, and then tuck it into the front pocket of their apron.

The carapace’s coal black eyes blink wateringly. She looks slowly down at her empty claws, blinks once again, and then after the retreating back of the shopkeeper.

Oh. She does not appear to be in possession of the letter any longer.

Creak. Once again mounting the steps and moving to stand beside the swaying doorway, PM peers cautiously inside. The shopkeeper does not appear to be watching the door. Now would be the perfect opportunity to enter all clandestine-like.

Gathering her wrappings and courage together in a noiseless feat of sheer determination, the Peregrine Mendicant squares her shoulders and strides purposefully into the store. Cool air immediately swamps around her, a welcome relief from the arid desert. As she approaches the wooden countertop, she notes that all sorts of wares sit upon the table, including an unlit candle. The shopkeeper’s eyes flick up to meet hers with apparent distaste. They are polishing a dewy glass with a pretty grubby old rag.

Look, PM says, holding her claws out in an apparent display of humble deference. She can even see how reasonable she is being in the dancing reflections of a row of glasses sitting atop the counter's shelf. I suppose that we didn’t get off on the right foot, you and me, but I really must have that letter back. It is very concerning to someone, and I have yet to find out who that person is.

The shopkeeper curls his hairy lip at her, skin of the same consistency as sandy burlap. PM is slightly offended. Her claws itch for her Regisword, but now is not the time for petty disagreements.

“What’re you, some kind of letter-deliverer?”

PM nods eagerly, a wave of relief relaxing her posture. Yes, exactly. Now, the letter, my good man—

“The way I see it,” the shopkeeper very rudely cuts her off. The carapacian bristles. “Is that people around these parts can deliver their own darn letters. That ain’t honest work, what you’re doing. You’re just doing something everyone else can get done just as easily. Like, like— like microwaves, or something.”

Oh. Ah. Ahem, It is apparently time to bring out the big guns. Well, isn’t there a… an emergency shopkeeper summit in town, a few buildings away, for shop keeping shopkeepers who like to keep shop?

The shopkeeper raises a single brow, smirking. “Isn’t there a crab convention on Crab Island for crabby crabs who like to pinch stuff and spew foam and bubbles outta their crab mouths?”

Damn. That burn was so sick it lit the candle. Literally, the unlit candle just plumed up with a swift fwoosh of spluttering red and yellow flame.

Now, you see here, my good sir, the carapacian insists, rapping her claws agitatedly upon the countertop. That letter is destined for some poor soul who has no idea of its existence yet, and it is my sworn duty to deliver it at once. If you do not desist in these shenanigans and return that letter immediately, I might just be forced to take drastic measures to recover it.

The infuriating store owner standing behind the counter turns away, utterly unconcerned, placing the marginally clean glass upon a tray before turning back to face her with a new glass in hand. Their other eyebrow raises. PM wants to tear it off. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

PM stamps her foot upon the ground with a sharp clack, eyes wrathful. There is movement in her peripheral vision, colorful and liquid, but she doesn’t bother to check and see how the other customers are reacting to her fit of frustration. She points an accusing claw at the shopkeeper. I challenge you… to a duel!

The rest of the patrons in the shop gasp, the abrupt sound swallowing up the previous quiet. The carapacian’s stance changes into one more fit for brawling, her knees bent and feet spread apart from one another, eyes alight with resolve.

“Uh…” the shopkeeper says, eyes sliding nervously around. He chuckles, haltingly.

PM promptly puffs up with pride at her ability to sufficiently intimidate her opponent.

“I was just joking, man,” the man says, looking suitably abashed before placing the envelope on the counter and sliding it carefully across, as if expecting her to unexpectedly detonate any minute now like some kind of a bloodthirsty murderhobo.

The carapacian’s proud posture deflates. Well, darn. She was sort of hoping this whole duel business would play out in her favor.

The shopkeeper apparently takes pity on her, for he reluctantly cants his head in the general direction of a back room. “Hey, look. That was my fault, pal, and I’d like to make it up to you. No hard feelings. Want a free coffee, or something?”

Peregrine brightens up considerably at this offer. A few minutes later sees her settled comfortably upon a storage crate with a warm, vanilla-scented cappuccino cupped between her palms, the rude shopkeeper from earlier sitting across from her. She thanks him profusely for the warm drink.

He scrubs sheepishly at the back of his neck, mainly because the weird creature seated across from him has yet to actually pull down her head-wrappings to drink the coffee, and then shrugs. “So, this letter. You say it doesn’t have a recipient or anything?”

PM bobs her head in a nod. There was no recipient's name or address to be found. She taps at the side of the coffee with her porcelain claws and watches the sugary milk burble delightfully to the surface in languidly-twisting swirls.

“Yeah, about that,” the shopkeeper says, staring at her quizzically. PM gives him her full attention, head tilted to the side. “It has one. I saw it when I picked it up off of the ground. It’s like one of those… whatchamacallits. Those things that you can wave around and the movement shifts the image or something. Try it, yeah?”

Setting her drink aside with a little clink, PM takes the letter out of her satchel. Sure enough, as she twists it in the light, the words on the paper gradually shift into something…. Almost recognizable as more words.

Demeaning Molly us….. Dem….. Demetri Malius! That’s it! That is whom this letter is destined for! Oh, thank you so much! The carapacian declares gleefully, the navy blue mailperson’s cap atop her head nearly falling off as she gestures wildly with her hands in a series of clicks and taps.

“Yeah, uh… you’re welcome. Hey, and there’s something I need you to do for me. Like, as a mail-deliverer person.” He seems nervous about something, a sheen of clear sweat having appeared upon his brow. The shopkeeper stands and moves over to the other side of the room, rooting around in a few boxes until he finds what he is looking for. Once he does, he returns to standing in front of her, something wrapped in torn cloth laid out in his hands.

“Some flash bastard in a fancy suit and sunglasses stopped by with this. Said it was for a guy named Dean Winchester,” the cloth falls loose a ways, revealing the ornate etching along a rather timeworn handgun’s barrel. Peregrine peers closely at it, the inscription along the side reflecting murkily in her black eyes. “If you could get this to him, which would be real swell of you, I won’t say anything to the troopers about how you almost made a scene in my store.”

Peregrine looks at him, her eyes crinkled at the corners. Deal. Thank you.

The shopkeeper shrugs. “Hey, whatever. I just want that thing outta my hair, it gives me the creeps.”

Gently taking the gun from his hands and wrapping the cloth more securely around it, PM tucks it into her satchel along with Demetri Malius’ letter. Hopefully she will have these two items delivered soon!

I really must be off, she tells the shopkeeper, swinging her satchel over her shoulder and righting her cap from where it has almost tumbled right off from her head. He sees her out to the entryway, glancing quickly back into the shop every few moments, the now-lukewarm cappuccino gripped in his hand. There are parcels to deliver, after all!

“Yeah. Right. Goodbye, then. Safe travels and what-have-you.”

With those last words of farewell, PM exits the small shop. Now, where to go next? Where would a person named Dean Winchester go, in hard times such as these?

[Dean Winchester]

Dean pulled out of the town with no name, music blaring, and then realized that in all honesty, he had no idea what the hell he was going to do now. He had spent all that time hunting the reaper, and then hanging out with Sinestro, that now that it was all finished he found himself at a loss of how to keep himself busy.

He could always go hunt more bandits, probably, except they are most likely in hiding after the failed attack on the city. Plus picking off the stragglers would not be very much fun at all. He could also go to one of the other verses that Sinestro's ring had mentioned, but remember that gate from before his car probably would not fit, and he has no idea if he can dismiss it then re-summon it.

Well, for now he should probably head to Carrefore, make sure things there are settled and that no one is going to be able to pin what had happened on him and Sinestro, besides she was a wanted woman anyway. Oooooh, and there was that bar there! The fancy one from the old black and white flick, the beer there was at least somewhat decent.

Well that settled it! To Carrefore we go then!

The though of a cold beer brought a smile to Dean's lips. The bar in the town was shot to hell and a little bit blown up so everything they had there was either hard liquor or warm, not that Dean minds either of those, but every now and then you just need a cold beer. Luckily for Dean he remembered the way to Carrefore so instead of driving and wandering as they had before it was pretty much a straight shot which shouldn't take much time, and the fact that he was planning on speeding pretty heavily will help with that as well.


He raced across the sand, windows down to feel the wind on his face, music blaring to the point that he could barely hear the sound of the engine roaring. It had been a long time since he had driven the Impala just for the sake of it, sure it was just a car and a way to get from one point to another, but it felt great.

”Fucking eh.” he muttered to no one in particular as he kept speeding across the dunes. Eventually he came up to the town he had hunted and captured a reaper in and slowed the Impala down to a more 'civil speed', basically not driving like a bat out of hell anymore.

The Winchester actually had little to no trouble getting into the town this time, maybe things had lightened up after all those random murders had stopped, so he at least had that going for him. Maybe he was just being overly paranoid.

Dean stuck his head out the window to take a better look around, then nodded and sat back properly in his car. The store up ahead a good distance was probably about a few blocks away from the bar, he could get there in a few minutes and then listen to all the gossip floating about to make sure he was in the clear. Pushing down on the pedal Dean sped up once again and headed in the direction of the store, though as he got up to it some unknown person seemed to exit the building onto the street not paying attention to where they were going.

Dean's first thought was to speed up and just hit them, teach 'em a lesson for being an idiot, but then he remembered all the Troopers in this town so he slammed on the brakes instead. The Impala skid along the dirt road, the rear end weaving back and forth, until it came to a stop. Not before it bumped into the stranger and knocked her over though.

”SHIT!”the demon cursed out loud before opening the door to the vehicle and getting out, slamming it behind him. ”You fucking better not be dead or I am going to kill you.”

Dean made his way around the car and saw probably one of the oddest things since he had gotten here, and that included a giant monkey monster turned man, a girl of probably about sixteen wrapped in rags or something with grey-ish skin, black eyes, and a mail hat? Apparently the postal system in this universe had a pretty lax dress code. Still, she was moving, using the Impala to get herself up to her feet, so he hadn't killed her at least.

”Listen you little punk, watch where you are fucking going!” Dean snarled, showing a bit of teeth as he did. Dean heard an apology and shook his head waving it off before he got any more angry then he already was.

Wait, did he actually hear anything? There were words, but had their been an actual voice?

Looking back at the girl he narrowed his eyes at her, instinctively causing them to flash black themselves. Her face was wrapped up so he couldn't really see any lips, but he was pretty sure she had said something. This was getting stranger by the moment.

Going back to the car Dean forcefully swung open the drivers side door and sat inside slamming it, at least until he thought about his current situation. Technically he had hit someone with his car, in a town where he had basically captured someone he eventually tortured to death. A car that he had not actually washed properly after the bandit slaughter in the town with no name.

”Fuck.” he growled while opening the drivers side door and getting out of the car again, calling to the girl. ”Listen, Do you need a ride or something kid? I'm not planning on leaving town anytime soon and if it isn't too far I will give you a ride if you don't tell the Troopers about the whole hitting you with a car thing. It is either that or I kill you to silence you.”

The mail girl just stood there looking at him, Dean could not get a read on her at all. So. Fucking. Strange.

”Hey, if it helps you trust me I'll even tell you my name first!” the Winchester said putting on his best winning smile, though it was starting to look more like a wolf hunting prey than the charming smile it once had been. ”Name's Dean. Dean Winchest...”

Dean had barely managed to get most of his name out before the girl had gone into some kind of a fit! Well, it was either that or one of the strangest dances Dean had ever seen in his life.

[Ada Wong]

Something large and metal collides with Peregrine as she is wandering out into the street. She literally hits the dust, sliding part-of-the-way down onto the ground before she even realizes what is going on. Numbing, corpulent tremors from the impact ricochet throughout her carapace, and for a moment PM is caught simply staring at the front end of a vehicular contraption in nearly catatonic confusion.

The moment of rattled confusion passes. Her head shifts against the sand, a couple hundred loose grains scratching audibly against her shell and the cloth wrapped tightly around her face. Well, then. That was hardly pleasant. She attempts to stand, and finds that she is, thankfully, largely unhurt.

While she picks herself up from the ground, using the sleek black hood of the vehicular contraption to bolster her weight into a more or less standing position, a human with a gruff voice and a rather uneven temperament emerges from it and accosts her. She attempts to apologize, but he doesn’t seem to be having any of it.

As if this weren’t startling enough, his eyes shutter into a strange inky black as he growls at her, his irritation apparently spiking. She cannot find any words to respond with, and so she doesn't. When the man eventually smiles, speaking to her as if she were a particularly small child, it is almost akin to a Dersite’s in its malignancy.

”Name's Dean. Dean Winchest...”

Ah. A-ha! The Prospitian starts visibly, peering more closely at the man for barely a half second more before clasping her hands together in immense delight. She proceeds to break into celebratory maneuvers with a victory dance of epic proportions as Dean Winchester looks on, complete with a few choice kicks and joyful clicking of her fingers. Dust kicks up underneath her feet from her jubilant dance.

Calming down significantly, PM loosens her satchel from her shoulder and places it upon the ground so that she can more easily rummage through its contents. She tuts disapprovingly at Demetri Malius’ undelivered letter and curves her fingers so that they do not graze the wicked edge of her Regisword. Finally, the carapacian unearths what she is looking for— an antiquated gun of quality make, wrapped securely in a thin checker-patterned dishcloth.

With a note of jerky, clumsy glee to her movements at the idea of a quest almost fulfilled, the Peregrine Mendicant turns back towards Winchester so that she might complete her mission. However, something causes her to stop short— a game mechanic, ingrained in the minds of every one of her species since their initial replicating, buzzes through her mind with tittering urgency.

When PM looks at Dean Winchester for a second time, she sees. She sees so much anger, loss, sacrifice, death and resentment, all culminating into an odious black smoke that burgeons throughout his very soul like the tide of a choppy sea. Flickering from side to side in this sea like phytoplankton of a mystically bioluminescent variety, sparks of purple slowly coalesce into the shape of a scowling player’s mask. It foams at the surface of the amorphous black, threatening to spill over at any moment.

If she listens closely enough with a Queen’s ears, she can even hear discordant classic rock playing.

Prince of Rage, she hums to herself, and she must have said it quite audibly for the man— if he is, indeed, still that— starts to squint suspiciously at her.

The details of this man’s past may be largely unknown to her, but this title rings as clear and true as the Song of Skaia in her mind. There is a sad note to it, as well, as if this man were forbidden to ascend to the god-tiers in his current... contaminated state. Which he may very well be. As far as PM knows, the game is meant to be entertained only by children. No adults may survive after their entrance into the Medium... at least, not without exceptional help.

She feels immense pity for him instantly, but tries not to let it bleed into her behavior. With slow, measured steps, for Princes are volatile even when paired with less alarming aspects, PM approaches with the parcel laid out in her hands for Dean to see.

Greetings, Prince of Rage, she isn’t sure why she is suddenly using his title. It’s almost as if a switch has been flicked on in her head— she is the Prospitian Monarch now, the only Queen in existence, and she must do her best to aid the players of her session. No matter how doomed they may be, or from which moon they hail. I am the Peregrine Mendicant. I have been instructed to deliver this parcel to you.

“A package, huh?” the Prince of Rage asks, lips pursing and turning just slightly upwards. He takes the cloth-wrapped item from her a little rougher than she would like, but she refrains from making any complaint. “What the hell is it, then—“

He stops speaking abruptly as the cloth falls away. Not one for wasting a second of choice business time, PM takes this as an opportunity to sling her satchel over her shoulder again, re-affixing her grey wrappings and postman’s cap until they are to her liking. The Regisword settles heavily against the small of her back, and she spends a few moments shifting her weight from foot to foot until it leans more against her side.

When she glances back up again, Dean Winchester appears to be making a valiant effort to scowl at her, although it seems to be quite an uphill battle through his... could that be joy? “What the fuck? How did you find this? Wait, no— who gave it to you?”

PM does not have the time for these impertinent questions— she has a letter to deliver to one Demetri Malius! Still, she answers Dean Winchester without being especially resentful about it. A shopkeeper. It was brought to their hands by a nameless individual who I am not familiar with, a pause. PM glances pointedly at the vehicular contraption. That is a nice vehicle for traversing desert sands. Were you sincere in your offer? I have another parcel which must be delivered with the utmost haste to Demetri Malius. Do you know where I might find them? I do not believe they are in this settlement, but I could be wrong.

Dean frowns at the weird alien chick, still fiddling around with the Colt. PM stares placidly back at him, black eyes patient and kind, as if she could wait all day for his reply. It's kind of annoying.

This is really freaky— he doesn’t even want to know why she keeps referring to him as some kind of Prince of Rage or some whacky shit like that. Although, weirdly enough, he doesn’t think that it’s just that he doesn’t feel much like questioning it— it seems almost… right, somehow. Like he has just been spoken to correctly for the first time in his life.

[Dean Winchester]

The title she kept using, Prince of Rage, no matter how many times she said it Dean didn't even blink for somehow it fit him. Though he had figured out that apparently she wasn't speaking, the lack of moving lips under the cloth had helped with that. Apparently it was some sort of telepathy, or some crap similar to that.

Whatever, as long as she didn't dig TOO deep he wouldn't have to kill her.

Dean absently traced his fingers along the colt, tracing all the symbols and words carved into it. THE motherfucking COLT was in his hands! It was rusted pretty bad, and sand was jamming up the trigger and possibly some of the other smaller parts, but he could probably fix it given time and the proper tools. Maybe he could even improve on it, give it the old demonic make over. Turn the demon killing weapon into a demonic weapon? Yeah, that sounded like something he had to do.

Dean was lost in his own thoughts till her think/talking brought him back around. Dem-who Mal-what? Dean had no fucking clue who the hell that was, or where to find them.

”Sorry Kid, no idea who that is. If you want we can drive round the dunes till we pick up his trail or something.” Dean paused trying to think of what else could be done. ”Other then that I have no fucking clue.”

Dean watched as the mail girl narrowed her eyes at him and then march over to the passenger side of the car and just open the door and get in, apparently something he had said meant “yes, of course I will give you a ride' to her. Growling a bit Dean opened the drivers door and get in, casting her a glance.

”Buckle up.” Was the only thing he said to her before starting the engine, while making a point of not fastening his own seat belt, and then pressing down on the gas pedal. Apparently she wasn't sure what buckle up meant because her seat belt was undone and she was doing her best not to slide back and forth from Dean's erratic driving. Before heading off to the dunes Dean decided to do a quick drive around town, hanging his head out the window and yelling.

”DEEEMMMEEETRRRIIII MMMAAAAAALLLLLLUUSSS! COME OUT AND PPLLLLLLLAAAAAYYYYYYY-EEEEHHH!!” Ducking his head back into the car he looked at the mail girl and shruged. ”Not in town I guess!”

Dean waited till the were in an empty intersection and spun the car 180 degrees and headed down the road the had just come from, and then headed out of town.

.....

It was probably only about a half hour into the drive now but the entire awkward driving in silence with the creepy mind talking girl was starting to grate on the demon's nerves a bit. Time to attempt small talk, though he probably wasn't that good at it anymore. The only person he had spoken to in earnest since he got here was Sinestro, and with him he could be blunt as hell!

”SSSsssooooooooooo” Dean paused while trying to find the right words then just giving up and blurting out the first thing that came to mind. ”What the hell are you? I mean, you're not human that I can tell, and this place seems to drag in all kinds.”

The words hung in the air a bit before the girl started her think/talk deal. I am a carapacian of the light kingdom Prospit, although that world has been destroyed continuously across many time-lines.

”Right, of course. Silly me for asking.” Dean sighed, of course none of it was going to make sense. ”And you have to be like 16 or something, what the hell are you doing in the fucking dunes?!”

This time she seemed to narrow her eyes at him, almost indignantly. I beg your pardon? I'm afraid that your human concept of age does not apply to my species— we remain largely the same throughout all our lives. There was a pause as she seemed to collect herself a bit. As for wandering in the Dunes... I am prepared for whatever comes my way. I hope so, at least.

As she explained the last part she patted the hilt of a sword, or what Dean guessed was a sword. Ok, so apparently she was a sword wielding ageless postwoman or something, this place was getting fucking weird.

”Now on to point number three, who the hell is Demetri Mallus?” Hopefully she had a better answer to this one.

As a Parcel Mistress, it is my sworn duty to deliver this letter to Mr. Malius. I do not know who he is, only that this mail is for his eyes only. Apparently she did not, this probably meant they were going to be driving in circles till they got a clue, got killed, or just gave up.

”Last question for now, I promise.” Once again your could see on his face that he was searching for the right words, before once again mentally saying fuck it and blurting out whatever. ”Not that it doesn't fit but what the fuck is a Prince of Rage, and why do you keep calling me that?”

I apologize. It is a, Dean watched as she stared out the window, apparently trying to gather her own thoughts. It is a  a title that only I seem to have a concept of at present. It is an unnecessary tidbit of information regarding a specific set of predestined mechanics that my brain appears to be struggling to apply to this reality. It could be considered a coping mechanism, I suppose.

”That has to be the most crazy anyone has ever said to me, but if it helps it helps. Know what helps me cope?" Dean waited and finally got an inquisitive reply. Fishing in the box of tapes in the back seat he got a new one and replaced the one already in the player, the one he had forgotten to start up again, and then pressed play.

[b]Like a bat out of hell I'll be gone when the morning comes.
When the night is over, like a bat out of hell, I'll be gone, gone, gone.
Like a bat out of hell I'll be gone when the morning comes.[b]

The music screamed through the speakers and Dean just gave a wicked grin and then suddenly slammed his foot down on the gas pedal and spun the wheel hard, causing the Impala to start doing donuts in the sand. Once they straightened up the Impala rocketed forward and flew up a dune, getting a pretty solid amount of air time before gravity took over and the hit the ground again and took off into the endless dunes once more.

At first the Peregrine Mendicant, or whatever he name was, seemed to be freaking out and trying to hold onto the dash board before she started to relax, then her eyes went wide and then shut tight as she did that weird clicking snapping finger thing she had done when she had found out who Dean was, apparently it was some sort of happy dance. Glad to know she was enjoying the ride at least.

[Ada Wong]

The journey through the desert is exhilarating, with great gusts of gritty sand being swept up in their wake as Dean Winchester’s vehicle speeds along. There is open sky spread out in all directions, a sheen of clear-cut blue against the sweeping desert sands.

Despite the rocky start in which PM did not use the designated safety strap, she eventually eases down into her seat and idly taps her claws together, staring curiously out into the endless dunes. Faint telepathic sizzle-pops crackle out into the ether, the sound swallowed up by the rocks rumbling like thunder beneath the car’s grooved tires.

Occasionally, as they proceed along at high speeds, she believes that she can see other vehicles hurtling through the surrounding dunes, enormous plumes of golden dirt cascading into the air. The silence between the two occupants in the car balloons to astronomical heights, but PM contents herself with squinting at the dust-scratched glass of the windows and the interior of the car.

She traces a pair of initials carved into the inside of the door with a claw while Winchester is distracted with his vehicle’s primary steering mechanism. They are jagged and jilted, as if scratched in by children. She wonders who put them there, and then desists once she hears Winchester start to make an attempt at discourse.

It soon becomes apparent that Dean Winchester is not as content with this peaceable silence as she is, for he begins to barrage her with several questions. They are none too personal, certainly not enquiring after information that she would be compelled to withhold, and so PM answers them politely and with a relatively airy tone. But, she does find herself wanting to flick this man’s nose with a claw for being so ridiculously crass.

The Prince of Rage makes for good company, however, and the music he blares at deafening volume is strangely pleasant. It provides for an excellent sensory combination with the jilted swerving of the vehicle, and PM clicks her fingers together in delight. It is almost like flying, in a way— although the last time she took flight was under far from pleasant circumstances, this is the only comparison that she can draw from her limited experiences.

Plus, the music is rather motivating. It would make for an excellent parcel-delivering anthem. Or, perhaps if she were to read into the lyrics a tad more, she might notice that there were rather dooming connotations to the song and that it would be better suited for the pursuit of cancerous slayers such as Jack Noir. She doesn’t, however, and the rest of her enjoyment of the long drive towards some unpredicted place is undisturbed.

They are making good time as they draw nearer to an arresting little dash of a shape on the sunburnt horizon. PM focuses in on it, leaning a ways forward in her seat to get a better look through the dusted windshield. She almost digs her claws into the leathery seats to keep herself balanced, but abstains from doing so out of consideration for her traveling companion.

What is that? PM asks the Prince of Rage, her tone bewildered. Unfortunately, even when she is speaking directly into his mind he cannot hear her over the earsplitting music shrieking out from the speakers in garbled bursts. Picking idly at her hood, PM once again returns her gaze to the shape that is steadily becoming more and more discernible from the rest of the wide-sweeping dunes. She will have to wait but a short while longer for her question to be answered, the Peregrine Mendicant supposes.

Soon enough, they arrive at the gates of what appears to be an urbane desert city, with high walls surrounding it. Her eyes alight upon several armed guards who stand at the entrance, prepared to aggress any who would be foolish enough to try to breach the city’s walls without obtaining proper clearance first. A respectable and cautionary measure, which was often employed between the warring kingdoms of Prospit and Derse.

PM is untroubled by this. Surely, as a Parcel Mistress of good standing, she will be able to deliver this letter by hand to Demetri Malius.

The vehicle draws to a grumbling halt, a few stray stones skidding out from under its arrested wheels. Winchester exits with a slam of one of the car’s doors, and so PM is obliged to follow suit.

[Dean Winchester]

Dean brought the Impala to a halt well outside the range of the walled city, though when he got out by the looks of his guest they had just rolled up to the doors itself, she was a sort of strange the Winchester was never going to get used to. Shielding his eyes with a hand Dean did take a look at the gate in the distance and let licked his teeth before taking a sharp inhale of breath, more for the sound it made then the actual need to breath. Shaking his head the Winchester climb up onto the hood of the car and stretched out, using the windshield to support his back.

Oh, we are not at the front gates? I had imagined we had headed straight there. Dean looked over at the mail lady and shook his head in reply.

”Nah, we are going to have to wait a bit.” As he spoke he pointed off in the direction of the gate. ”Seems there is a little argument happening, and while I can't count numbers I don't think we should barge into the middle of a fight, even if I really really want to.”

Dean was clenching a hand into a fist, a fist that was hovering rather close to the first blade. The demon could feel it's tug, just one more fight, one more kill, in the end what would it matter? Just do it! DO IT! FIGHT! KILL! As the thoughts grew louder and louder, Dean started to growl and his eyes turned that tar black again. He was about to leap off the hood of the car and dash into the fray on foot, well he would have if that woman/girl's talk/thinking hadn't brought him back around.

Yes, I see it now. After she confirmed that there was indeed a fight going on she turned back to Dean, noticing his distress. Are you ok Prin... I mean, are you Ok Dean Winchester?

Dean realized what he had been about to do and let the black blink out of his eyes as he struggled to get comfortable again.

”Yeah, yeah I'm fine. We better get comfortable, since this fight could last awhile.” Dean used a piece of Omnillium to summon himself a beer as he lounged on the Impala, cracking it open and taking a sip while watching for signs that the fight was dying down. Looking over at PM he noticed her eyeing the bottle, so he offered it to her. ”You want one?”

”I will try a sip she thought at him while reaching for the can and taking it in both of her hands. Bringing it up to her face she tipped it back and Dean could only assume she took a sip, because while he didn't see it happen he sure as hell as the after effects. The mail woman had almost instantly tossed the can into the air while squinting her eyes and waving her hands about, the demon could have also sword he heard several sounds in his head that could have been her repeating 'Bluh!” over and over. Her over the top reaction caused Dean to laugh. It had been a short yet rough laugh, but a laugh none the less.

Dean shook his head after and got himself another beer, this time making sure it was extra cold since he didn't get to drink the last one and needed the extra refreshment. Watching the condensation start to appear as cold bottle met warm air Dean smiled and brought it to his lips, letting the cool liquid slide down his throat. All he needed was a pair of shades and this would almost be like a vacation at the beach!

Dean Winchester, may I ask you a question? Dean looked over to the mail lady and just shrugged, didn't matter to him one bit. He had done plenty of question asking himself after all. What do you know about this place, can we leave it?

Ah, it was going to be that sort of talk.

”First things first, I don't know much since I have been here as long as some but I will tell you what I do.” The Winchester held up one finger on his free hand. ”One, last I heard you can't escape, or more so no one knows how and those who tried all have failed.”

Taking another sip of his beer he held up another finger.

”Second, there are 8 worlds including the dunes here, each with it's own name and connected to that big white room by gates or something. I think the others were Camelot, Corusa-something, Green Tangles, and the others had something to do with frozen, moores, and something being really deep. Do not quote me on those.” Holding up a third finger he continued. “Third and final point, there also seems to be a Heaven and a Hell here, called the Oververse and Underverse, though apparently that Heaven one is more of a rumour then anything else.”

Bringing his hand down Dean just shrugged.

”And that is all for Professor Dean's pointless information class, there will be a test next Friday so do not be late.” The Winchester looked over to his temporary companion and saw her just staring at him. ”The last part was a joke.”

Ah, yes. Humourous. She seemed to fidget a bit, checking on her mail or whatever while looking back and forth between Dean and the battle at the gates. So, what do we do in the mean time?

Dean just brought the bottle up to his lips and took a rather large gulp of the amber liquid inside.

”Well, when things die down I am sure they will see us, so we approach slowly and you tell them what you want to do and I will probably head back somewhere to take a look at the colt.” Sloshing the beer around in the bottle Dean looked back over to her before speaking again. ”Until then, we wait.”

[Ada Wong]

It is regrettable that she will have to wait for a while longer to continue on with her most noble of quests. A rabble of scuffling denizens bars the way into the city, and so Dean Winchester pulls his vehicle over to the side so that not a single scrape will be left upon its painted surface. They sit atop the car’s hood, Winchester strewn lazily across it and PM seated primly at its front.

The drink that Dean Winchester so enjoys is absolutely abominable. In taste, it is akin to lightly-carbonated urine or something like that— or at least, that is how she thinks carbonated urine would taste like. She can’t be certain due to never having been impulsive enough to try it, but it is a pretty fair comparison to draw in her mind.

She cringes slightly as Winchester continues to down the stuff, utterly appalled and more than a little bit fascinated. What kind of warped desire for sheer suffering could drive someone to do that to themselves? Bluh!

Well, at least it is over now. She sits comfortably on the hood of the gas-guzzling vehicular contraption that has brought her here, feet just barely grazing against the warm sands. She can barely feel the overarching temperature of these dunes through her carapace, but judging by the sweat that beads on Winchester’s face and around the edge of his bottled alcoholic beverage, it really must be nothing to shake a stick at.

It is at this juncture that the Peregrine Mendicant once again looks upon the imposing walls of New Babylon. She does not know of any Old Babylons, but apparently the walled city that sits up so regally from the desert sands is a hopeful new edition. Perhaps there are many golden riches inside, glistening in their enormous coffers, splendid tiles depicting hundreds of colorful little festivals decorating the hallowed halls, sneeze-inducing spices alongside ointments and sugars and sweetly aromatic myrrh, and all sorts of fine silken cloth in the markets. Or maybe there are just a lot of anime children running around. She does not know.

There is no point to these fanciful musings, however. Peregrine is but a simple Parcel Mistress, with a few queenly attributes puttering about inside of her head. With the amount of Skaian knowledge crooning a sorrowful refrain at the back of her mind, PM could surely fend off an unruly horrorterror if she so chose. It would be almost easy. But, she does not desire to, there are none wriggling about out of the precipitous cloudbank, and it would likely be a waste of energy. She settles for merely handling Demetri Malius’s letter while gazing anxiously at the city’s barred gates.

The speed with which Dean Winchester answers her inane questions is nothing short of admirable. This is most likely because he does not have to rap out every word he speaks into her mind, but PM likes him for it all the same. He also seems to possess a relative wealth of knowledge, although some of the things he says are rather questionable in their… lack of detail. Still, she finds some of what he says witty, and so she sends out barely-perceptible cues of encouragement into his mind as he gesticulates about the Omniverse.

Humans are such remarkable creatures with amazing amounts of potential sparking at their fingertips, like a scribe or a dutiful monk about to commit to the creation of some fanciful, wondrous masterpiece. Carapacians, unfortunately, are far less inventive, although they are also far less prone to distractions when provided with a definite goal. This is surely the primary distinction between them.

This human, however…. He has a few strange tendencies that veer away from Skaia’s plan most treacherously. He is almost like a rabid hell-beast in the way that he tenses and stares fixedly at the commotion taking place outside of Nippur’s gates, his fists clenched as if preparing to launch himself into the fray. It could have something to do with the peculiar way that his eyes flicker black from time to time, but PM wouldn’t bet her mailperson’s cap on it.

When she considers the fight taking place across from them, if it could even be referred to as such for how disorganized it is, PM mentally cringes. There are all kinds of aspects jarring against one another here, wholly incompatible in spirit and scrambled, although some are definitely more brazenly displayed than the rest, and the jilting tunes of quite a few fraymotifs scramble to the forefront of her mind at piercing volumes.

Unrealized players, she realizes. A Knight of Breath, with a perplexing absence of periwinkle blue sky and wispy clouds about their person. A Prince of Mind, who is no doubt faced with a good many logical choices while attempting to beat his opponent into the dirt with well-aimed sword thrusts. Several others who are hidden from the light of Skaia mill about, their aspects clouded from view and hopelessly muddled. All of it amounts into one large cluster of dizzyingly cacophonous melodies that crash against one another with little care for the ears of any surrounding game constructs. Truly, a work of genius to which even Mozart could not compare.

As she has only just arrived to this strife, PM cannot say who might emerge as victor. However, it does appear that several denizens— humanoid in appearance, although that might not mean much— are all facing a single opponent, who happens to be the Knight of Breath. PM would like to aid him, really she would, but there are far too many duties that she must attend to beforehand and it is likely that he cannot hold out for that long against so many spirited foes.

Then, there is an extraordinarily white explosion, which even after it has dissipated results in dazzling sparks that filter like dainty snowfall across her vision. PM is totally pissed, because this unexpected flare of power is most likely going to cause for a good deal of trouble that will keep her outside of this city’s walls for even longer, and, while she certainly enjoys Dean Winchester’s company, he might soon choose to abandon her for the road.

I do hope that they wrap this up soon, the Peregrine Mendicant says as an aside to Winchester, shiny black eyes watching the combatants for any signs of giving up. They are being very disruptive.

“You and me both.” Dean drawls, taking another swig of his beer.

[Dean Winchester]

Saying that Dean had a short attention span was a bit of an understatement, or an overstatement depending on the circumstances. While on a hunt he was very focused, goal orientated if you will, and never got side tracked until his prey was caught, and in most cases eliminated. Playing out here in the sand box though, with nothing much else to do? Yeah, that was starting to get very tiresome rather quickly, at least until there was some sort of electrical explosion,

Dean had seen pretty much any form of explosion known to man kind, conventional or supernatural, and had never saw anything like that. Whoever these jerks were they were packing some serious firepower. The thought of fighting them made Dean smile, for now though he had to kill time. Digging through his pocket the Winchester found the smart phone he had summoned and with a shrug logged into it. Most things looked normal, the phone symbol, the contact list with only one name in it, all the basic stuff. The strange thing was the icon to log into the Dataverse. Instead of a globe with a buring fox, or a sort of strange colour wheel thing, there was simply Omni's creepy grinning face in a blue box with the word Dataverse under it.

With a sigh Dean touched the icon and a window popped up, he was going to have to do some emailing after all. There was also a link to something that caught his eye, something called PesterOmni. Well, if this thing Pestered that no good son-of-a-bitch then Dean was all for it! Time to check it out.


The mail woman seemed to be busy watching the fight so Dean had a few minutes to waste on the net at least, possibly more depending on how good or sucky these people fighting were.

[Ada Wong]

The sky flares out above the pair in orange-yellow streaks, akin to the reflections of a hearths fire across shaken metallic foil. Like the ooze of indigo-blue oil settling atop the dunes in sticky mounds of purplish dusk, the horizon declines in the perceptible distance. Grit and sand hurls and glides around them with each brazen wind, much like gold-vermilion dust.

Peregrine watches silently as Dean Winchester’s fingers fly over the tiny buttons of a communications device with a simple kind of monotony. Light clicks, barely audible over the sounds of the skirmish taking place a fair distance away from where they sit, mark the selection of each new key. A faint bluish light is cast across his face as it contorts in both rugged amusement and annoyance at whatever he is reading on the glowing screen.

He has the air of a soldier about him— prepared to strive through red death and smoke with feuds, jealousies, and sorrows hanging over his shoulders. But now, with an almost impish curl to his lips and the peculiar, curious light of mankind gleaming in his green eyes, PM believes that Dean might be feeling more comfortable in his human shape than he did earlier when his eyes were black as pitch.

There is the steady, stuttering rattle of battle clamoring about over her head that tells her that the fight is still raging on. Each tangential syllable resounds with the deafening eminence of cannon shot, crackling like bone upon each fateful impact. The fraymotif artillery, perhaps unheard by anyone but herself, appears to be back in action, with more than enough discordant beats to spare. It mingles easily with the actual sounds produced by the persons scuffling about in the sands, although the music produced is jilted and whirls with the chaotic tempo of combat and coursing blood.

They have been at it for quite a long while. Well, perhaps not so long— they have only been waiting here for a couple minutes, after all, and there is still time yet for this bout to draw to a close. Hopefully she will soon be able to carry out her mailwoman’s duties within the safeguarded walls of Nippur, which apparently lies upon such rich dirt that individuals have seen fit to clash over it.

Crossing her legs at the ankles, PM brings her eggshell-white hands together with an audible click. Winchester glances up, squinting at her through the intense light of his phone. From behind her, the sounds of combat persist, although they appear to be gaining some intensity and volume.

What are you doing? the carapacian asks, drumming the tips of her claws together in her usual way.

[Dean Winchester]

The Winchester had barely been able to tap send on his smartphone when the question was asked to him. What was he doing? Couldn't she see he was on his phone! Messaging, trolling, doing whatever the hell he could to pass the time! Then again, different folk from different worlds and all that bullshit he keeps forgetting about.

”I'm killing time.” Dean paused and thought about his choice of words, everything was killing with him these days. ”Occupying myself on my phone here, checking out the net. Well, I guess here it is called the Dataverse or some shit like that.”

The mail lady just sat there and started at him for a moment, he could feel another question coming on. Instead of waiting for her to ask it Dean just assumed he knew what it was going to be and kept on talking.

”You know, like the internet?” Scratching his chin Dean thought of how best to explain the internet. ”Electronic exchange of information and messages, mostly used to yell at or make fun of people, lots and lots of pictures of stupid cats?”

Sliding down from his position on the Impala's hood Dean sat next to PM and showed her his phone, and all the various icons that now existed on the touch screen.

”That dumb looking one of Omni's face is the general browers slash search icon. That goofy looking one there is this PesterOmni chat tool I found that is mostly full of dumb people that need to be stabbed, they are lucky it doesn't use real names.” Dean switched over to another screen with a few generic icons that did little to nothing, and one of a envelope. [b]”This one you might like, or might not as it might put you out of a job, because this one is for sending email. Electronic mail. It sends the mail instantly, well just letters really, without the use of people or a postal system. Just type it in and send!”

The strange calk coloured woman stared at Dean for awhile, she seemed to fidget in place as if at war with herself. Dean could almost hear that thought/speak of hers going back and forth. More mail, quicker! But less, sadness! But, but, mail! That is not to be touched by my hands, and so forth it would go. She was wringing her hands together, eyes focused down at them as the battle raged on in her mind, confusion, grief, denial! Though all this was mostly just part of Dean's imagination as a way to amuse himself, as was the entire letting slip about email. It was her own fault really, after all she did ask what he was doing!

He was sure she was about to freak out and do her arm flailing thing, but she proved him wrong and just calmed right the fuck down. The Winchester had built up the entire scene in his mind and here she had to go and be all mature and shit, it was disappointing really.

It can not send physical items though, can it? Dean just blinked at the question and tilted his head to the side.

”I honestly don't know much about it. I know it was said that people could enter the Dataverse themselves I think, but nothing about just sending items.” Dean thought about it for awhile and then shrugged. 'Maybe not? Honestly I have no idea.”

Ah, then there will still be need of postal workers to deliver parcels then! She seemed pleased with this, Dean assumed she took his lack of knowing as leaning more towards the 'No, probably not' side of the spectrum of possibility.

”Yeah, sure. Why not.” Dean thought about the colt, and what he said to Sinestro. She COULD be used as a weapon delivery system potentially. She seemed very intent on getting what she was given to who she was told to, no matter what. It could be, well, useful in the future. Dean looked down at his phone and closed the email section of it before going on any further.

”Sadly this thing doesn't have any games on it.” he gave a little grin, as apologetic as he could manage, before going on. ”If there was we could have killed the time better. As it stands you will just have to keep basking in my wonderful company!”

[Tom Marvolo Riddle]

One thing I’d like to note is that I completely underestimated the distance between myself and the Nipur gate. Smiling for that long can be painful even when my mouth muscles were merely construct of my own will power and magical force. It’s a rather curious assumption. About half way through the distance I reevaluated my need to appear smiling. Even a grin might be too much.

“Ready Nealaphh?” I said mostly to test my own voice and its compatibility with the look on my face. How it felt.

It took some doing but I found that a simple half grin worked much better. I could remember a number of times were a simple, self-assured smile, like that the brushing back of my hair, a two quick blinks were all it took to charm most witches… and even some wizards. Although, thankfully, my dealings with the latter had been few and far between in anything more than just casual conversation and business. Each stride was loose, jovial even; as I put my energy into projecting an air of a man who had been both humbled and given a curious new puzzle.

I quite liked puzzles, working on such helped me keep an image that I was just as wise as everyone else, when I had already far surpassed them. Paying only just enough attention to them just enough that it didn’t appear that I was dissecting them for weakness. Of course I was, I would never let such an opportunity go to waste. I just wouldn’t point it out to them, as was the case with my feathered companion and its broken wing. How easily that had been done or how little it would take to do more.

But such thoughts were unbecoming of the situation that was now upon me. A business wizard who enjoyed life, that’s who I was. A pureblood who had a rich life, rather than that of a simple orphan who had grown up with nothing but his birthright.

Granted I imagined Nealaphh didn’t quite help the semblance that I was going for. Crows while they were truly intelligent animals usually didn’t endear the masses nearly as much as the everyday owl. Maybe I could persuade Nealaphh next time to let me transfigure it into such. It wouldn’t be much painful I imagined, perhaps the being might even enjoy the experience. But such an intriguing conversation would have to wait for a later time if I was allotted such.

I had plenty going for me and I didn’t let my fears waylay me in the least. Each step forward was one less I’d have to take retracing old history.

I gave several practice squeezes of my right arm and hand as I readied for social interactions with humans for the first time in nearly fifty years. My left arm I kept loose as well, but unlike my right, I kept it ready for summoning my wand to my defense. After all most wars came about because social interaction fell sway to societal reformation. Exactly what I planned but this time I’d take a longer path, harder path to achieve such. If such a thing happened now, I’d be forever playing catch up, but if I did this right I wouldn’t have that problem. Which meant I needed to psych myself up. An old hat for a new body.

At about ten meters I waved with a light flick of my hand and a nod of my head. Casual but not dismissive. With one last squeeze of my fingers and loosening of my shoulders felt a familiar energy settle into me. I focused in on my prey as I push the light into my eyes. Not quite the twinkling Dumbledore eyes but it’d have to do. At about five meters away I raised my voice with my signature as my face broke into a momentary beam, “Well met friends!”

[Ada Wong]

Ah, PM says, mostly to herself, while peering at the screen of Winchester’s Dataverse device. He appears to have been “trolling” a few select individuals until she asked about the nature of his occupation with the object, if any of the fleeting glimpses of text she notes are anything to go by. As for the device itself, it is an unusual little plasticky thing, and seems as if it should fumble through his fingers rather than remain a clunky and solid weight against his palm.

This news about the state of the mail service in the Omniverse is just as distressingly dire as she had feared it would be. Luckily, these devices that send incorporeal bits of information do not yet seem capable of transporting physical items, at least not through any means but intangible or holographic images. She will not, as Winchester so delicately put it, “be out of a job”.

There is a snug, warm feeling of belonging that settles behind her sternum, like a downy sparrow come home to roost, and her posture slackens somewhat in cool relief. With a fair amount of cheer crinkling through their telepathic connection, PM cups her palms together in her lap, the hard shell of her carapace reflecting the cell phone’s bluish light around her eyes.

The rag-wrapped mail lady is a little disappointed when Winchester stows the device away, for the Dataverse had sounded like such a grand and marvelous thing, but it does not show other than a slight slump of her shoulders and bow of her head towards her knobby knees. Perhaps she will investigate it later on, purely for the purpose of finding out what parcels need to be delivered next.

Well, that seems to be that. The two will have to do something else to occupy their time, then. Just as PM is about to suggest that they play a nice bout of rock-paper-scissors, however, there is a posh halloo from someplace to her right. With a swivel of her hooded head, PM turns to see a bipedal humanoid approaching across the sands with something feathery and dark perched upon their shoulder that is vaguely bird-shaped.

As the man— she assumes him to be such, anyhow,— brandishes his hand in the air in greeting, PM considers if this might not be something other than a simple gesture of acknowledgement between strangers, especially in a strange new universe such as this one. She hopes to avoid some sort of cultural confrontation if at all possible, and the brief, somewhat charming flash of this fellow’s teeth is not especially comforting.

Feeling rather unsure, the mail woman’s shiny black eyes turn to regard Dean Winchester, the authentic and heretofore truthful Prince of Rage who has been so knowledgeable thus far. While he does not blatantly reach for any of the weapons she knows he is in possession of, a frown creases his brow and cinches his lips downwards. His fingers twitch idly, like a slinky cat waiting to strike.

Apparently not, then. This fellow is just a loony wandering out in the sands and flagging them down for the hell of it. He probably isn’t even doing anything worthwhile, like delivering the mail. Why is she not surprised?

She again squints at the approaching individual, who has a rather self-assured grin tugging urgently at his lips. It’s like watching a two-year-old trying to toddle across a room, this guy’s smile is; either unpracticed or simply fallow and left to fade away in some dank corner for far too long. He is probably trying too hard to seem approachable, although PM appreciates the effort nonetheless.

Ah, but there is a most glorious Light about his person! It swirls around him with all the intensity of a golden-orange medallion, wisps of nimble Light flickering out like serpent’s tongues to taste the air for good fortune and knowledge. A Lord of Light stands before her, with naught but a funny stick to manipulate the world around him with.

The raven, she sees now, is crooked solemnly upon the dark-haired boy’s shoulder, although there is something very strange about it that she is trying her best to reconcile with the Skaian null that resonates throughout her very being. A faint green hum, serene and stinging with a keen electrical spark underneath the surface of a pool of consciousness, reverberates out from this feathery creature’s core, fading out into inky black shadow that tapers and furls curiously.

To the best of her knowledge, however, birds are not supposed to be capable of ascending to the god tiers. Clearly this is some sort of mistake or glitch in the system. The mere thought of it is almost enough to arouse suspicion within the carapacian’s mind, but she settles for being simply bemused. The mind only believes what it would like to accept as true, after all, and a Prince and a Lord are quite the deadly combination— not to mention the other Prince currently poised to strike at her side. She will surely be more comforted this way.

Hello, the carapacian greets the newcomers, sliding off of the Impala’s hood so that her feet spread slight contours into the warm sands beneath her. Are you looking to venture into Nippur, as well? I am afraid that there has been a disturbance and it will be rather difficult to gain entry, at the moment, but you are welcome to stand by and visit with us during your wait!

Bafflingly, Dean Winchester seems disgruntled by her choice to invite them to chat for a while. She looks at him inquiringly, a tad anxious about how this oftentimes hotheaded acquaintance of hers might react.

[Tearen Wover]

As the pair drew closer to the other set of Primes languishing on the automobile, Nealaphh noticed as the one in white seemed to take special notice of the shadow. Perhaps it was just that seeing an avian organism adorning the shoulder of a mysterious traveler in the Dunes was in and of itself worthy of lingering attention, but the way her eyes continually narrowed and widened suggested something a tad more insightful. As its was, however Tom's greeting seemed to have fallen short of their goal of appearing non-chalant. Ultimately, this was only to be a passing meeting, so hopefully it would not matter in the long run.

Nealaphh could get very little from the white-clad figure's thoughts. It was as if she was consciously preventing herself from projecting any sort of outward thinking, almost as if she was trying to be polite. Her physical form was intriguing as well, as she appeared to be made from some sort of white, chitinous substance and wrapped in humble cloth. It was almost evocative of Nealaphh's own usual mortal appearance, but the god-mind decided that this most vague of coincidences as nothing more than precisely that.

Her companion, however, was a veritable orchestra of uncontrolled thought and emotion, and one that was badly out of tune, at that. The sheer amount of animosity and restlessness that emanated from Dean Winchester's mind (it was hardly difficult to glean his name from the ambient thoughts) was an abstract melange that soothed Nealaphh's soul in a way he hadn't felt for some time. The sheer freedom and abandon with which Dean carried himself was the kind of attitude the God-Mind dearly wished that it could share. Alas, until it had assumed complete control of the Omniverse, it would have to maintain an image of quiescent charisma. How tiring. At present, however, it seemed as though the Winchester man was highly aggravated by the presence of Tom and his stupid bird. The god-mind feared the possibility of an altercation, and so briefly scanned the demon's mind for anything that might temporarily placate him.

Tell him you like his car. Nealaphh said, relaying the words to Tom.

[Dean Winchester]

It had been enjoyable while it last, the time alone with this strange woman. It had probably been one of the first peaceful moments the demon was allowed since he came to this place. Though to call it peaceful was probably an over statement, the least angry he had been possibly? Still, whatever it was had been shattered by these new arrivals, the stick toting jerk and his stupid pet bird. Though something about the pair was bothering him, and it was probably showing on his face. He was reminded of his earlier trolling sessions, the one little message board about the twerps with wands, this couldn't be the guy, the odds of that happening were, well Dean wasn't exactly sure but they had to be pretty damn high and ridiculous!

It just couldn't be!

The thought of it still crept around his brain as he tried to take on his normal non-chalant-devil-may-care look, the one that said I do not know who you are, nor will I ever care about it. It was purely a surface thing though because underneath it his mind was racing, if it was this guy hadn't he insulted Dean before? Maybe a little per-emptive strike would be in order? Also WHAT THE HELL WAS UP WITH THAT BIRD?! Something about the creature did not sit right with Dean, he wasn't sure if it was his inner demon letting him know something was up or if it was just good old fashion paranoia. Whatever it was Dean couldn't help glancing back to the bird every now and then.

If it had been up to him he would have told them to make like a tree, but sadly the mail lady had other plans and invited them over. The Winchester was starting to feel like this so-called Endless Dunes was getting more and more crowded by the day. He let out a string of mental curses, though did little else but keep his one hand close to the hilt of the first blade. He made no move to take hold of the weapon, but made it pretty clear that it was there and easily accessible. Turning to PM he gave her a hard look before saying what was on his mind.

”Listen, you want to invite every stray we come across over that is fine, but don't blame me when shit goes ba.” Dean had meant to say bad but the almost distant sound of the Intro the the song Enter Sandman started to play, the melody was not actually distant though but muffled and coming from Dean's pocket. Taking the phone out he looked at the screen and then turned to the rest. ”If you will excuse me for a minute.”

Sliding off the hood of his car Dean walked a few paces away from the group and answered the call, knowing they would probably be listening in.

”Winchester's pizza, how can I take your order?” The odd greeting had luckily not thrown off the caller, as Sinestro had plenty of time to get to know Dean previously, though maybe it would make the others around him pause a bit. Dean listened to Sinestro's question, face blank. ”Why yes, yes I am!”

Dean went silent, listening to what was said to him very clearly, his face going slowly from blank to grinning, and finally almost predatory. ”Right! One order for delivery, 30 minutes or it's free!”

Hanging up the phone Dean walked back to the rest of the group, offering a hand to the mail woman and helping her off the hood of his car.

”Sorry to cut and run, but I have to be somewhere else. I am sure you will be safe enough here waiting to deliver that letter.” Dean had made sure to put an emphasis on the word waiting before he turned to the boy and his bird. ”And I am sure this will not be the last time we meet, it's a small verse after all!”

Well, the verse itself was actually rather large but Dean couldn't help but make the reference, making it in an almost sing-song tone of voice, he was now in a rather good mood now after all. Getting into his car Dean wasted no time starting the engine, and after a quick mirror check and popping in a new tape, he backed the vehicle up and then spun the car around. It was clear that he was indeed heading away from the city, but it was just as clear that he was not heading back the way he had come from, in fact if someone cared to pay attention he was kind of lining the car up with the front gates of the city while heading away from it.

Dean made sure he was far enough away from the little group he had left before he did what he had been told by spinning his car around and slamming his foot down on the gas pedal. It was sad that his little rest period had been over so soon, but he had a job to so now! Win or lose, survive or die, he was damn well going to do it!

[Ada Wong]

It's a small verse after all.

PM executes a flawless 2x facepalm maneuver with both of her hands, because Dean Winchester. Also, something whack is going on in the sky over New Babylon and PM is appalled by Dean's driving ability because it almost seems as if.... Well, she might just be hallucinating after wandering around for an extended period of time in these sandy hills, but it almost seems as if he intends to use his vehicular contraption as an actual motherflippin' battering ram.

There is one fact that PM is very sure of, however:

[Tom Marvolo Riddle]

Trudging over to the alcove that we had been invited to, I spied three things that had me immediately on guard. First was the pair, one in human one not, the second was the red star that was at the center of Nippur’s sky, and finally it seemed the chaos near the front gate was reaching its breaking point.

The third of which didn’t bother me, the second however did. Of them though the first was the most interesting not only because they had invited us but of the obvious disagreement they were having. One human or apparently such, and one inhuman, furthermore a male and female partnership. At least I thought that she was female. She certainly had the build for such. The eyes especially seemed to exude it in all its greyness. However the was something more. As limited as my magical senses were here, she seemed blue though my other senses contradicted that estimate.

If I had never seen her but only sensed her out with my eyes closed or just as a diary, I got the innate awareness of Blue from her. Odd really. But more than anything I felt almost… like she was staring me and dissecting me. Her partner though I got something entirely different.

First was the muggle device he carried making music though it very much looked like Wool’s Orphanage’s one and only phone. Only much smaller. It was certainly being used as such by the human, although Mrs. Cole I imagine would never have talked so… improperly on such a device. The human was also making reference to some Italian dish which if I remembered correctly was quite popular in the States.

And then he was off before I could even get anything in edgewise. The matter was so perplexing that I nearly forgot myself. However I would be remiss if I had. So I didn’t.

Giving a polite bow to that rather familiar human, and saying, “Indeed” in reply, I instead turned to the garbed female. “Hello Miss, thank you for your invite. Though it seems it may not come of anything.”

I glanced back down to the fracus near the gate, before glancing again back up, “Where one quarrel ends, another one it seems is brewing. Perhaps one bigger than the previous.” I said in a precarious tone.

Isn’t that right Nealaphh? I sent in the most open and visible thought I could give to the crow without saying it out loud.

I had half a mind to send a random spell sizzling by the screaming star that was shouting ‘Join or die’ at the top of his capacity in a manner consistent with a sonorous charm. Only more so. Addressing an entire city with a voice capable of bursting ear drums? That was quite a feat. But done simply. Personally I rather thought something more tactful like a telepathic spell. The effect wouldn’t be nearly so dramatic in execution but it would instead result in instilling a rather potent demoralizing effect.

That one could slip their thoughts into every citizen in the entire city, now that would be worthy of awe and fear.

Simply transmuting sound to a higher level of energy like this bellowing buffoon; a simpleton at best, or one who simply didn’t know the meaning of subtle. At the very least I didn’t feel any more inclined to joining than I did dying. Except maybe the part of me that took pride in being a Dark Lord did die a little or at least wept at the ineptness being displayed in the skies above. My presence here was mere happenstance. That he’d demand such of myself obviously meant he was either an idiot, or unaware of the greatness that he had just insulted.

I maintain though that ignorance is no excuse for handling of this situation in which one’s betters may be present though unaccounted for. And I did feel thoroughly annoyed. Usually that was enough to insure my enmity, however I restrained myself. I still didn’t know this world enough, at the very least I needed to be careful of when I made enemies.

Even a wizard could die when kicking over the wrong ant hill. Numbers did account for something. But then again so did luck and talent and of the three, I had the last two.

[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.

[Ada Wong]

But... what's this? Rainbow glimmers flutter across her vision like ultra-saturated and softened fireworks, a gentle lull inviting her to return to someplace bright, and golden, and wonderful where no concerns about daring demonic associates are to be found.

Puzzlement trickling languidly through her mind as if through sleep, the Peregrine Mendicant looks down at her limbs, which have begun to glow with a strange ephemerally-shining light. For some odd reason she does not feel especially concerned about this, and yet… Oh. Oh dear.

She looks up at the wizard boy and the abnormal bird, suddenly in a panic. The mail! How will it ever be delivered now! This light is remarkably similar to the summoning of Omnilium that she had utilized earlier, surely she isn’t—?

But alas, she is. There is only so much time left and she must act quickly, lest she disappear entirely. As she drops her mailbag onto the sand and starts to hurriedly fish around in it, PM watches as her Regisword breaks down and fades away into raw Omnilium, the black sword simply breaking apart into her palms. A sense of renewed urgency rises up in her chest, burgeoning and raw.

At last, her claws latch onto the envelope that is destined for the hands of Demetri Malius. She carries it reverently, as how one would hold a babe, and stumbles unsteadily to her feet. For some reason, the world is spinning lackadaisically around her and she is finding it difficult to stand. Through sheer determination alone, however, she manages it, and seizes onto the wrist of the wizard boy. She gently tucks the letter into his hand.

Here, she speaks into his mind, and then the crow’s as well, because what does it matter if the bird can hear? This letter is for Demetri Malius, and I must ask that you deliver it to him. May Skaia’s light guide you in this noblest of endeavors, Lord of Light and Prince of Mind.

Peregrine stumbles back then, her kind dark eyes crinkling up at the corners as the boy’s fingers reluctantly wrap around the envelope’s fold. Her shell is glinting with spiraling whorls of kaleidoscopic light, a brightness which increasingly builds and builds, by leaps and bounds and half-skips until PM simply decides to shut her eyes.

Then, nothing at all.