2017-05-19: Mistaken Identity

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  • Cutscene: Mistaken Identity
  • Cast: Claude C. Kenny
  • Where: Adlehyde Besieged
  • Date: 19 May 2017
  • Summary: Claude C. Kenny has a bad day. So does most of Adlehyde.

The walls of Weaver's Weaves shake with the constant sound and pressure, causing years of dust to begin sifting down from the rafters. Scrams and explosions - some distant, others closer - echo in from the outside, and the night sky is cracked with flame and lightning. You can almost /taste/ the death in the air, Darol Weaver thinks as he cowers behind the counter of his darkened store, his wide and daughter cowering beneath him. For a hundred years his family has weaved and loomed in Adlehyde. He was born in this building. It seems he may die in it.

"Granas save us," breathes the youngest of the three soldiers now sharing the Weaver storefront. The ancient loom his great-grandfather built by hand is now cracked in two, each piece shoved against the main door. Of the other two guardsmen, one is in the back corner, nursing a broken arm. The third - a sergeant, by his stripes - is peering out the window carefully. "Granas," the young man breathes again.

"Shut up," snarls the sergeant. "Do you want them to hear us?"

"Did you see her?" whispers the youngest again. "That red witch...she went through Tobias like he was rotten cheese...she..."

"Shut /up/," the sergeant snarls again, while Broken-Arm gives a moan.

"Papa?"

"Hush now, sweet pea," Darol whispers, patting Elyse's back, trying to ignore Elsa's tears. "All will be well. Just--"

"Valmar take you, it won't be well!" the youngest weeps brokenly, half-mad. "We're all going to die! Those are--"

"Don' you dare," Broken-Arm snarls.

"--they're Metal De--"

The back wall shudders at the sound of a sudden impact; Elyse screams and the soldiers whirl to face it. Another impact is accompanied by a deep crack, and the stone begins to shift and move. Darol hauls his family to the far corner of the store as a third strike comes in; the soldiers are screaming, his family is screaming, everyone is---

A three-foot-wide section of the wall is blasted into powder, tiny chunks of rock pinging around the shop. From the gap emerges a twisted figure masked by the dust and smoke. It shambles forward, lop-sided and slumping on two legs and a grotesquely oversized right arm. The sergeant roars a battle cry and charges forward into the smoke to engage the demon. There is a metallic shriek and then--

"Dude, chill," a roughened tenor voice echoes out, and the sergeant tumbles back out, without his sword. The figure moves forward - only it's not a Demon, it's a tall young man with blonde hair, his form masked by an unconscious soldier draped across his shoulders and a young boy tucked under his right arm. The man's left hand is holding the sergeant's sword, which he discards dismissively as he looks around the room.

"Wh---what are---" Broken-Arm sputters.

The stranger grimaces and steps forward. "Later," he says, his voice firm but hiding something - anger? Worry? He shakes his head, blonde hair swaying, and moves toward Darol. His hands tighten around his family, but the stranger drops to a knee and deposits the boy in the older man's lap. "Take care of him," the stranger says, then moves toward the other soldiers, slinging the wounded man off his back.

The youngest licks his lips. "Are you..."

"I'm the guy who's telling you to get out of here and do your jobs," the stranger says, his eyes scanning the soldiers until he spots the sergeant. "They've got fliers," he says. "You're going to want to stay under cover from above. Find Drifters with long-range ARMs and pick them off. There's a stone-walled building, an old jail, about three blocks back. Gather as many people as you can there and make for the walls."

The sergeant's eyes harden. "To hell with that," he snarls. "Those things will---"

"Cut you /all/ down if you don't get your act together," the stranger says again, and this time Darol /looks/ at him. Tall, but young, his clothing an odd tan jacket with a strange symbol, his pants white - immaculately white, considering everything going on. And that's when the weaver realizes - he has no idea what the clothes are made of. He's never seen nor heard of that fabric in his life.

//alien raiments//

Darol blinks, then realizes the stranger is looking at him. "Have you seen a young elf girl?" he asks. "Pointed ears? Blue hair?" The stranger searches his eyes, then his shoulders sag. "Right," he says, then pushes himself upward. "Take care of yourself," the young man advises and then turns to leave.

"Wait!" Darol says, licking his lips. The stranger stops, turning slightly. "Are... are you... the Warrior of Light?"

The stranger's face falls. "I'm... just a guy who's far from home," he says, then looks up at the sky. "God, Rena, where in the hell /are/ you?" he asks as he runs back out into the battlefield.