Pathfinder -- The Unraveling Group One

[R-Group]

The Beard
The ruinous outline before you shudders in the unwholesome wind, wistfully desiring to collapse once more into the dirt and rubble. The building was once a tenement, now long forgotten, lacking any evidence of life besides creeping vermin. The rain spatters on the decrepit walls and lashes against you, blocking out any other noises from within the ruins.

~~~~~~~~~~

Bram Lachlan
Rapidly downing the meticulously prepared vials your body is flooded with sudden magical potency—the street in all its revolting glory becomes wholly known to your eyes, each mucous raindrop a thunderclap, the strike of lightning an electrical implosion within your skull. Minutiae unperceivable to the naked eye, undetectable to the trained ear wash your mind with sudden sensory overload. Each second is an eternity of wailing claxons, triggering every instinct you possess that danger is here, there, everywhere; immediately you recognize the sound of feral cats rutting a street over, the exact moment when the drowning rat’s heart ceases to beat. So much life and death wage endless war in even this pit of a block. Neighbors die and give birth in the same moment as eternity screeches forward destructively with the rush of so much information—

Then focus resumes control, and once more your mind is your own, diligent. Much has become known to you, even in the blink of an eye. You are not alone in seeking your mark, two others are also upon the streets before the madman’s last stand.

The first leapt from a rooftop and rushed the window, following closely after the murderer (who has now reached the second floor, you’re sure). The second stepped into the square as well, uttered muffled words in a tongue unknown to you. After that his presence simply disappeared from your cognizance.

~~~~~~~~~~

Krasa’kis Drrin
Raindrops, leaking from black skies, strike your Aetheric barrier before dripping down to the sordid cobblestones at your feet. You feel the eldritch power twist your very flesh, misshaping its natural form to that of your heritage. The Horror of your ancestry makes itself visible, and the earth opens to your will. You hover ethereal beneath the ground, acutely conscious of the magical pulse of the ancient soil, made of the same substance as your kind. It does not resist your touch, flowing through you as though you were smoke, or fire made insubstantial.