Late Night Journalist

If ever the urge to hurt another befell her again, she assured me that she would first take dire actions against her own body. Is this a reform? Is this her consequence? What would her victims consider her punishments? The law has failed to deal this hand, and so having stronger self control than most, she opts to dig the metaphorical grave for which she dangles above for the rest of her life. One may ask. Is this truthful? Is this remorse? Or has she simply played the veil of regret, masking herself from my direct confrontation to her horrifying actions. That will be for you to decide readers. I will leave these questions, along with a full document of my findings and the sources used to conduct this investigation. Please, use these tools and come to your own conclusions. I will see you in the shadows.

~ Stoic Analyst

Irvyll sat back in his chair. Stretching his arms above his head to fight off the stiffness he'd earned from being stuck hunched over his keyboard. The clock at the bottom of the screen showed it was seven in the morning. That would mean he'd been working nearly nine hours straight between cross referencing his information, and reviewing interviews, and coming to a conclusion from which he could write his article. He scratched at the back of the Fellantern in his lap. Stalker had found itself nestled into a ball on Irvyll around the half way mark of his work.

He looked over to his desk lamp. The amber light was fairly dim compared to the white text document he'd been staring at all night. Valtiel stared down at him from the metal arch of the lamp, having been sat there since even before he began working on the article. He noticed it had begun sitting nearby whenever he began to write, watching intently at each rapid key stroke. It was almost like it knew when he was going to get on the computer, and stayed nearby to oversee his efforts.

Despite the early hour of day, and the long time spent focusing in on his work. He didn't feel at all tired. Now with the imp resting in his lap, and the keen observer at his side, he couldn't help but feel a bit stuck. "Hmm. Well, I still have a few more hours before Arrie begins streaming. Perhaps a game?" He cocked his head to Valtiel, who returned the gesture. Stalker stretched against his legs, it's whispy tail flickering back and forth as it perked its head up to see the screen. "Okay you two. I think you'll like this one. It's about a writer that gets sucked into his own screenplay. All he has to fight back is a flashlight for most of the game."