A decision.

There's very little to send back to the cat-obsessed barracks we call the Internet, except that we've come to a solid decision. Pascaline was working on ways of breaking the loop, she seems optimistic. It (unfortunately) takes priority over research into the Crazy Bint.

Zwielicht likes to try and rustle my jimbobs by talking shit to me in German. How do I know it's talking shit? Well, tone of voice is a universal language. I called Matvei over. "You're German; translate for us."

"I'm not German."

"Oh. Then where the fuck are you from?"

"We've been over this, I'm from-"

"That's wonderful, please go find us a German teacher."

Matvei did not find any German teachers, but he did find a pupil, a friend of Felicity's actually, a nine-year-old German girl called Karolin. At his insistence, we covered up the Crazy Bint with a light blanket, so Karolin wouldn't have to go through the trauma of seeing the wounds and the dress.

After a while we decided it wasn't good for Karolin to be in the same room as the Crazy Bint. So, we're keeping her (AraBINTa) in the blanket and pooling everything into getting the fuck out of here.

Where the hickory-dickory-dock is Matvei from again?

-Talmzebub

What Shall We Do With The Drunken Proxy?

Still waiting for her wounds to heal. Anyway, we have taken Mr Kelevra Dragunov's idea, and told the kids that we are good boogeymen saving them from bad boogeymen. Oh wait, you were wondering about Mr Dragunov's other idea, yeppers, so I bust a bullet in ol' Araminta's knee and now we're seeing what kerfuffle she causes.

So far we have this crazy lady narrowed down to three names

1. "Lena"

2. "Araminta"

3. "Zwielicht"

Zwielicht seems to be the most coherent and co-operative.  Multiple personality disorder, I hear you suggest? NO. Go fuck yourself in every available crevice with a... a rusty-ass steampunk contraption while I go to your house, find your sofa, and rip the stuffing out of your pillows, and maybe find your pet bunny rabbit and wrap it in a T-34's sweet, tank-y embrace. Anyway, it's called disassociative identity disorder. It's so rare that some experts don't even think it exists, so I'mma rule it out.

But my theory is that ONE is the actual LADY, another is the azoth, and another is the shard. But we're still standing around for results.

-Talm

I'VE GOT IT!

WE DID IT!

While the surviving teachers take care of the kiddies and Matvei guards the entrances killing every masked motherfornicator who sets freaky feet there, Pascaline and I are trying to work out what's didgeridooing with Lena / Araminta / and others.

OK, so in our scufferdoodle kick assery, she had sustained a few injuries, a few marks of the thug life. Aaannd so far we have:

1) Something is making her body decay, like zombify, you know this HAG looks like a ZOMBIE anyway.

2) And something else is healing her. A personal medic. That's why the dress is kind of embedded in her.

What can heal you? Azoth! What can make you decay? Shards! What can fuck you up? A BULLET FROM MATVEI! But don't worry, it hasn't come to that yet.

Yaaah, I know Shards heal as well and shit, go put a balloon around the rim of your parphole and fart into it enough times to fill it up if you came here to tell me that. But they also decay, and azoth doesn't.

It's a theory of Talm's. Alright? Something something Occam's Razor.

I'm right, though, OK? I just am.

-Talm