弱肉強食

[It is a long, long sail to Hachijojima, but at almost 300 kilometers south of the Imperial Palace, it's one of the most remote places within the city limits, making it perfect for both urban exploration and other dubiously wise pursuits. Surely anticipation and boredom from the trip is the only reason for the frisson of nervous energy Nemesis can't shake even after an afternoon on what even in Hell TV form are gorgeous black sand beaches and lush, tropical greenery that verges on overgrowing the buildings of the port town.

That said, soon enough it's time to get to business, and after a dinner of fresh-caught fish and fruit to supplement the food they'd brought along, Hurricane and Nemesis begin setting things up.

The hotel they'd scoped out for the ceremony (thanks Yahell! Maps) was run down and abandoned even by Tokyo-F standards, its bubble-chic French Baroque architecture salt stained and half covered in vines and ferns and established greenery. Its sprawling beach patio opens straight to the sand and beyond that the ocean, though the promenade of graceful statues are now crumbling, and rather than cafe tables or lounge chairs, only moss and bioluminescent mushrooms venture over the once ornately tiled floor.

There is still plenty of space for candles and salt and whatever else one might need to do with the space, and Nemesis dumps her bag of supplies right there on one of the benches carved into the railing; turns to Hurricane beside her.]

Ready to summon an elder god?