Medium · Shivers ≥ 4
In a rundown shack on the far coast, a middle-aged man pounds his fist and looses an animal cry as he stares into a sliver of clouded glass...
Physique
Before thought effects; other dialogue conditions may apply.
711 · Voice lines
In a rundown shack on the far coast, a middle-aged man pounds his fist and looses an animal cry as he stares into a sliver of clouded glass...
A cold damp seeps in through the gaps between the wall planks. There is no one to bear witness to your vow...
From above the Bay of Revachol, a cold wind gathers in response. The people of the fishing village pull their coats and blankets tight about themselves...
And ever and ever... Out of the corner of your eye, you see the hair on the back of your hand standing on end. It feels as though low-grade lightning is coursing through you. You must be hypersensitive from the hangover.
Something is on its way. Something hidden. It's coming, a miracle -- from the northwest -- and it's almost here. You can feel it in the air on your hands, the cold spring air smoothing them over.
Behind this building -- the other one. Once filled with engineers and designers of Feld Electric, now collapsed and dead, but for some rats... You feel drawn, for some reason, to the faded mural again.
The snow falls on her shoulders, then melts in her light blond hair... Cold and soft.
The rain falls on her shoulders, tinting her blond hair light brown. It smells of industrial pollution and brine.
A squall of seagulls under the low-hanging sky. Distant machinery from the harbour. It's wide open and cold.
The wet wind, heavy with brine and industrial pollution from the stacks nearby, ruffles her hair.
Between here and Jamrock, a dusty sea of old trees, all covered in industrial soot. Small houses under them, an overgrown park...
The hair on your arms stands up... electricity. Sounds like reeds hissing.
This is the smell of dying reeds, of longing crumbling into the water.
High above and to the east, the cold winds blow over the feathers of an early songbird. She lands on the stone ledge of a tall building. Her beak a silvery grey.
Long shadows, short shadows. Quiet shadows of local children, loud shadows drunks and also a shadow made of sticks... you breathe on your hands for warmth.
On Clinton Street, near the Boogie Street Diamond, a small truck rattles down an alleyway. It stops by a rusted trash container. Two men, their faces rough and swollen, jump out. They look at the container, despondently. CSM is written on their backs...
An almost unbearable tension fills the room. The hairs of your back stand up.
A tremble comes over you, another after-effect of ethanol poisoning perhaps? Feels like leaves do when they rustle in the breeze, somewhere far away, below the Turbine. The 41st and the 57th... The lieutenant was right. It's not about who gets what's North, it's about who doesn't.