You cannot see. It's out of the city. Up ahead, the mist blocks all sight. A gale blows across your cheeks... it is cold. Before you stands a tall lorry driver with sad eyes.
Physique
Before thought effects; other dialogue conditions may apply.
711 · Voice lines
You cannot see. It's out of the city. Up ahead, the mist blocks all sight. A gale blows across your cheeks... it is cold. Before you stands a tall lorry driver with sad eyes.
A sudden gust of cold air blows in from the sea. The waves flow and ebb, around you the fishing village takes its slow and steady breaths... its many wooden structures worn by bitter years of salt and storm.
Waves wash the sand. A skiff moves across the mirror-smooth sea, far away from here. A lone passenger. A fast sloop in the distance. White sails.
The harbour seawall endures the wash of the freezing waves. Many things wash up against it and onto the beaches of Revachol. Some inanimate, some just no longer alive... You shudder.
There is very little wind here today. The ghost is standing still. You look at your arms, then the cliffs above you...
Below, the city trembles with its remaining lights. People are rushing home, running away from home, smoking, sleeping, singing in the shower. Edges of dining tables, hands, aprons flicker through windows before the lights go out.
The lights of the orphan district are reflected in his glasses: the red and golden orbs of the motorway sliding like pearls on a string, from East to West, as Revachol commutes back to the suburbs. Tomorrow is Tuesday. Monday is over.
The lights of the orphan district are reflected in his glasses: the red and golden orbs of the motorway sliding like pearls on a string, from East to West, as Revachol commutes back to the suburbs. Tomorrow is Tuesday. Monday is over.
Every day, the wind shifts the reeds and whatever was left in them: tambourines and condom wrappers, plastic and glass bottles, the smell of decay.
The wind picks up here, near the cape's end, surrounding the narrow strip of land from three cardinal directions. It's cold for this time of year.
A cold gust of air dries your sweaty face and you look to the dark shadow the Feld building in the distance, drawing you to it. What a strange sensation... Once this is done, should you ask the wind again?
When this district was booming, the reeds were kept at bay. Nothing obscured the freshly painted façades, nowhere for drunks and adventurous teenagers to hide. Now only the wind blows...
A cold gust of air dries your sweaty face and you look to the dark shadow the Feld building in the distance, drawing you to it. What a strange sensation... Once this is done, should you ask the wind again?
A cold gust of air dries your sweaty face and you look to the dark shadow the Feld building in the distance, drawing you to it. What a strange sensation... Once this is done, should you ask the wind again?
The constant, distant song. Louder on this part of the coast. Nearer somehow. And there's that cold again, always the cold...
The wind blows. In the distance, behind the church, some vagrants are having an argument over a bag of tare they found in the reeds. Further away -- a flock of sea gulls lands.