Medium · Shivers ≥ 4
All around you, the air slowly circulates the islet, carrying little swallows and black-beaked seagulls in its slow drift. They all -- every one of them, every bird, mammal, and crustacean...
Physique
Before thought effects; other dialogue conditions may apply.
711 · Voice lines
All around you, the air slowly circulates the islet, carrying little swallows and black-beaked seagulls in its slow drift. They all -- every one of them, every bird, mammal, and crustacean...
The sweat on your arms feels cold as ice. As if you're frozen as well, in the shadow of this giant statue of chitinous marble.
All the roads will miss her footsteps when she's gone from here.
It opens up in front of you, with cracked asphalt, and maple leaves brushing your feet. Halos of street lights hang above you, hunched shadows carry grocery bags home. The lights are on -- in the little match box on the corner.
Black-eyed dogs wander the alleys, apple trees hang their bony limbs low over the patchwork of roofs: red and black. Revachol West, the evening sun -- she's left and bloomed. Far away from us. Our vast soul.
Outside, the wind howls in from across the bay. The building at Rue de Saint-Ghislaine stands like a matchbox on its side, with men inside like little wooden sticks ready to catch fire.
You feel the tiny hairs on the back of your neck rise up, as if someone's standing right behind you.
A panicking woman squeezes the pendant around her neck until it leaves a mark inside her palm. A man, a few metres away, stands frozen with a key in his hand. Somewhere inside a spider is spinning its web.
The Valley of Dogs -- and before it, a familiar dome, like a ladybug without the colours. The building has a designated parking place for your carriage.
That sound. You feel the wind in your hair as if you're already driving -- but where?
Down a narrow street lined with shabby wooden houses, the 8/81 motor-tract coiling like a serpent high above. Children play under the viaduct. Eyes turn to watch you as you pass...
The corpse is dominating the yard and the stench is nauseating, even so far from the epicentre. It brings tears to your eyes.
The little backyard, Kingdom of Cuno, looks almost idyllic when it's not dominated by a decomposing human being.
Martinaise goes about its daily routine as you soar through the air. The loud voices of protesters mix with the engine sounds from the traffic jam; waves crash against the pier and dense, salty sea air fills your lungs.
And its de-facto ruler, Cuno the Gremlin King, is pointing at you, talking to his friend. What is he saying?
Water drips from the eaves. A woman looks at her freshly tarred skiff. There's a pair of cavalry boots under the fish in the box and the wind howls like a vicious spirit...
Outside in the evening light -- ruined and old, shadows lengthen on the pavement. A distant gunshot.