Medium · Shivers ≥ 4
A man on high heels stumbles out of a basement club, music blasting over the entire district. It's chilly, and as the chemicals hit his nervous system a thousand shivers ripple through his body.
Physique
Before thought effects; other dialogue conditions may apply.
711 · Voice lines
A man on high heels stumbles out of a basement club, music blasting over the entire district. It's chilly, and as the chemicals hit his nervous system a thousand shivers ripple through his body.
And all she gets, too. The coastal wind beats down hard on the coal room door, outside. Splashes of waves make the balcony slippery...
A former architect stands before a slice of window, a room plan in her hand. A cold wave has made the air in the building stand still and frozen, with temperatures falling down to -20°C.
...is red from the cold. She's breathing on her fingers clasping the plan. Traces of sadness are visible in her expression.
A shift in temperature. The air chills around you. Dust settles on the stony floor.
... faint pencil lines on paper depict the same place, but a missing eastern wall connects the room with the neighbouring apartment. Ideas for arranging the furniture have been jotted down.
It's clean and empty, with new tapestry embellishing the walls. A standard HB graphite pencil has fallen off a three-legged stool in the middle of the room.
Nearby, a hoarse bark barrels through an alleyway that sits between two monstrous squats. No one walks down there anymore, but the nostrils of those who pass by in wet weather still detect the sickly scent of gasohol and burnt hair.
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 try to ask again?
The later it gets, the colder. Remnants of the camp can still be seen in the sand, the fire that's gone out... you feel strange, somehow.
Rows and rows of poppies, most of which have lost their pink bloom, flank his steps. The man looks around, then up at the sky; sighs.
Taking out a knife, he crouches at the end of one flower bed. He scores a seedpod, very gently. Milky sap begins to ooze out. The pain comes over you again...
A man in a white suit walks through a garden coaxed from soil that had once been covered in asphalt -- a city block closed off from the rest of the city by dark buildings.
Even though you're sure you succeeded, all is quiet. There is no cold hand brushing against your forehead, no rustle in the reeds -- the wind has died down. The ruin in front of you is silent as a tomb.
For what? A song carried on the breeze? Or children laughing, far away? You walk and walk these city streets and deserted coast, and all it ever tells you -- is cold.
For what? God? God is very, very silent. Too silent. Even the wind seems tired...
Be honest. You're praying. It's that bad.
Suddenly there's a sigh, carried on the molecules around you, moving, flowing from high pressure to low pressure. Like that of a woman emptying her lungs. She wraps the collapsing stone box in front of you in her breath, flowing through it...