Medium · Shivers ≥ 4
The streets are warmed by a southerly breeze. The lights of a passing motor carriage bloom and fade in the distance...
Physique
Before thought effects; other dialogue conditions may apply.
711 · Voice lines
The streets are warmed by a southerly breeze. The lights of a passing motor carriage bloom and fade in the distance...
Plastic bags heavy with tins and deformed vegetables swing from the fists of a young mother crossing a roundabout. Her mouth falls open as she looks up at the central structure. 'C'mere, Luc. Over here now, please,' she says to her curious toddler. The bags beat steady bruises into the mother's calves as she hurries him away.
Three men are standing on a wooden platform extending out from the shore of a dilapidated fishing village, their cheeks red, spirits high, beers in hand, eyes glazed over.
A shovel hits the sand somewhere behind the reeds, near an abandoned construction yard. The young men look over their shoulders, suspiciously. The sound of their digging seems loud in the sudden silence.
The wooden clack of bilboquet comes to a halt before the central structure of a roundabout. Awe whistles through the air as the onlooker takes in every angle. Eager eyes fill nearby windows, brought to the glass by the sound of the toy, but now also taking in the sight of the striking new installation.
Overhead you hear the forlorn shriek of seagulls. Far below the birds -- a wooden boardwalk, filled with abandoned stands, tables and benches, echoes from a long lost time.
You already were a part of their crew once. You can get drunk with them again. You're probably going to hang out there a lot, behind that cinder block house. It's where you belong.
Outside, the howl of the wind has picked up. The waves crash against the stilts again. It's as if you think the thought, but in someone else's voice...
A middle-aged man stands in a run-down shack on the edge of a fishing village. Nothing nods, no one salutes him. No sight of the fugitive.
Behind the half-built cinder block house at the other end of the village there are three people, drinking. Your new crew. You don't need the old crew, oh no, you have a new crew to get drunk with.
This could have been you. This could still be you. A down-on-his-luck nobody, trying to survive.
A brisk coastal wind still howls against the window of the shack. Occasionally the waves crawl in under the foundation, producing a low hum...
A middle-aged man stands in a run-down shack on the edge of a fishing village, listening to the heater hum on the wall.
Waves crash unto the beach, drowning the reeds. Far to the south a congregation gathers to a soup kitchen in a shelter for the homeless. An old woman gives out knitted scarves for free.
Waves crash unto the beach, drowning the reeds. Far to the south a congregation gathers to a soup kitchen in a shelter for the homeless. An old woman gives out knitted scarves for free.
Far away, on the corner of Perdition and Main, a nondescript building, obscured in a haze. It's vacant and lost, just like its tenant.