Medium · Shivers ≥ 4
The wind picks up. The silence on the water is broken all around you, little shivers of waves appear...
Physique
Before thought effects; other dialogue conditions may apply.
711 · Voice lines
The wind picks up. The silence on the water is broken all around you, little shivers of waves appear...
In the mist-coloured distance over the water, nothing moves. No trace of it...
A chill comes over you, crawling down your back. The sand under your feet is wet. Somewhere in the south, tarpaulin flap in the wind.
Someone's stuffed a big old polar anorak into a concrete pipe under the boardwalk. It would keep you warm. You will probably never happen across it, but who knows.
Your teeth chatter as the snow melts on your exposed skin, running down your chest and your back in icy rivulets. Your hat is of little help. To distract yourself, you look around...
Your teeth chatter as the snow melts on your exposed skin, running down your chest and your back in icy rivulets. The toes of your one bare foot are growing numb. Your hat is of little help. To distract yourself, you look around...
Your teeth chatter as the snow melts on your exposed skin, running down your chest and your back in icy rivulets. Your bare feet are growing numb. Your hat is of little help. To distract yourself, you look around...
Snow falls on the utility district: the library, the florist, the Saramirizian restaurant that offers homemade wine. And also on the brothels and drug dens, and the chop shops of the zemlyaki.
A serpentine strip of land weaving its way into the Martinaise inlet. Unfortunates on the run -- from the law, from themselves -- sometimes hide out on nearby islets. Little dots in the ocean that are occasionally submerged when the tide is high and the weather foul.
The canal you crossed to get here, and beyond it -- Martinaise proper, the district the police forgot to police. There is laughter, lights, attempts at entrepreneurial activity, cynicism.
The stairs descend -- to Central Jamrock. A man named Kuklov has a snow-covered stall there, in the market across the bridge. He sells kebab infested with fly larvae to your colleagues who believe eating it will make them immune to food poisoning.
All of this built around a lake that formed in a meteorite strike. At the centre of this lake, there is a little ship. There are lights at the bottom of its hull. They are lights directed toward the sea floor, looking for something, like whiskers...
The abandoned church. One of two remaining stave churches which were collectively called les Sept Soeurs. The other six sisters were destroyed during the Revolution.
Winter, slow to let go of Revachol, flecks some more wet snow from above...
More winding coastline lined with abandoned buildings. Crumbling piers, salt water lapping at their dark piles. Grey and red, forgotten city blocks. What remains of the pre-revolutionary effort to gentrify the coast.
Below the old mines -- L'Ossuaire Municipal, Revachol's underground cemetery. Les petits rats brave the underground passageways, trying to get to Le Royaume...
A fenced-off yard. There's a truck belonging to a logistics company parked next to the gate. Bright light from a building behind the fence reflects off its hood.