The melting snow seeps through your thin clothes. Grandmothers don't let their grandchildren out dressed so lightly in this weather. You look around...
Physique
Before thought effects; other dialogue conditions may apply.
711 · Voice lines
The melting snow seeps through your thin clothes. Grandmothers don't let their grandchildren out dressed so lightly in this weather. You look around...
The melting snow seeps through your thin clothes. The toes of your one bare foot are growing numb. You look around...
The melting snow seeps through your thin clothes. The toes of your bare feet are growing numb. You look around...
Your teeth chatter as the snow melts on your exposed skin, running down your chest and your back in icy rivulets. 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. 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. To distract yourself, you look around...
The remains of a camp on a jagged piece of rock -- a tent, old dishes and cutlery. Long since abandoned. A hermit crab scuttles among the debris, looking for a new shell.
Then there's Ozonne... but the snow falls too thick. You cannot see that far.
You're warm in your coat, though your cold, damp hair sticks to your head unpleasantly -- you should have a hat. You survey the landscape around you.
You're warm in your coat, though your cold, damp hair sticks to your head unpleasantly, and your one bare foot is growing numb. You survey the landscape around you.
You're warm in your coat, though your cold, damp hair sticks to your head unpleasantly, and your bare feet are growing numb. You survey the landscape around you.
The Pox is completely wild now. Evergreen thickets covered in snow and industrial dust. Feral dogs and even wolves roaming in packs. The police try to keep the deepest corners cordoned off.
The raised motorway, 8/81, separating Martinaise from Jamrock. Vehicles whoosh past one another day and night, while those who reside in the labyrinthine alleyways beneath the motorway attempt to carry on with their lives in the snow and the slush. And south of the 8/81 is the Pox.
An abandoned church that's being turned into a dance club. Four youths are hard at work there, making it ever harder core.
The sky is full of great battleships. White clouds collide with one another, and the world is drenched with their debris.
Someone is scraping snow off their windshield. At the roundabout, in the midst of which a statue of Filippe the III serves as a destination for grade-school field trips and a fine perch for winter birds.
Layer upon layer of sand poisoned with industrial run-off. The storm drainage. Hidden bunkers. Rats scuttle...