Grey sky like great battleships, clouds colliding with one another. Rain falls down on the world.
Physique
Before thought effects; other dialogue conditions may apply.
711 · Voice lines
Grey sky like great battleships, clouds colliding with one another. Rain falls down on the world.
Collapsed storm drains. Old sewage systems flooded with rainwater. Hidden weapon caches from the Revolution. Doors leading down to Le Royaume -- the catacombs to which, for three centuries, they delivered the blue-blooded dead.
The shoulders of your jacket grow heavy. The cold finds its way under your skin. You shiver, and the city shivers with you.
Water runs down your bare chest. The cold finds its way under your skin. You shiver, and the city shivers with you.
Revachol is the capital of the world. Jamrock is the capital of Revachol. Droplets form on your eyelashes.
Behind the gates -- heaps of supply crates. Red and blue metal shipping containers slick with rain. The Greater Revachol Industrial Harbour is an artificial mountain range. Immense wealth resides within, and immeasurable poverty in its shadow.
On a street there that flows like a muddy river in the snow, with fire traps rising on either side. A film rental opens its doors to the rain, an armoured motor carriage rushes past the corner where you used to walk together... Suddenly, the hair on your back rises.
The ruins of a half-sunken seafort crumble on an inlet. Beyond the Bay of Revachol, ghosts rise into the sky.
Your hair is an oily mess flecked with ash from neighbouring coal plants. Smoke stacks rise somewhere in the distance.
All around you, rain falls on the great city of Revachol. Rain drips from the eaves and floods the gutters, washing the filth away.
Couron, the lower middle class. Distributary after distributary cuts the city blocks in half. Seven-story buildings trail off into the rain.
The road ascends; a raised motorway loops above the ghetto. Beneath its concrete columns -- a sea of rooftops, woodwork, and tar stretches northward. Four-story buildings as far as the rain can fall. The snows melt in Jamrock.
La Drisienne, King Dris's Passenger Harbour. Cruise ships flanked by dock arms. Cranes watching over the mouth of the river distributary.
Your vision blurs. You wipe your face with your hand. The rain stings your eyes, making you look up and blink.
You -- on the Martinaise plaza. A small dot looking up at the sky. Droplets form on your eyelashes.
You realize you still have only one shoe. Nearby, on the balcony of the Whirling-in-Rags hostel-cafeteria, a single crocodile-skin shoe now fills with rainwater.