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Post by whyemmdee on Jun 26, 2017 15:44:42 GMT -5
Every few years or so, the frequent winds and smoky storms from the Sea of Fumes manage to align themselves in a particular cardinal direction. This year, it appears, Calidor is the one to suffer from a strong wind from the west. A black fog has creeped into the city from the direction of the Bay of Drowned Mice and beyond. The city's streets and skies have slowly filled themselves with thick, smoky mist; harmless if proper precautions are taken by any who choose to wander the fog-filled ways, but ultimately deadly for those who dwell for too long in regions of the city where the fog is most concentrated. Some claim that the fog specifically seeks out the living, leaving them helpless and choking the life out of them, revealing glimpses of horrors in their final moments. Many more claim that it's all bullshit and say that the fog is simply an industrial occurence, the root of its cause the combination of pent-up industrial fumes and a case of bad weather. Whatever the case, a quickly rising death-toll has been proclaimed an inevitable tragedy, with particularly the destitute and the already frail elves having died in droves. Most citizens and merchants seem to have taken to staying indoors for now, but there have been numerous reports of increased crowder activity who have started using the cover of almost impenetrable fog to conduct their more nefarious dealings with even greater audacity than normal. |
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Post by Serena on Jun 26, 2017 18:47:59 GMT -5
One step at time, the elf slowly dragged himself through the empty streets of the Dock District, the fog eating every sound and blurring every shape around him, while the rain quickly washed away the trail of blood he left behind.
The cold... the cold was unbearable... it was just... it was not right...
"Maybe it's just blood loss." he found himself thinking "I'm dying, that's it.."
Of course the idea wasn't comforting at all.
Clutching a hand on the wound, the other still holding the only weapon he had left, he tried to ignore the chattering of his teeth and focused on the pain on his side, forcing himself to keep walking despite everything.
Up the now apparently endless stairs he went, and finally into the Trade Quarter... not a soul in sight, no surprise in that...
The dark shape of the Sink Hole in the distance gave him new strength to keep going. Errol was going to to be -bloody- pissed at him... not that he could really care, in his current conditions...
"I'll tell you what, man, I'd also rather have my blood in me rather than on your sodding floor..."
He dragged himself past the few unsuspecting patrons, and then slowly to the upper level. He needed his room.. he needed... he needed to write down what he saw... what he thought he had saw, before he would forget... He needed the fire, the cold was driving him crazy... he...
He slumped to the ground, the door barely closing behind him as he hit the wooden floor.
Ah, yeah.
He probably needed a doctor as well.
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Post by modular on Jun 26, 2017 19:15:47 GMT -5
It would be a little arrogant to call it a renaissance, especially of a single man, but it was a time of great progress, at the quill of one Emmanuel Horncall. What spurred the sudden influx of contributions - revelations, some would say, like an illusionist's confessions, secrets tumbling out in scientific and mechanical and alchemical treatises, could only be speculated at. "The good doctor's" secrets of his own personal alchemical clouds, croysene-based medicinal interventions, studies in the biologies of healing, all entrusted, oddly enough, to one Assistant Professor Frazer, Techgineer, a far stretch from something like his own biosciences.
Of course, those weren't his only contributions in that time - what drove the man so is still subject to speculation, perhaps, among those who might care at all. Rumors accompanied the man - forays into the fog. Violence. Death. Such things had always clung close to him, his own aura, thick even in the violent streets of Calidor.
And then there were the other rumors - of lab time, and requisitions of supplies for studies that never added up - were never accounted for in the means and methods and materials of his published works.
Of course, with what happened afterwards - but that's a tale for another time, a different time.
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Post by drunkensolamnic on Jun 26, 2017 23:32:37 GMT -5
Kitara sets up a small table inside the Cathedral, a small fortune of leather, cloth, and filters at hand. She lays out her tools, staring down any clergy that attempts to interfere save the Abbas, then sets out a sign on the table that reads: "Free Breathing Masks For the Faithful." She fashions them in a simple manner, the designs are cheap and flimsy, but will last for a fair month. Proudly on the forehead band of each mask, stands the sign of the Saints of God, the Triangle and Circle branded into the leather.
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Post by Theorem of Neutrality on Jun 27, 2017 2:24:49 GMT -5
An elven medic can be seen fashioning gas clothes for those milling about the Aelfin Almshouse, charging nothing for the service.
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Post by whyemmdee on Jul 9, 2017 8:12:08 GMT -5
The fog has cleared, finally at long last. The final death toll reaching well into the triple digits, the majority of them elves and the sick: rumors spread that the actions of a few good samaritans who used their means to help others managed to save hundreds more from a horrible fate. Coppers can be seen patrolling the streets in earnest again, while the crowds seem themselves continue to display their bold restlesseness. People on the streets look at each other warily, moreso than usual, reaching for their guns and blades at the merest hint of skulduggery. No one says it out loud, but there's still an ill wind in the air, a tangible tension close to snapping.
It'll be an interesting few weeks.
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Post by Serena on Jul 16, 2017 2:21:12 GMT -5
Staring at the ceiling, he found himself wondering when things had started being so shitty. Sarcasm crept in, and he had to suppress the first answer that came to his mind, "but when you were born, of course".
He shifted his weight and stubbornly tried to leave his bed, the wound on his chest biting him with every movement, no matter how subtle it was.
They told him to not stand up and lay there, sure. No one took into account the idea he might need to piss, at some point.
"Jeez, you were into a cesspool just a while ago, could have taken advantage of that, ah?"
Repressing the need to laugh at how pitiful the entire situation was, he dragged his feet through the small room, bloodied bandages littering the floor.
He had cleaned the wound, admiring Eva's work as he did so. Saints bless her, he now fucking looked like a teddy bear mended up by a four years old kid... but it worked. She could have embroidered her name on it, for all he cared. She just shouldn't have been put in that position, it was not fair.
"But -you- put her in that position. You had to tell her about the fucking Obelisk, didn't you? You knew it was a bad idea, still you did"
He reached the other room and paused next to the table, a resentful look for the fire that had stopped offering him any comfort weeks ago now.
He grabbed a glass of water laying there and just threw it in the flames, his poor attempt at extinguishing them only causing the wound to hurt more.
"Fuck the sodding fog", he just muttered to the empty apartment, before dragging himself to the small desk in the corner, where his notebook laid.
The drawings he made of the Spire were soon again under his eyes, all so similar to the one Bruce had carved into the wood before he went batshit crazy.
"Could have got the fuck off sooner instead of playing hero, you'd not be almost split in half now, if you did"
He deliberately ignored the evidence that, despite everything, he had stopped caring whether he lived or died a while ago now. With a little sigh he focused on the drawing again: the man owed him answers, and this time he better not be high when he found him.
The happenings outside the Sinkhole had been all but clear to him... Eva hearing voices, the fire that was not there, just like the cold he kept feeling and that this time almost killed him... The Bull seeing red over something only he could hear.. all of that because they were talking about it? The Obelisk?
What the hell was this power, how could it be this strong?
The page crumpled under his hand, then the notebook was closed again with a sigh.
As if there wasn't a bed in the other room, he slowly lowered himself on the carpet and laid there. He had been trying to avoid sleep as much as he could since all of that began, but this time he probably just had to rest, afterall: he needed to heal if he wanted to be out and about.
He briefly wished he had accepted Ira's offer, probably being drunk would have made everything slightly better..
"Sure, throwing up is exactly what you need right now.."
He closed his eyes, laughing a bit at that last conscious though, the cold slowly embracing him.
As always, he started murmuring his prayers, hoping they would work.
But the Obelisk welcomed him again.
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