RE: MORITURI TE SALUTANT!! [S!4] ROUND 3- OPHIDIAN JADE!
09-14-2016, 11:46 AM
The first thing to return to the universe was a soprano sax, wailing like someone’d just died. The hi-hat was next, and the drums began playing, and with that, the stars ignited.
Sam moaned, and tried to cover her ears. Her eyes still stung from smoke that was no longer there. And those weren’t stars, she realized as her vision cleared, those were wall-mounted lamps. Quite tasteful ones, actually.
The air tasted like camomile and aluminium, with a faint smell of clams. The faint sounds of clinking glasses and half-whispered conversations seemed just beyond a few walls away. A jazz club, then. Quiet instincts began to sort through the various threat level checklists.
Quiet but dangerous clientele. Not worth bothering without a good payoff.
Low lighting. Easy to hide and to lose tails.
Usually underground… oh hell, not more of this shit.
Sam pulled herself up, and noticed she was on the floor of a bathroom stall. The smell of scented candles filled the world with a faint urinary olfactor, permeating the classy atmosphere with an air of distaste and neglect. Dust hung thickly in the lamplight, and Sam sneezed, sending vortices spinning through the stagnant air.
They were definitely underground. Sam was not having any of this, and staggered through the stall door, only to be met by a very large, very ornate and very dusty wall mirror. In addition, she was very briefly met with a very naked reflection of herself, turning very quickly back the way she’d come.
Her clothes... that’s right, they’d been part of the Theater of Horrors, (the underground Theater of Horrors, she reminded herself, shuddering) and whoever was running this show seemed about as emotionally invested in making sure of her entertaining wardrobe malfunctions as she was with her ridiculous hummingbird ghost, or whatever. Sam had been thinking about that for several seconds before she realized she didn’t care, and a few seconds more before she realized that it didn’t matter if she didn’t care, she was jolly well going to be caught up in it anyway.
As she sat down on the toilet lid, trying extremely hard not to touch it in any way, her eyes travelled onto a convenient brown garment on the stall door’s coat hook. A ruby badge sat on one shapeless fold of canvas, depicting a deer -- a doe, actually -- in mid-leap. The rest of the outfit, Sam realized with a start, was Lavi’s discarded robe.
Reaching out, she felt the fabric in between her fingers, listening to the murmur of memories spark connections in her cladomorphic brain.
“All right,” she said, her voice already tinged in brogue, “let’s find you.”
Sam moaned, and tried to cover her ears. Her eyes still stung from smoke that was no longer there. And those weren’t stars, she realized as her vision cleared, those were wall-mounted lamps. Quite tasteful ones, actually.
The air tasted like camomile and aluminium, with a faint smell of clams. The faint sounds of clinking glasses and half-whispered conversations seemed just beyond a few walls away. A jazz club, then. Quiet instincts began to sort through the various threat level checklists.
Quiet but dangerous clientele. Not worth bothering without a good payoff.
Low lighting. Easy to hide and to lose tails.
Usually underground… oh hell, not more of this shit.
Sam pulled herself up, and noticed she was on the floor of a bathroom stall. The smell of scented candles filled the world with a faint urinary olfactor, permeating the classy atmosphere with an air of distaste and neglect. Dust hung thickly in the lamplight, and Sam sneezed, sending vortices spinning through the stagnant air.
They were definitely underground. Sam was not having any of this, and staggered through the stall door, only to be met by a very large, very ornate and very dusty wall mirror. In addition, she was very briefly met with a very naked reflection of herself, turning very quickly back the way she’d come.
Her clothes... that’s right, they’d been part of the Theater of Horrors, (the underground Theater of Horrors, she reminded herself, shuddering) and whoever was running this show seemed about as emotionally invested in making sure of her entertaining wardrobe malfunctions as she was with her ridiculous hummingbird ghost, or whatever. Sam had been thinking about that for several seconds before she realized she didn’t care, and a few seconds more before she realized that it didn’t matter if she didn’t care, she was jolly well going to be caught up in it anyway.
As she sat down on the toilet lid, trying extremely hard not to touch it in any way, her eyes travelled onto a convenient brown garment on the stall door’s coat hook. A ruby badge sat on one shapeless fold of canvas, depicting a deer -- a doe, actually -- in mid-leap. The rest of the outfit, Sam realized with a start, was Lavi’s discarded robe.
Reaching out, she felt the fabric in between her fingers, listening to the murmur of memories spark connections in her cladomorphic brain.
“All right,” she said, her voice already tinged in brogue, “let’s find you.”
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So very British / But then again | People are machines Machines are people | Oh hai there | There's no time
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Superhero 1920s noir | Multigenre Half-Life | Changing the future | Command line interface
Tu ventire felix? | Clockwork for eternity | Explosions in spacetime