RE: One Round Only: The
04-14-2017, 07:57 AM
The city's up there, all freewheeling on its treads, the steering wheel's locked for Due East though so freedom's fixed on one straight line. Hope that's alright.
At least, y'know, after the first lap or two. you can rest easy knowing there's guaranteed something over the horizon. You know, if the biggest grandest market on wheels or otherwise on Planet Beltest Of Ways just ain't doing it for you.
So there's the city up there, and little old Magnus and an increasingly done-with-this-nonsense horse down here, sloughing their way through dust and dunes and trying their damnedest both to not suffer a mouthful. Magnus' eyes can't even widen like stolen heirloom saucers a the sight of a rolling city cuz it's just that damn dusty.
He's sure hard pressed to pick out one little gray man chilling out at the city's edge, but that's not Johnson's fault. Johnson's not all distracted trying to pilot a horse, which at least one other person here could inform you isn't a piece fo darn tootin cake.
Magnus gets in behind the convoy, where his steed gets its recommended annual dose of rare earth metals and aerosolised dirt. The poor critter is flagging hard, it's one horse's power against untold scores under that city's hood. Magnus gets a call on his cellphone, which is in his hoodie pocket. His robot-limbs are full of reins, and his dad never had the budget for cool claws on his wings.
"Frick," says Magnus.
Just as he's hit the point way behidn where he's only got the considerable trail of dust to follow, the city slows down. Smaller vehicles ramp off of sand dunes, and the crack of explosives and snapping metal fills the air. Vendors rush out of the malls, wielding their finest wares (or the most cost-effective wares off Sharp Street, if they themselves aren't in the business of killing implements.)
"Raiders! Raiders!" go the warning sirens, helpfully. A big red light atop Princes Fancypants' workplace starts flashing, and a fellow postal worker bursts out the backdoor and thrusts a weapon into her hoof.
"Let's see what you've got, newbie!" they says, then look to Jeremia all loitering in this alleyway. Looks her steed all up and down and trying to figure if they've seen something like that, before brandishing their Postman's Pike a little too close for comfort. "Hang on... you! Rider! State your guild and department, or be captured as a raider!!"
At least, y'know, after the first lap or two. you can rest easy knowing there's guaranteed something over the horizon. You know, if the biggest grandest market on wheels or otherwise on Planet Beltest Of Ways just ain't doing it for you.
So there's the city up there, and little old Magnus and an increasingly done-with-this-nonsense horse down here, sloughing their way through dust and dunes and trying their damnedest both to not suffer a mouthful. Magnus' eyes can't even widen like stolen heirloom saucers a the sight of a rolling city cuz it's just that damn dusty.
He's sure hard pressed to pick out one little gray man chilling out at the city's edge, but that's not Johnson's fault. Johnson's not all distracted trying to pilot a horse, which at least one other person here could inform you isn't a piece fo darn tootin cake.
Magnus gets in behind the convoy, where his steed gets its recommended annual dose of rare earth metals and aerosolised dirt. The poor critter is flagging hard, it's one horse's power against untold scores under that city's hood. Magnus gets a call on his cellphone, which is in his hoodie pocket. His robot-limbs are full of reins, and his dad never had the budget for cool claws on his wings.
"Frick," says Magnus.
Just as he's hit the point way behidn where he's only got the considerable trail of dust to follow, the city slows down. Smaller vehicles ramp off of sand dunes, and the crack of explosives and snapping metal fills the air. Vendors rush out of the malls, wielding their finest wares (or the most cost-effective wares off Sharp Street, if they themselves aren't in the business of killing implements.)
"Raiders! Raiders!" go the warning sirens, helpfully. A big red light atop Princes Fancypants' workplace starts flashing, and a fellow postal worker bursts out the backdoor and thrusts a weapon into her hoof.
"Let's see what you've got, newbie!" they says, then look to Jeremia all loitering in this alleyway. Looks her steed all up and down and trying to figure if they've seen something like that, before brandishing their Postman's Pike a little too close for comfort. "Hang on... you! Rider! State your guild and department, or be captured as a raider!!"
peace to the unsung peace to the martyrs | i'm johnny rotten appleseed
clouds is shaky love | broke as hell but i got a bunch of ringtones
eyes blood red bruise aubergine | Sue took something now Sue doesn't sleep | saint average, day in the life of
woke up in the noon smelling doom and death | out the house, great outdoors
staying warm in arctic blizzard | that's my battle 'til I get inanimate | still up in the same clothes living like a gameshow
clouds is shaky love | broke as hell but i got a bunch of ringtones
eyes blood red bruise aubergine | Sue took something now Sue doesn't sleep | saint average, day in the life of
woke up in the noon smelling doom and death | out the house, great outdoors
staying warm in arctic blizzard | that's my battle 'til I get inanimate | still up in the same clothes living like a gameshow