John, moved by his progress in arranging the date, beckons the mancow to take the lead as they both head off to Greenblatt Park, nobody asking any questions as the towering anthropomorphic bovine and the bemused fellow wander off, the koto making an unpleasant grinding sound as the mancow drags it along the ground. Though appalled by the way his friend is treating the zither, John raises no issue. It is his zither, after all.
The walk is mostly uneventful and lacking in sights - the streets around this part of town are almost unnaturally bland, with brutalist architecture and mostly absent visible inhabitants. Rather depressing, actually. All this changes, though, as they approach the picturesque, somewhat newly developed neighborhood of Pontiff's Hill - as the name indicates, it is indeed a hill, and a fairly tall one at that, and on the inclined hillside, as it happens, is their destination - Greenblatt Park, though the name is most misleading at this time of year, for the place is almost bare. No leaves, no flowers, even the hedges appear to have lost all of their foliage. All that one can see around here now is a few elderly individuals and a bum or two. Checking his phone, John determines that he only has about five minutes until the meeting time. Also, Trey is already here, and has seen him, judging from the friendly wave to John followed by a suspicious stare at the mancow, then the same sort of stare back at John.
* * * * *
Eta can't say she's terribly happy with the awful way these filthy pedestrians are behaving.
"I'd better not be in that picture! she says in a mildly forceful manner.
"I'm not afraid to sue," she immediately says afterward, and this seems to catch the attention of the people, who quickly put their phones away.
"Very well then. Goodbye. I suggest you step away from my gold," she tells the group, and one jogger takes a step back as Eta leaves.
[Eta's affinity roll: 3+1]
As she walks out of the alley, she doesn't even look as she makes a complicated hand gesture. The whooshing sound behind her followed by a few gasps and the sound of many metal shoes rolling along the pavement informs her that magic does indeed seem to be cooler if you cast it without looking. Satisfied, she walks back to the hotel, pondering her next move when the fellow at the reception, a giant blond, Nordic man with a noticeable Swedish accent to match asks her several questions out of the blue.
"Who are you? I have not seen before. What is your business here?"* * * * *
Dave, intrigued by the prospect of fire (like any civilized man, he is naturally a great fan of it), tries to get up from the whiskey creek, and is rather pleased to find that he can still walk very nicely. He has a slight limp from the fact that he has a pig for a leg, but he seems to be dealing with it rather well, all things considered. He trudges along, occasionally slipping on the precarious bed of the creek, though not in an overly inconvenient fashion. It takes him about half an hour before the hogweed around him begins to lessen in size, eventually disappearing altogether, giving way to vast black fields on which great beasts seemingly made of incredibly gaudy underwear currently graze, looking rather content about their lot in life.
The source of the smoke is becoming increasingly clear - massive, black, largely featureless towers seem to be spewing it into the sky in great quantities - now, Dave isn't really the expert on this sort of thing, but he would guess that those are giant chimneys, judging from their oddly regular and edged shape.
* * * * *
Halesey tries to speak and ask
Larry about whether creating seemingly infinite cocaine is sound from an economical perspective, but the immediate mouthful of eldritch marching powder this results in is enough to dissuade him from trying very hard to do so. His mouth immediately begins to feel much hairier than before, and he tries to scoop up as much of the good stuff into his bag as possible - sadly, catching stormy wind, even when it is laden with the best kind of snow, is harder than it might seem, especially when blinded by the ambient atmospheric conditions that a storm of eldritch cocaine necessarily entails.
"Gwaargh!" says Larry as he in turn blindly waves a lit lighter in the storm, failing to set anything on fire, even Halesey, rather unexpectedly. The best laid plans of mice and men rarely survive contact with cocaine, and this plan is no different, it seems.
* * * * *
THE DUNKER, getting in touch with his primal mammalian sensibilities, decides to give his olfactory sense a proper workout. Raising his nose to the air, he tries to pick out the various scents and determine which happens to be most interesting.
Firstly, there's the scent of deep fried, bready crusts, like the sort you might find on certain types of donuts. Secondly, there's the distinct smell of strawberry glazing, also very nice and wonderful. And for the most discerning of connoisseurs, there is the almost imperceptible smell of sprinkles. Finally there's the smell of coffee. And also the typical urban smell of exhaust fumes with mild fecal undertones. That's hanging in the air as well. Having weighed the alternatives, THE DUNKER steps over to the donut shop and walks in, absorbing the impersonal, yet cozy atmosphere of the almost completely empty establishment. It's rather amazing he hasn't been inside one of these places yet, actually. It feels oddly like home with its warmth, harsh lighting, trace amounts of flies and food, not to mention the smiling, freckled girl in a quaint white uniform wearing quite a lot of metal on her face standing behind the counter, ready to provide him with all the donuts he could possibly desire with her specialized donut-grabbing tongs she makes sure to keep at least one hand on at all times.
"Hey! Welcome to the... uh... donut shop?" she says.
"Can I get you anything?"* * * * *
Myles, having blanked for a moment, resumes conversation as if nothing had happened.
"Well, I believe I signed up with some man already, but it's not like I like the guy, being the rich corporate scum he is. I am not exactly in the mood for a drink right now, however," he tells his vinegar-soaked friend.
"Huh. Well, guess you're no good to me, then, are you?" the man says.
[Vinegar Man vs. Myles: 6+1 vs. 5]
Grabbing Myles in his vinegary mitts in the blink of an eye, the man hurls the confused detective away, causing him to crash rather painfully in an unfortunately placed set of trash cans. The man then turns away and walks off.
The delay, in case you were wondering, was me waiting for Toaster to post. Shame on him for being so late!
Well, actually it was just me needing to deal with some urgent tasks and the slight sleep deprivation that the improper management of said tasks caused. Back to regular updates now!
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Topic: The Forgotten Art: Approaching the Nexus (Read 271996 times)