Janet storms off, annoyed with the lack of information. After calming down by pacing around in circles for a moment, she attempts to find that bar.... by holding the card and just walking in a direction???
((Your action takes you away from everyone else and the markets by the way. Let's see, first encounter roll of the game and... you don't run into anything hostile. Congratulations.))
The entrance to Moonbeam as it turns out, is in the trunk of a perpetually parked taxi on Arkvavit Boulevard. You enter it.
The moon hangs above and below, illuminating the cloudless sky and the water that reflects it. Roombas glide across the heavens, leaving behind prismatic trails of dust that bloom into the shapes of aechmea patriciae plants as they swirl and fade away. Perfumed petals precipitate from the dust, burning with fabric contrails with a soft rustling that whisper unspeakable blasphemies against the living. Most halt at predetermined altitudes, never touching the ground as they slowly melt away into memories of the 1969 US Presidential election. You are standing upon the surface of a still, lifeless ocean that stretches all the way to the horizon, and in front of you is the only structure in this world, an expansive, two-storey oriental teahouse. Around the platform it stands on is a medieval moat, filled with liquid fish through which solid water swims. A small ramp, built atop lilypads leads to its front door.
Walking into the building itself, you find that the interior looks suspiciously normal. It really does look (mostly) like a fancy teahouse in terms of furnishings, though the shelves that line the walls contain titleless scrolls and books rather than tea containers. The bartender, a faceless amalgamation of the combined suffering of numerous Black Death victims nods to you as you enter. A good proportion of the clientele appear to be the same type of Nightmare - protoplasmic conglomerations of shifting pin-striped scales and temporary reptilian heads with mouths in the shape of screaming human faces that rise and disperse like bubbling pools of tar. The rest are the usual mix of Nightmares and Locals, save for a lady clad in surgical scrubs and an unbuttoned trenchcoat sitting alone at a table in the corner.
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Topic: Overhang - Sorry (Read 30407 times)