WEEK 1

[strangerpeople]

WEEK 1

[The train wouldn't stop. Not until very early the next morning. The few who might have been awake would be able to exit the train, entering the cool twilight of the dawn. The star is dark, and few stars can be seen in the sky as a cold breeze begins to blow from the mountain beyond. You can see some chunks of rock floating idly nearby, far away from the station that it won't hit trains, but near enough that one can see they are larger than the train they just disembarked.

Lastly, laid out in front of them, the first port of call: Menahoven. The mountain: The Throat of the World.

But which world? Who knows. Not any of yours. Maybe it doesn't matter. Not when you are so far from home. Not when you have no way to get off this rock without the aid of the trains-and they will not let you pass.

It looks like you're stuck here until the Conductor decides to leave. In the meantime, everyone will need to get comfortable.


There are fifteen strangers left in this place.]

Comments

[disregartist]

[At this, she laughs.]

Goodness no, not any of those!

Tattoos.

[charmingheroine]

[That is an answer that wasn't even remotely a possibility, but should have been. It wasn't oil paint and blood, after all, it shouldn't have - but she couldn't sense anything -

Her confidence cracked when she found that book earlier, this situation going from potential threat to complete mortification has just about shattered it.]

Tattoos? None of them looked like sailors or soldiers...

[disregartist]

Not all of my clientele are in those occupations, my dear. I do not turn anyone who needs my services.

But-you seem not to believe me.