I̝̻̣̱͖͚͗̈̆̕T̤̞̠͎̘̜̤ͬͭ̋ͬ͂̃̇́ ̣̱̳̗̋̾̑ͥͥ̀B̮̺͇̝̼̺ͯ͌̾͗̿͋Ē̝̞̼̣̻͙̙̒ͭG͓̜̅͐̽̐͞Ï̜̳̥ͯN̯͙̮ͧ̀Sͫ͐̂͏͖

[strangerpeople]

I͔T̫͉̄ͮͮͪͧ ̲̜̪̥̓̈́͂̚̚B̫̲̼͕̦͓͕ͩ̏̊͆E̥̱͚̦͓̍G̠̬͓̟̥ͪͣ͆ͬ̓I̅ͯͣ̿N͐̉̎̂ͫͧS͑͆̒ͣ̆


[There is a blight in the vineyard.

It started without warning, deep into the crop. No one noticed. The blight was an insidious little thing, cultivating itself in the weaker vines over the long winter. Then, when summer came, it struck, and there was no stopping it.

The farmers could only watch the blight ravage their gardens. Grapes shriveled up by the bunch, day by day. Sometimes, it would be hours between the time a perfectly healthy vine caught it, and the time when the fruit was little more than black ash and slag. The problem was so serious that it threatened the very future of the business. It was all the farmers could do to try and isolate the sections of the vineyard still healthy, and the parts that were as good as dead.

Then, one day, it happened. The business recieved a phone call.

The blight was no longer just in their vineyard. It had spread to neighboring farms, and everyone was demanding answers. Yours could not have been where it started. It just couldn't have been.

Where did this pestilence come from? Could it be stopped?

You do not know, and you fear what the answer may be.



-



Good morning, Strangers.

Wake up. Look around. Do you feel like this might be familiar? Not your surroundings, but the circumstances. Do you feel the fear in your stomach? Do you sense the wrongness that permeates the air?

You should. Because your gut is right. You are exactly in what you think you are. Right now, there is no other explanation. There is only the sureness of experience informing you that you have been plunged into a game, once more without your consent. A game where blood will be spilled, and death will happen.

The only other thing you are sure of are the thoughts that pop up when you think of your circumstances. No matter what you do, you cannot shake the finality, the truth of what you are thinking. You cannot deny your own beliefs, after all, when they are so embedded, so imprinted on you, that they are as a part of you as anything else, like your face, or fingers, or hair.

And so perhaps you remind yourself, as you ready yourself to leave the house, of the truths you know to be real.



So steel yourselves, Strangers. You know what to expect; there will be others like you, trapped here. Maybe it will, this time, be for forever.

So welcome, one and all. Welcome to the City at the very End, in the eye, the center. A City that gave in long before the code distorted and collapsed and unleashed a virus on reality. Make yourselves comfortable.

You are not going


an̛͡y͠҉w̸h̢ȩ͢r̸͝e̸.]

Comments

[necroyalty]

Ah, yes.

[ She smiles weakly, then raises one arm and gives a little wave. ]

Er, hello.

[backuphero]

Don't look up - seriously don't, the sky's as weird as all of this is.

[Not seeing it had been bad. That void is worse. But he picks himself up and walks over, still smiling, if sort of queasily, and extends his right hand.]

Jonathan Morris, 's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, miss...?

[necroyalty]

Ambrosine. I've been looking for Eric or Krone or... any of the others, really.

[backuphero]

Well, I know an Eric, but I'm hoping he's safe at home, not here. Krone's not a familiar name.

[A moment, as his brain catches up to him.]

Wait - don't tell me, you woke up someplace like this before? No weapons, no clue how you got here?

[necroyalty]

Have you any familiarity with a dark manor? Thick with cobwebs, nowhere you could find a decent shower...

[backuphero]

Not personally, but it sounds like any number of places a vampire hunter might get sent to clear out - the Eric I know being one.

[necroyalty]

...I think we might know of the same Eric.

[backuphero]

That's, uh. That'd be a hell of a coincidence, but my life's been nothing but those lately, so...

[Times like this, he finds himself checking that the sky is still there. Reflexively. He looks up, and immediately winces, shutting his eyes tightly until he's aimed his face back where he's sure opening them will have Ambrosine's face in view and none of that void up there.]

Blond, Spanish, used to fighting with a spear? Usually laconic to a point where you'd want to check his pulse, but put him in a fight and he basically turns into somebody way angrier?

[necroyalty]

[ She doesn't know what a Spanish is, but- ]

That's the long and short of it, yes.

[backuphero]

He's -

[never, ever mentioned this kind of hell]

He's my father's best friend.

[necroyalty]

I...see.

He's alive, at any rate.

[backuphero]

Just how I left him and Dad and Mom, then? That's a relief.

[Except of course that the man Ambrosine knows is totally not just like that at all, but he's got no idea, and so... there's only a very tiny hint of anything wry in his voice.]

[necroyalty]

...I mean.

Erm.

How old was he the way you remember?

[backuphero]

Fifty... two. Fifty only if we're not counting being dead for two years. Why'd'you ask?

[necroyalty]

He wasn't anywhere near out of his twenties when we met.