You find the Captivating Princess alone in the Onyx Room, surrounded by the corpses of guards and looters. The air stinks of blood and cordite. You recognise her voice. She recognises your face. "I see quite well in the dark," she says. "All that time in the Palace cellars. So have you come to be my champion? My servant? My abductor?"
You defer an answer. The mob are in the courtyard, baying like hounds. Together you ascend the stairs to the roof-tops of the Palace. In a last flare of light from the Bazaar-sigils, you see blood smeared around her mouth. She shrugs. "They were basically dead," she explains.
In the days and weeks after the Liberation, the palace roof-tops become your home. You descend to hunt for food, water, red honey, other entertainments. You set up thrones together on the peak of the Practical Tower, and recruit courtiers to protect you and serve your whims. There is a thrilling and dramatic primacy to your existence together. You barely need to speak to each other: words become as redundant as sight. Your smell and hearing are astonishingly keen. The red honey, you think, is working changes.
The last lights of the Bazaar have faded. The Masters are departed. The Constables are dead or changed. The ways to the Surface are choked with refugees and corpses. Few remain to oppose you. You have nothing to fear but each other.
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28.01.2016 в 17:41You defer an answer. The mob are in the courtyard, baying like hounds. Together you ascend the stairs to the roof-tops of the Palace. In a last flare of light from the Bazaar-sigils, you see blood smeared around her mouth. She shrugs. "They were basically dead," she explains.
In the days and weeks after the Liberation, the palace roof-tops become your home. You descend to hunt for food, water, red honey, other entertainments. You set up thrones together on the peak of the Practical Tower, and recruit courtiers to protect you and serve your whims. There is a thrilling and dramatic primacy to your existence together. You barely need to speak to each other: words become as redundant as sight. Your smell and hearing are astonishingly keen. The red honey, you think, is working changes.
The last lights of the Bazaar have faded. The Masters are departed. The Constables are dead or changed. The ways to the Surface are choked with refugees and corpses. Few remain to oppose you. You have nothing to fear but each other.
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30.01.2016 в 16:32