It was quiet, down below. The darkness was a blissful mercy, made more exquisite by the pools of ruddy light emitted by cheap lanterns and guttering torches. The walls that pressed in on all sides were a comfort, like the enfolding arms of a parent or a lover, filled with strength and love. Even the constant drip of water was bliss: the liquid was soothing and Gorgon's vitae-cursed skin barely registered the incessant plop as it fell on his face.
He lay curled up in surplus blankets, purloined from the Presidio, in an alcove niche constructed by his own hands. The San Francisco necropolis was still very new: its twisting tunnels were not yet joined, and the Clan had not delved deep. Gorgon still fell into day sleep at the appointed hour (as he had discovered, carving this very niche, and when he had awoken he was still standing upright with his pick in his dead hand) but he found it easier to slide into a trance-like state, half awake yet half slumbering. Once, he fancied, he had dreamed...
This time he was roused with tentative roughness. Chang, childe of Tobias, leaned precariously over him, gnarled hands on his shoulder. There was a look of concern and confusion in his pallid, Asiatic face.
"I've been digging where you said," he drawled. "Something's up ahead. I hears things..."
Dennis
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