Morning comes. Or, at least, that time when everyone begins to stir. Fighting yourselves awake, past the sickly darkness that invades dreams at night. Dreams of nightmares; of running, of fear, of monstrosities that are too horrid to remember upon waking.
The room is crowded. Mages sleep on every open space of the floor, some clustered like a litter of puppies, seeking warmth from the cold darkness that permeates everything. Here, in the old Bell building of Granite Park, is the only safe place. Safe, as long as you don't go downstairs. The same downstairs which protects everyone, consuming prying spells that might find them.
It's been three months of this.
Three months since Joshua Morris led the mages assault on the obelisks. Three months since that distraction allowed a concerted attack upon the Museum while everyone was occupied. Some still remember finding the remains of dismembered, torn bodies, whose blood smeared strange sigils on the walls, sigils that made you queasy just too look at. More queasy than the stench of bodies and gibbets of flesh.
Two months since the Tower Bridge activated. Two months since the physical became a symbolic manifestation of The Spell. The spell that was a ritual. The ritual that bridged. The bridge that leeched and contaminated ley lines all over the city. The ley lines that cover the city in a web of Abyssal taint, making spellcasting all but impossible.
One month since the ractains caught Armstrong as she opened the Portal. One month since those that didn't turn away watched as she was used, then torn apart and eaten. Or did it all happen together? And who betrayed the location?
Vector and two other Wardens openly walk the streets of their city. They don't mind what they see. The flesh intruders, taking people at will. The taint of the Abyss, everywhere. The madness in the eyes of the homeless man, spiders pouring out of his mouth. The stillborn babies, crawling out of the dumpsters in the night. The Fallen don't see. They don't care. What the Lie doesn't blind them to, the pervasive apathy rained down by black, roiling clouds occludes. The mottled, pulsing black shapes skitter over the city, feeding, infecting.
It's time to rise and shine.
It's a new day.
Time to take a handi-wipe bath and wait your turn to use the overflowing bathrooms of the derelict building. Time to eat your cheese and crackers. Almost time to draw straws, to see who will go for supplies.
For some, this isn't right. This isn't what happened. For others, there has been nothing else -- and they can only wonder what madness or Abyssal taint makes their companions claim otherwise.
Footsteps approach. Most can't help an involuntary shudder of fear, even knowing who it is... because it might be someone --or something-- else.
"Tyria didn't make it," West says, standing in the doorway. He's gaunt; months of claiming he wasn't hungry have made his thin frame almost skeletal. The grey suit -- once tan -- hangs on him like a child wearing his father's clothes.
"Racs and Fleshies caught her on her way back. I think they're headed this way." He delivers the news in a lifeless monotone, and shadows hide the sadness in his eyes. He pulls out a pistol and checks it.
Characters roll their Gnosis pool to begin. Failure means this is the only reality they know, or remember. Success means their Soul knows that something isn't right, with brief flashes of what has truly happened. An Exceptional Success indicates the Soul retains all of it's knowledge of what has happened, and what should be. Please play your character accordingly.
Any spell (including Covert) not cast on oneself (Sight, Shield, etc) is considered Vulgar (Vulgar spells cast on oneself are still Vulgar). Spells cast on oneself still have a Chance Die of becoming Vulgar. All characters start with half Mana, rounded down. There is no Hallow here, and Legacy Oblations yield 1/3 the normal Mana, rounded down. Attainments function as normal.
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