R-Group
2015-02-14, 08:38 PM
Few meteorological events are severe enough to actually afflict Pseudepas; its majority wallowing in the ancient trench of opened soil, stretching miles towards the coastal bay. The natural effects of gravity siphons water out as through a vacuous funnel emptying on every street and corner, such that even the smallest intersecting streams becoming foaming rushes during times of high water. Otherwise, storms are often unable to actually cover the entire cityscape at any one time Too great is the sprawl in all immediate directions.
For these reasons, once in the long whiles when a substantial storm does blows in from across the ocean (the hailing thunderheads of Southern dispositions that drift across miles of open water), the citizens are forced to react with no small degree of extremism. Down to the last bolt, every lock and latch is secured—and blockaded when the ruin of unbecoming buildings betray their owners’ salvations with rotten wood or broken glass. Partly the uncertainty of inexperience is a factor; as such storms appear at most once or twice each several decades. Even the lesser criminals—living as they are by the day to day acquisition of coin to feed their filthy addictions, and holes—have a fondness for ceasing their sordid activities during such times. If one can bear the brunt of the wrathful skies, there is no safer time to stroll the streets.
Although, even as the criminals leave the streets, the fanatics take their places.
“An entire world of cruelness will never be enough to prove the existence of cruelness in the hearts and minds of its people. Pseudepas has always been an entity that comprises the very sums of all the maliciousness each thinking mind can possibly put to use—for centuries it has existed as the focal point to the degrading values of conscious intellect, an endlessly affirming portrait that an era of accepted vice will arise and reign finally triumphant against the lingering morality of the sentient soul. Mindless depravity is feared without reason: it is an assumed impossibility, which the small minded spoon-feed themselves three meals a day hoping against hope that the murderers and rapists truly are insane. But they aren’t—they are a transcendental realization of our own future and history.
Pseudepas was a city of promise—and so sure of its purpose; to show that the great beings who wield power to begin existence, are not the only great beings who wield power to influence existence. That by our flesh and our blood, something else—something much worse—could be brought to life. In sixty years, the Divines have not come within ten miles of our borders, not so much wandered past. That is a triumph of cosmic proportions: we are the continuation of that victory.
A man is shot in the alleyway for his debts, his wife’s throat is slit when she displeases a mark, and their children starve. Is that cruelty? That this place, that these streets can ruin lives as easily as the gentlemen who walk upon them draw breath? Cruelty is the misappropriation of the morality of the living, and abuse of the flesh of the living. But misappropriation and abuse, are only crimes in regard to how viciously they treat the living. So soon do the rules of life change, and now abuse and misappropriation are the daily norms of the living. They are no longer crimes. Pseudepas is exactly what it was always intended to be…”
As you walk farther down the street, the preacher’s voice begins to fade within the torrents of rain, which cancel all noise beyond only a few dozen yards. He was not the only one who you have passed this evening, almost as though they are attracted to the rain and the darkness, like earthworms. Only they don’t dry out with the sun.
It is not so conspicuous that the streets are clear, considering the weather—much stranger is the lack of lights. Your wanderings this evening have drawn you out into the soaking torrent, and this time your feet have guided you towards the cleanly brick avenues of the Shelf, where entire families bond around the workbench. The speakers spew their drivel on the street corners here because no one will drive them away: in Two’s the audience throws rotten vegetables, in Lowtown they throw stones. No one bothers here because no one cares: the speakers are merely physical representations of various deranged categories of solipsism, or its other equivalents.
Here you see no beggars, because they have no place to remain in your view. The town is too well built to provide ruins, and charity is too common to give an excuse. If there’s any district in the city that still has pride, then it’s the Shelf—and the Shelf is much too proud to allow the homeless to muss their streets. If they must drag themselves around someplace, then they might as well do it in a charity home with slippers on. Such places remain dreadfully packed all times of the year, though the caretakers make do. The irony that the doomsday speakers come to these streets is lost only on the speakers themselves.
Up ahead, the sidewalk you’re travelling down meets another—a main thoroughfare. You’ve been heading in this direction for some time now, since the lights over this crossing are brighter than the oil lamps set every few yards into the concrete. You remember, in the back of your head, that this site has some significance beyond the streets that intersect, though you are unable to recall the specifics. Besides, under the currents of the winds howling between the roof peaks and smokestacks, you can hear voices rising once more against the uproar. The lights begin to reveal figures too, emerging shapes draped in thick cowls and hoods. A singular hissing voice rises above the others, loud enough that you’re able to hear snippets, and then then full verses the closer you walk:
“Purity cannot be diminished, not by death nor by time. We, better than any other, understand this truth—and are ourselves evidence of the unyielding determination of the world to witness the return of its first rulers, its first kings! The Baask were once mighty, let us become the force which will rejuvenate that mightiness! A second glorious Empire, this time without end…”
I've made the assumption that, since all of your characters are somewhat prone to it, you're all out and about wandering the streets. Besides, you're all tough enough to not let a little bit of rain hurt you. Instead of the elements then, you'll be dealing with an altogether more foolish sort: the fascinatingly confident.
You may choose from whatever direction you advance upon the lighted section, or if you want to sit back and listen instead. Honestly, it's up to you completely. Notice that the streets are clear, few cars or cabs are around, and there are a grand total of eight figures meeting before you.
You can also assume to have all your spells prepared, and there are no restricts as to what you are carrying.
For these reasons, once in the long whiles when a substantial storm does blows in from across the ocean (the hailing thunderheads of Southern dispositions that drift across miles of open water), the citizens are forced to react with no small degree of extremism. Down to the last bolt, every lock and latch is secured—and blockaded when the ruin of unbecoming buildings betray their owners’ salvations with rotten wood or broken glass. Partly the uncertainty of inexperience is a factor; as such storms appear at most once or twice each several decades. Even the lesser criminals—living as they are by the day to day acquisition of coin to feed their filthy addictions, and holes—have a fondness for ceasing their sordid activities during such times. If one can bear the brunt of the wrathful skies, there is no safer time to stroll the streets.
Although, even as the criminals leave the streets, the fanatics take their places.
“An entire world of cruelness will never be enough to prove the existence of cruelness in the hearts and minds of its people. Pseudepas has always been an entity that comprises the very sums of all the maliciousness each thinking mind can possibly put to use—for centuries it has existed as the focal point to the degrading values of conscious intellect, an endlessly affirming portrait that an era of accepted vice will arise and reign finally triumphant against the lingering morality of the sentient soul. Mindless depravity is feared without reason: it is an assumed impossibility, which the small minded spoon-feed themselves three meals a day hoping against hope that the murderers and rapists truly are insane. But they aren’t—they are a transcendental realization of our own future and history.
Pseudepas was a city of promise—and so sure of its purpose; to show that the great beings who wield power to begin existence, are not the only great beings who wield power to influence existence. That by our flesh and our blood, something else—something much worse—could be brought to life. In sixty years, the Divines have not come within ten miles of our borders, not so much wandered past. That is a triumph of cosmic proportions: we are the continuation of that victory.
A man is shot in the alleyway for his debts, his wife’s throat is slit when she displeases a mark, and their children starve. Is that cruelty? That this place, that these streets can ruin lives as easily as the gentlemen who walk upon them draw breath? Cruelty is the misappropriation of the morality of the living, and abuse of the flesh of the living. But misappropriation and abuse, are only crimes in regard to how viciously they treat the living. So soon do the rules of life change, and now abuse and misappropriation are the daily norms of the living. They are no longer crimes. Pseudepas is exactly what it was always intended to be…”
As you walk farther down the street, the preacher’s voice begins to fade within the torrents of rain, which cancel all noise beyond only a few dozen yards. He was not the only one who you have passed this evening, almost as though they are attracted to the rain and the darkness, like earthworms. Only they don’t dry out with the sun.
It is not so conspicuous that the streets are clear, considering the weather—much stranger is the lack of lights. Your wanderings this evening have drawn you out into the soaking torrent, and this time your feet have guided you towards the cleanly brick avenues of the Shelf, where entire families bond around the workbench. The speakers spew their drivel on the street corners here because no one will drive them away: in Two’s the audience throws rotten vegetables, in Lowtown they throw stones. No one bothers here because no one cares: the speakers are merely physical representations of various deranged categories of solipsism, or its other equivalents.
Here you see no beggars, because they have no place to remain in your view. The town is too well built to provide ruins, and charity is too common to give an excuse. If there’s any district in the city that still has pride, then it’s the Shelf—and the Shelf is much too proud to allow the homeless to muss their streets. If they must drag themselves around someplace, then they might as well do it in a charity home with slippers on. Such places remain dreadfully packed all times of the year, though the caretakers make do. The irony that the doomsday speakers come to these streets is lost only on the speakers themselves.
Up ahead, the sidewalk you’re travelling down meets another—a main thoroughfare. You’ve been heading in this direction for some time now, since the lights over this crossing are brighter than the oil lamps set every few yards into the concrete. You remember, in the back of your head, that this site has some significance beyond the streets that intersect, though you are unable to recall the specifics. Besides, under the currents of the winds howling between the roof peaks and smokestacks, you can hear voices rising once more against the uproar. The lights begin to reveal figures too, emerging shapes draped in thick cowls and hoods. A singular hissing voice rises above the others, loud enough that you’re able to hear snippets, and then then full verses the closer you walk:
“Purity cannot be diminished, not by death nor by time. We, better than any other, understand this truth—and are ourselves evidence of the unyielding determination of the world to witness the return of its first rulers, its first kings! The Baask were once mighty, let us become the force which will rejuvenate that mightiness! A second glorious Empire, this time without end…”
I've made the assumption that, since all of your characters are somewhat prone to it, you're all out and about wandering the streets. Besides, you're all tough enough to not let a little bit of rain hurt you. Instead of the elements then, you'll be dealing with an altogether more foolish sort: the fascinatingly confident.
You may choose from whatever direction you advance upon the lighted section, or if you want to sit back and listen instead. Honestly, it's up to you completely. Notice that the streets are clear, few cars or cabs are around, and there are a grand total of eight figures meeting before you.
You can also assume to have all your spells prepared, and there are no restricts as to what you are carrying.