Currently the moon is in the waning Crescent Moon phase (31% full).
Currently on this breezy and crisp summer midafternoon in the general St.
Claire area, it is 64 degrees Fahrenheit (17.8 degrees Celsius). The wind is
coming from the south-southeast at 5.2 mph. The ground is wet. Skies are
overcast with a small chance of precipitation.
Industrial Sector, Southwest Side
Several blocks encompassing the southern ends of 13th, 14th and 15th Streets
extend in an area poor and abandoned, with but a few businesses struggling
to survive. Along the northern edge of the district is a junk yard filled
with old washers, dryers, tires, and the myriad other elements of
human-created unrecycled waste. Smoke pours from a few factories, and the
more productive factories to the east combine with it to lay a thin film of
dark ash across much of the streets. Other factories, and warehouses between
them, lie abandoned or are home to the poor; at night, from some of those
with windows, the orange glow of oil drums used for heating and light shine
dully through the grime. Small shops serve the few factory workers who
remain in the area beyond the end of the working day, or during the lunch
hours grudgingly allowed. In the northeastern corner there is slightly more
activity in bars offering drinking and even some gambling in dark corners.
Along this stretch of street, the alleyways have stairways to second-floor
rooms, with the occasional alley entrance occupied evening and night by
painted women making blatant offers to the male passersby. Southwards, on
the southern side of Grym Broders Avenue, the train station falls into
disrepair similar to the rest of the area.
A fat ruddy faced man comes out of Medina Coffees, carrying what appears to be
a large cuppa. He pulls his bulk into a shitty half-painted, half-primered
1980s Econoline Ford cargo van. He is sweating profusely.
Casper sits cross-leggeed on some stranger's stoop, drumming an idle tattoo on
his knees as he surveys the city.
Magister trudges down the sidewalk with head lowered, looking as though he's
been awake for twenty-four hours or more, eyes shadowed behind the
wire-framed glasses. Hands in pockets, backpack strapped to both shoulders,
the teenager keeps his gaze more or less fixed on the cracked pavement a few
feet in front of him.
Seirian is leaning idly against one wall of a nearby alley, watching the time
pass with a thoughtful expression. Occasionally, she drops one hand to rub
at her left leg, then returns her arms to a crossed position over her chest.
The van sputters into painful life a minute after the old rusty door scratches
closed. Emitting a hazy cloud of foul smelling oil-smoke, the van lurches
forward down the street, perhaps a block or two and dies again. Cursing, the
fat man climbs out of the cab and comes around to the front of the van,
still carrying his coffee. He spies Magister, sips from his coffee and tears
off a blue streak of foul language that would embarrass a South Park
student. He then turns a half-smiling face toward Magister. "Hey kid," he
says. "C'mere."
Magister jerks his gaze up at the stream of angry obscenity, but would have
gone on without comment if the man hadn't addressed him. Still, he
hesitates. "Me?"
Seirian's nose wrinkles at the cloud of ugly smoke from the van, and her gaze
follows it until it dies, eliciting a small smile from her. Craning her head
slightly, she watches the exchange between the large man and the kid in mild
curiousity, still smiling.
The fat sweaty man nods. "Yeah." He fishes around in his pocket. "How'd you
like this van?"
A backfire report shoots out of the tailpipe. It sounds just like a nine
millimeter gun shot.
Casper takes off his shoe and starts gnawing at a brown toenail. His dark eyes
roll up to watch the scene, though they read as blanks right now.
Seirian jumps slightly at the backfire, then calms, shaking her head and
chuckling to herself about nerves.
"Your van?" Brow furrowed, Magister eyes the battered vehicle dubiously. "Um,"
he says, and turns his eyes back to the fat man. "Thanks, but, um, I don't
have any money."
"I'm sick of this piece of shit." He pulls his huge hand out of his ratty jean
pocket, belches contendedly and dangles a pair of keys hanging from a cheap
rubber keychain -- the kind you get from an auto repair shop. "Here. Enjoy."
He flips the keys toward the kid and then starts to walk the other way -- up
the street with his coffee.
Magister makes a grab for the keys, catching them awkwardly. "Uh, thanks."
Bemused, he surveys the van again and adds, under his breath, "I think."
The man starts to whistle to himself. He doesn't look back, although he does
pause to drink from his cup of joe.
Seirian raises an eyebrow and glances between the van and it's previous owner
a moment before shrugging and taking a moment to stretch.
Casper watches the man and then Magister and then the van and then his toe
again.
Magister jiggles the keys in his hand for a moment before curiosity overwhelms
his bemusement and prompts him to approach the ugly hulk. He circles around
to try the driver's side door.
The fat man disappears around a corner.
The drivers door opens easily; it's unlocked. There is a huge pile of trash --
from fast food, drive through coffee places, gas stations. A pair of fuzzy
dice hang from the barely connected rear view mirror. There's a distinct
stench from inside the van -- perhaps one Magister's not used to smelling.
After he finishes with the toenail, Casper spits out the bitings and sits up.
Looking back at the van he calls out to Magister, "What will you do with it?"
Seirian settles back into her lazy lean, humming under her breath as she looks
around. Brushing her curls out of her face, she continues with her casual
observations of the street, though Casper's voice turns her attention back
to the van for a time.
Magister probably isn't used to smelling it, the whatever-it-is. He wrinkles
his nose, partly from the smell, partly frm the garbage and the sight of
fuzzy dice. "I haven't a frocking clue," the kid replies, before stepping
out to locate the source of the query.
Casper jumps up from his seat and ambles down to better see the van. He slides
his hands in his pockets and adopts a speculative look as he peers over the
dark youth's shoulder, into the interior.
Seirian smirks and pushes off from the wall, wandering at a lazy pace towards
the van and those peering at it. "Thing's a pile o'junk, I say. Donnae look
like it'd go much o'anywhere at th'moment."
Casper's previously calm eyes bulge and water slightly as his nose takes in
something nasty. Putting his hand to his mouth he quickly steps to the rear
of the van.
Magister watches Casper warily for a moment, but so far, the other doesn't
alert any of the kid's asshole-detectors. After a beat he turns away and
climbs back into the van. "Clean it out, first of all, I guess," he says,
reaching for the fuzzy dice. "Cruk!" He grimaces anew at the smell and
concentrates on breathing through his mouth.
Rorschach pages: You can percieve the outlines of something vaguely humanoid
in the back.
Casper runs around to the side again, hearing the other's exclamation. He
sticks his head in the open door and asks, "What is it? What do you see?"
Magister seems to catch sight of something as he unhooks the fuzzy dice from
the rearviw mirror. Frowning, he climbs further in, kneeling on the driver's
seat. "I think there's somebody in here."
Rorschach pages: It's a body, seems like. Covered with wrappers and trash and
shit.
Casper hisses air through his teeth and whispers hoarsely, "What does it look
like? Maybe you shouldn't touch though..."
You paged Rorschach with 'How dead does it look?'.
Seirian blinks and stops about two feet from the van. "Eh, if'n it smells tha'
bad, I donnae think I'll be puttin' m'head in there an'time soon." As the
kid mentions someone being in the van, though, she's at the door as quickly
as she can be. "Are ye sure, lad?"
Rorschach pages: Waaaaay fucking dead.
The smell of rotting death is pretty apparent to anyone who's smelled it
before. Whatever used to be in the back -- it's been dead for a long time.
Casper looks up at Seirian, "Oh, Seirian... could you uh, see to this? I'll go
see if I can get help."
Magister takes a closer look, and goes dead still for a moment. "Ohmygod," he
says quietly, and then scrambles backwards, retreating from the van at all
speed, a hand going to his mouth, face suddenly pale.
Casper looks flustered and runs down the street.
Seirian pulls back, expression set in distaste as she nods to Casper. "Aye,
I'll take care o'it." Moving away from the door, she goes to the rear of the
van and tests the lock on the back door.
The back door is, perhaps predictably, locked.
Seirian leans around and calls to the kid. "Hey lad, think ye could toss me
those keys ye got? I want t'try gettin' th'back o'this thing open."
Magister, though, probably dropped the keys when scrambling out of the van. He
makes it around to the front before becoming violently sick, stomach
convulsing as he vomits up breadsticks from Garcia's last night.
Seirian frowns in concern for the kid before moving back up to the front to
retrieve the keys from wherever they might have fallen.
Seiri digs through the trash at the front of the van, throwing piles of
garbage out into the street. An old El Camino rolls past, slowly, beating
out a rap-bassline LOUDly. They slow a touch, but don't stop -- turning the
corner as Seiri finds the keys attached to a cheap rubber keychain.
Seirian grumbles about the loud music and grabs the keys. As she pulls back,
she can't help but cast a glance into the back of the van for a moment.
There's a vague looking humanoid shape under a mound of trash. It might just
be a trick, but you think some of the wrappers are rustling.
Magister leans against the rusted hood of the van, bent over almost double. He
coughs, his body still trying to sick up the contents of a now-empty
stomach. With the puddle of vomit at his feet (some of it on his boots) and
a stream of saliva coming from his open mouth, Magister isn't exactly at his
best or most attractive at the moment.
Seirian frowns a moment and pulls out of the van, determinedly headed to the
back of the van. She spares a few words for the sickened Magister as she
tries the keys in the lock. "Lad, try sittin' down an' puttin' yer head
twixt yer legs. Might help a bit."
One of the keys fits in the lock, but it only moves fitfully -- like the lock
was rusted shut.
Seirian sighs and patiently jimmies the key in the lock, not wanting to break
the key before she can get the door open. "Come on, silly lock, open up."
The Galliard twists the key and moves the lock enough. *Klick*
Seirian whews and turns the handle on the back door, with care that it, too,
might be rusty. "Success. Now...what've we got in here, eh?"
Magister hawks and spits up a glob of phlegmmy saliva, and then nods
wordlessly to the woman's advice. Still pale, he stumbles toward the curb
and sits down with a thump. While Seirian wrestles with the van, Magister
leans forward and puts his head between his knees, thin fingers laced
together at the back of his neck.
The door opens easily -- like it'd been recently oiled. The thick, ripe smell
of fecund decay assaults Seirian like a brick in the face. It coils out at
the still living target and threatens to dislodge Seiri's lunch too. Lying,
face up, is the gruesome dessicated face of a human -- you think. The flesh
has putrified and run off in gruesome pools of blood and ichor. Just then, a
*tremendously* huge rat pokes his head up from the rib cage of the
once-living thing. Eyes and whiskers twitching -- a bit of debris still
clinging to the rat's matted grey fur. It scurries away from the free meal
and dives under a pile of trash in the far front corner. Seiri sees another
rat run for her and flee into the street, vanishing down a sewer grate. The
dead things eyes -- you notice with eerie disquiet -- are perfectly
preserved and staring directly toward you.
Seirian freezes dead at the sight of the body, horror filling her expression
in an instant. She swallows repeatedly to keep her own lunch down, but finds
herself unable to take her eyes off of the mess in the van. "Sweet Mary
Mother of God......" she whispers, trailing off as she raises the back of
one hand to her mouth.
The apparently dead thing's lips move. "Kill me," it seems to be mouthing...
you think. It only happens for ten seconds and then you're not quite sure it
ever happened. The pile of trash in the corner wriggles again as the huge
rat tries to find a place to hide.
Magister unlaces his fingers and sits up carefully, somewhat recovered, for
the moment anyway. Hands shaking, he fishes inside his coat pockets for a
small packet of tissues wipes his mouth with it. His eyes move, with macabre
curiosity, toward the Van O' Death.
The smell starts to waft wider, since the backdoor is now open. Magister can
still smell that sickly sweet smell of decay and death hang around the van
like a shroud.
Seirian frees her hand from the door and reaches it, shakingly, into the van,
trying to find a piece of trash or something to at least cover the body's
eyes with. She fails to hide the shocked expression from her face.
Magister's gills turn green again. He swallows convulsively and turns his face
away, with the clump of tissue still pressed to his mouth.
The huge rat finds no suitable place to bed down and just as Seiri's hand
reach to find a piece of trash to cover the dead thing's eyes, it dashed
straight for the Fianna, and makes a perfect leap out of the van and
wriggles down the same nearby sewer grate. On top of the face's rotted (and
now-missing) nose is a scrap of paper with a extremely familiar looking
glyph to Seiri -- the Wyrm.
The glyph alone is enough to shock Seiri back to her senses. Draping whatever
piece of trash she found over the corpse's eyes, she grabs the scrap of
paper quickly and turns, looking up the street in the direction the fat man
had gone. "Damn..." She turns back to the van, coughing at the stench but
trying to push it aside to search for any clues to go with that little scrap
of paper.
Ew. Seiri pokes around the dead thing -- and quickly discovers that there is a
large pile of the glyph mimeographes on squares of paper in the front pile
of the van.
Searching the van completely would take hours and hours.
Seirian's eyes widen and she pulls back, closing the back door of the van with
a slam and locking it. Moving back up to the front of the van, she gathers
up as many of the squares as she can and crumples them up, tucking the
wadded papers into the pockets of her jeans. She then shuts the door to the
front of the van and backs off for a moment, moving so that any prevailing
winds blow the stench away from her. "Oh damn."
Magister scrubs at his mouth again with the tissue. "Cruk," he mutters.
"Cruk-frocking-cruk." He looks up toward the woman.
Seirian shakes her head while stuffing the last of the wadded up paper in her
pockets. "Damn, damn, damn." Another sigh and she looks back over to the
young man. "Y'all right o'er there? I'm thinkin' t'call the cops on this,
so, unless ye really want tha' van e'er again, might be best fer ye t'light
outta here."
Magister wipes at his mouth again in a reflex of disgust. "I'll be fine," he
says vaguely. "Um. You can have the van, or whatever." He's already backing
off, prelude for getting the hell out of the area.
Seirian nods and rubs her head as she looks at the van. She ohs a moment and
looks back to the kid. "Hey, lad, ye got a lighter or somethin' on ye?"
Magister pauses. "A lighter? ...Um, no, I don't."
Seirian frowns, "Matches or anythin' like that?" She looks back to the van
with a slowly growing expression of annoyance.
Magister shakes his head, weight shifting, his body ever-so-subtly leaning
away from the scene.
Seirian sighs and waves the kid off. "Go, get outta here."
Magister pauses a moment, a slight frown creasing his forehead. Then he turns
and walks toward the corner, pausing only to toss the soiled tissue into a
waste-can.
You go east towards the more active industrial sector.
Jermantown Avenue, Industrial Sector
From warehouses a few blocks away from the river, across a chunk of city more
than a dozen blocks wide, factories brood over the streets like dark dragons
over their piles of treasure, greedy and all-encompassing. Huddling around
the factories are smaller, less imposing buildings that are probably
warehouses, or storage locations for trucks. The factories spill fumes into
the air, darkening the area and blanketing it in a stench to mark
humankind's domination over the world. Some of the warehouses stand empty,
some are boarded over, and some, on the northern and western fringes of the
area, have been converted to bars, with bizarre lighting, frequent brawls,
and music that blares loudly at all hours of the night. There are no
residences here for anyone to complain, and the factory workers populate the
bars thickly. Throughout the area, trash and oil mingle together on alleyway
streets, impeding the paths to the dumpsters at the ends of many of the
alleys.
Contents:
Truck
Obvious exits:
Filthy Alley Forgotten Church East West
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