Current Residence: Immediately behind you.|
Shell of choice: Electron
Personal Quote: "Ha! No."
The World Ender's Club - The SerpentThe serpent moved with the current, far enough below that the surface shadows couldn't be seen. The boat was up there, the serpent could feel, but not see. The weight of it spread through the water, even far above. The pole moved steadily through the deepest parts, and the serpent kept clear of it. It thrummed in the dark, and the serpent could track it from afar.The World Ender's Club - The Serpent by Isengim
Memories did not come when called. Above was a boat, and in it was... what? Prey? Enemy? Something else entirely? The serpent did not know. The current pushed it lower, close to the sand and stone of the riverbed. It lashed its tail in frustration, and drove upwards against the press. The water was cold near the bottom, and the river-body not much warmer. But there was heat above. The serpent could feel heat coming off the boat in waves, sinking down into the depths. It wanted the heat, the burning source that it could not see, but feel as surely as it felt the current's insistent push.
New Houston: The Morning StarNew Houston is a broken city in its soul; it gives the indistinct sensation of past disaster. A visitor has the itching notion that if they could shut out the noise and neon, look past the walls, they would see evidence of cataclysmic ruin. As if they could see the streets from far enough away, from enough height, they would see the bowl of a volcanic caldera in the geography. Or perhaps that the flagstones of the shops, crowded so tight the walls scream, conceal the bones of a city razed to dust. It's geography doesn't do the tourist industry any favors, a few too many bayous that run black, too little foliage of the non-plastic variety.New Houston: The Morning Star by Isengim
The port-side half of the city was every bad dream Vegas had ever had, and everything Revolutionary Paris proved to be. Daylight there is a rumor, a cultural myth alongside mermaids and the Chupacabra. Vietnamese is the lingua franca, shot through with fragments of pure Texan. Xuống y'all.
The dockside visitor has much to contend with: the stenc
Phoenicia I It wasn't that violence made him itchy, but his muscles did ache afterwards. Adrenaline crash, someone had once told him, a grinding of chemical gears. No issue, but he did feel odd, rubbing a kink out of his neck while pointing the pistol with the other. He certainly felt he was losing traction with the hostages, and that annoyed him. He hadn't counted on the local police dragging their heels, or certain federal agencies pecking over the situation like competitive vultures.Phoenicia I by Isengim
All that was left for him was the wait, and the furtive glares of hostages. In truth, he regretted much of what was happening. The last few years had been good ones. He'd had a good job, and dependable friends. But if all went well, Mickey Kincaid would be another dead alias, obsolete. Mickey, who had recently come over from Ireland with certain connections and a reputation in small circles. Mickey, with the shy smile, who popped his knuckles compulsively, and could sing the Irish nation