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    The PCRC presents: Cold Feet on Frigia

    Cold Feet on Frigia


    Sibley

    The sky was a peculiar shade of purple-grey, like a cold bruise. Winds were buffeting the cast-iron pediments of the station, raising low booms to accompany the howls as swirls of ice and snow jittered through the great columns. It was cold, but it was always cold outside of the Ravines. Sibley Veradecthis tucked her chin and stepped from the levtrain. The magnadomo had advised her on how to keep a low profile. She had entreated her entrethesp, Alodie, to instruct her on how to move like a commoner.


    The press of people here didn't treat her like Alodie did. She remembered the heroines of her childhood holos, free and loose and at ease. Rubbing shoulders with her people didn't seem so romantic as she'd hoped. It was cold, and they were too close, and they were too dirty – and the stink! The men and women around her were swaddled in thick soft felt, rubbed down with some sort of animal fat to help insulate them. Their faces were pinched and broken-veined in the piteous cold. Part of her ached to help these broken-down people around her. Another, harsher, part wanted them to just... be elsewhere.


    The hubbub of the station rose and fell, and someone pressed into her back. Biting back an indignant remark, and berating herself for getting distracted in the moment, she took a small step forward into the press from the carriage. Shuffling along as she had been taught, the Governess-Apparant slipped towards another platform, to take her further away from the Downspires.


    +++


    Boliti
    He tapped his fingers on the flat of his blade absently, enjoying the sticky feel of the blood. His eyes unfocussed, he remained squatting over the greenskinned body. Boliti rubbed his wrist across his mouth, the dirty puttis wrapped around it leaving his lipless mouth with a irritating cottony feel. After a pause of a few brief moments, he stood up. With a practised flourish, he cleaned his blade on the puttis, swapping the blade from forearm to forearm before secreting it in his chest-rig sheath.

    The prickling feeling returned as his breathing slowed. Steam was rising from the bare skin of his neck and head. He pulled his felted hood back up, jarring the necklace of fingers and ears hung around his neck. Time to move again.


    +++

    Areia
    Eyes wide, Areia whimpered as he fumbled with the descender on his grav-rope. Aeons of evolution wanted him to climb and hide somewhere he knew. Centuries of training wanted him to continue descending down into the Ravine-city. The Path forced him to stop. He cleared his mind, and took a firmer hold on the descender. Flattening his features and levelling his mood, Areia's breathing evened out. The rest of his group's presence was given away only by the gentle movement of the slender cables that ran from the dark above him into the murk below. Tentatively, he reached out with his mind, trying to urge them to slow so he could catch up.

    The itchy, insistent crawling in his head started up again, and Areia nearly panicked. He closed his mind again as he began to descend, faster and faster. The psychoceramic of the descender remained cool in his grasp, and he had to force himself to clamp it down to arrest his fall a little.

    Swallowing heavily, he turned his head to look back up into the shadows of the airshaft as he continued descending. The thrum and heat of heavy industry was robbing his hearing, and the insistent haze of condensation hazed the air. He was gently buffetted from side to side as he took hold of his pistol and levelled it upwards, sure he had seen something shuffle above him.

    The moment stretched. He narrowed his eyes. Without warning, the cables around him began to thrash violently. He dropped his pistol in fright, and watched it disappear. A thin heartrending shriek rose eerily upwards over the industrial hammering, and the cables stopped moving. He was frozen. Aeons of evolution wanted him to climb.

    Staring downwards into the murk, his wide eyes caught the movement above him again. He clutched with both hands on to the cable as a hiss resolved into the clattering of hundreds of chitinous claws. The darkness above him seemed to boil as hideous shapes, steaming in the suddenly-chill air, resolved on every side of the airshaft.

    He froze as a thousand alien eyes turned to regard him.
    Last edited by Apologist; 06-02-2013 at 16:07.
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