“The latter is delivered, and you have until my departure for the former, Awakened One.”
Yes yes, that is how it starts, don’t give me that look. Dreams don’t have a real beginning, there is only the middle and the end.
I’m in Cork now, wasn’t when it spoke. I was supposed to give all in one go, you see. All the details were planned. Meticulously. Pacts are, they’re a big deal, you know? A man is nothing if not a man of his word. I’m a mystagogue who deals with spirits, I’m all about deals. Trades. Promises. Favors. What have you. I’m always so careful and now this asshole was after fucking it all up!
Obviously the asshole is the speaker at the start. Middle. Whatever. No I don’t recall anything else, nor how I know all that. Its like, the opposite of dramatic irony. The character knows more than the audience. Does that make sense? Put that eyebrow down!
Where was I? Oh yes. The city, trying to find what else it wants, what it was promised. The city is.. dark. Cold. Empty. Too empty. I am in the middle of a fucking city and there’s not a body wandering about. Just when I need one. It’s not still though. I can feel the clock ticking down. Time is my enemy, which is apt.
You’re giving the look again…
I wonder if I’m not in the fallen, I’m in the shadow. That is why I can’t find anyone. That’s why it feels wrong here. I step over. It looks identical from that side, feels identical. I feel.. disheartened.
The fallen is under a shadow? Hmm, maybe. What would that imply?
It’s whispering in my ear, telling me time is almost up and I still haven’t paid it. All seems lost, then I spot the figure. The first one, smells of piss and drink and failure. Wrong place, wrong time. But there’s no spirit. There’s supposed to be a spirit. I KNOW there must be a spirit. But maybe that was a dream? Turns and looks at me. Has the other’s face, but sadder. Sad enough to do what I did. There’s no anger in that face. I wake.
Glad I could be of service. The superbowl? No, I don’t like sports.
WoD. Cork. 