Heading towards the black beacons that punctuate the evening gloom with their wrongness, you round a corner onto a scene of destruction. To your left, a tea house is partially collapsed and ablaze, a gaping hole smashed through its front and glass shards strewn into the street. To the right, an older man lies slumped against the corner of a shuttered store, battered, signed, and bleeding, surrounded by a guttering anima banner of saffron-yellow light.
In the cobbled street between are the sources of the black anti-light. Two men and a woman are advancing upon the fallen man, darkness radiating from them and blood running down their faces from ebon caste marks cut into their foreheads. The woman, clad in a captain's greatcoat and wielding a daiklave of matte black metal, leads the group. Only a step behind, a man in a lace-trimmed silk shirt stalks forward, knuckles bloodied. The last man hangs back, a pair of flamepieces in his hands and a bandoleer of more across his chest.
In the cobbled street between are the sources of the black anti-light. Two men and a woman are advancing upon the fallen man, darkness radiating from them and blood running down their faces from ebon caste marks cut into their foreheads. The woman, clad in a captain's greatcoat and wielding a daiklave of matte black metal, leads the group. Only a step behind, a man in a lace-trimmed silk shirt stalks forward, knuckles bloodied. The last man hangs back, a pair of flamepieces in his hands and a bandoleer of more across his chest.
Comment