The sun was rising above a smoky wasteland. Leather-winged abominations turned lazily in volcanic updrafts. Mindless opportunistic predators, they watched the activities on the pitted plain below. Without warning, a fist-sized Nightwing turned and dropped from the sky towards a seemingly-vulnerable target below. The stony mass next to the twitching red shape erupted with a speed inconsistent with its squat shape. The Nightwing vanished in a single wet bite.
The scorched landscape of Malebolge awakened. A new day had begun in Hell. Continue reading
It’s a Hell of a world.
Not this one. (Well, this one is sometimes.) I’m talking about another world. A shared storytelling universe.
I’m not saying you can’t cut a deal with demons. But you’d damned well better know what you’re doing. They don’t teach that in business school. You just can’t trust a monster.
–Excerpted from Customs of the Pre-Collapse Culture: Fertility Rites, University of New Chicago Press, published A.C. 1758. All rights reserved.
…and so young adults of the species would migrate, aligned with the solar vernal equinox, back to the sandy beaches of their respective origins. This cycle occurred without fail, annually, regardless of other meteorological or environmental factors. After accounting for other population fluctuations, annual migratory levels remained consistent year over year.
Darkness is my shield. Even now, poised in the midst of the city around me, the shadows protect me. Those whom I might hunt, pass me unaware. For this is my city, and the night is mine.
I am the Wraith.
I feel the energy of an active city moving around me. Gazing down at the street, from my perch, I watch a myriad of nameless citizens swept along in the tide of their own making. Always separated from the herd, I am yet drawn to it. My desire to be as one of them visceral but unconsummated. I want to be part of that energy.
But my mission demands otherwise. For this is my city, and the night is mine.