Feb 15, 2015 6:44 am
An old man sits in the dust cross legged, pedestrians swirling around him. As his bowed head rises, his mismatched eyes seem to pick you out of the crowd of street vendors, whores, thieves, cheats, orphans, beggars, and miscreants. His voice rises slowly in pitch and intensity, "Those who eat of the oligarchs plate will receive thier rewards. Repent and return to the Amber Papacy. Hear me and see my sign." The thin arms reach into a nearby moth eaten sack to produced a small vial of orange liquid. Never blinking, never breaking eye contact he pours the liquid on himself. Slowly his body begins to melt, like a hot wax, and run down into the street to form a puddle. Several gasp come from the crowd. Turning away from the gruesome sight you find a note in your pocket. Meet in the Cinderblock Cellar if you wish to help! Tomorrow Night after the Sweep.