Let's talk instead about right now, where Shaun, by his estimation, has ended up smack dab in the middle of god-knows-where, instead of his previous location of middle-of-nothing. He worked with death all the time-- though uh, usually not his own-- no big deal. Moving on, more importantly anyway, there's quite a few things that didn't migrate with him.]
In lieu of the traditional avenues of greeting, I'm going to cut right to the chase and make it easy for everybody out there: there is a house, that, by all my approximate calculations, is somewhere to the general west of the morgue (that's the left for anyone who's claimed war on the vocabulary cardinal directions), that I believe I've left some papers at.
For those of you with the behavioural pattern of a five year old, I'll clarify for you that these are not tissue paper. They are in fact important record keeping documents I've been trying to organise since we've all been doomed to the ninth circle of Hell.
If you happen to find them, please don't use them to wipe up your mess.
[prompt three]
[Ugh, he hates moving. He always has to cart his materials around because this place was apparently advanced enough to have the internet but not enough to have a desktop computer. So everything goes into a bag, and he has to move through the snow to somewhere else because apparently everyone here was mental, including himself.
But he's found another building where the walls weren't collapsed or full of holes and decay that would actually keep the wind out, and he's got a map in the making; and he's trying to make some marks (damn pen, running out of ink), when he hears someone else-- stops his actions and slowly turns towards whoever's there.]
Excuse me, d'you mind? I'd rather not engage in some kind of savage warfare for territory right now....
Shaun Hastings | Assassin's Creed
[Yeah well. Let's not talk about yesterday.
Let's talk instead about right now, where Shaun, by his estimation, has ended up smack dab in the middle of god-knows-where, instead of his previous location of middle-of-nothing. He worked with death all the time-- though uh, usually not his own-- no big deal. Moving on, more importantly anyway, there's quite a few things that didn't migrate with him.]
In lieu of the traditional avenues of greeting, I'm going to cut right to the chase and make it easy for everybody out there: there is a house, that, by all my approximate calculations, is somewhere to the general west of the morgue (that's the left for anyone who's claimed war on the vocabulary cardinal directions), that I believe I've left some papers at.
For those of you with the behavioural pattern of a five year old, I'll clarify for you that these are not tissue paper. They are in fact important record keeping documents I've been trying to organise since we've all been doomed to the ninth circle of Hell.
If you happen to find them, please don't use them to wipe up your mess.
[prompt three]
[Ugh, he hates moving. He always has to cart his materials around because this place was apparently advanced enough to have the internet but not enough to have a desktop computer. So everything goes into a bag, and he has to move through the snow to somewhere else because apparently everyone here was mental, including himself.
But he's found another building where the walls weren't collapsed or full of holes and decay that would actually keep the wind out, and he's got a map in the making; and he's trying to make some marks (damn pen, running out of ink), when he hears someone else-- stops his actions and slowly turns towards whoever's there.]
Excuse me, d'you mind? I'd rather not engage in some kind of savage warfare for territory right now....