'WELL." A static-rattled sigh rips across the beach like a dial-up modem being throttled with piano wire. Somewhere in the swirling dust kicked up by Hadama ’s big-boy moon tantrum, several glowing middle fingers rise above the haze—each of them crackling with petty indignation.
"Real classy, folks! Come to our nice party, eat our snacks, stab our guests, and then vanish in a puff of metaphysical bullshit like this is some kind of divine dodgeball game." The static begins to coil tighter, shimmering like scorched VHS tape in the sun. A few half-hearted boos sputter out over the dunes, echoing from no visible source.
Vox reconstitutes slowly beside Pierce and Thalassa, as though forming from someone’s corrupted save file: pixelated limbs, rewinding limbs, two feet, three elbows—ah, there it is. He adjusts an invisible tie. Then sighs. Again.
"RUDE." A long, staticky sniffle. "I was gonna play musical organs. Organ roulette. Ever seen a femur solo? No. Because they RUINED IT." From some unspeakable pocket of void-space, the sunglasses are drawn and slapped back onto his face with a grumpy flair. The hat follows, dented and covered in slightly-cursed sand.
Vox sulks toward the battered inflatable mirewyrm, static trailing in his wake like a kicked television trying to understand shame.
"Real classy, folks! Come to our nice party, eat our snacks, stab our guests, and then vanish in a puff of metaphysical bullshit like this is some kind of divine dodgeball game." The static begins to coil tighter, shimmering like scorched VHS tape in the sun. A few half-hearted boos sputter out over the dunes, echoing from no visible source.
Vox reconstitutes slowly beside Pierce and Thalassa, as though forming from someone’s corrupted save file: pixelated limbs, rewinding limbs, two feet, three elbows—ah, there it is. He adjusts an invisible tie. Then sighs. Again.
"RUDE." A long, staticky sniffle. "I was gonna play musical organs. Organ roulette. Ever seen a femur solo? No. Because they RUINED IT." From some unspeakable pocket of void-space, the sunglasses are drawn and slapped back onto his face with a grumpy flair. The hat follows, dented and covered in slightly-cursed sand.
Vox sulks toward the battered inflatable mirewyrm, static trailing in his wake like a kicked television trying to understand shame.
vox
