Perfect evening to go out on the patio and see who comes by on their way to the party. So I walk out to the front with two bottles, one red, one a dark amber Scotch, and a whole lot of glasses.
The fictional Buffista City. With a variety of neighborhoods, climates, and an Evil Genius or two, Sang Sacre is where we'd all live if it were real. Jump in -- find a neighborhood, start a parade, become a superhero. It's what you make it.
From the high tower of the Castle I look over the city. It's alive with celebration. The streets are pulsating with light while fireworks lights the skies above. I couldn't ask for a better distraction. I use my handy watch radio to hail the Castle AI.
"Is everything ready?" I ask.
All preparations are complete.
"Excellent. Start the experiment."
I take another look toward the city as a thick fog starts to roll towards the city. Bwah ha ha ha ha ha ha!
The chill of a fog rolls across my slippered toes as I step out of my bubble in Dogtown. That's strange, I don't remember fog in the forecast. But what does it matter, anyway? I've got my velvet jacket on, and a sleek new all-graphite Steinberger slung across my back. It's gonna be a good night.
Fog in the Mews is nothing unusual, but it is clinging to my skirt, dampening my skin and collecting in chilling droplets in my cleavage. I look toward Brian, but he's clearly enjoying the sight too much to lend me his coat. We walk toward Town Hall.
Everybody's heading towards the main square outside Town Hall. It's all lit up and I can hear the music already. People are chanting something...
ita! ita! ita! ita!
Hey, quick reminder: what's the addy of the site with the map of Sang Sacre?
Magic night. I've been walking again, and cat wouldn't be left behind. It's after sunset, even the afterglow has faded. A few stars are beginning to show, but there's a fog gathering.
I look around for cat and see him touching noses with a white wolf who stands foursquare over a sword in the grass. The blade gleams in the scant starlight.
I can hear chanting in the distance: ita, ita, ita
Pouring myself a big glass, I go upstairs to contemplate the closet. More chanting wafts in.
Something cold against my foot startles me awake. I stare for a few seconds at the sword, lightly covered in condensed mist. Something's ... the wolf has gone, so I suppose I should get up.
I can feel the cold of the metal even through the leather wraps as I put the sword back in the sheath.
I don't know how long I've been asleep, and that contributes to my bleariness.
As does ...
What the hell? Someone's calling me?