Quote:
Wow. Long time no see, Leif. I shall keep my hat on. Except when I'm cycling. Then it's the helmet.
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Originally Posted by Leif_Roar
An abandoned building in Kings Row. The plaster on the walls is cracked and stained with water damage. Old pictures on the wall: boxers and wrestlers posing for the camera, faded and grayed out by a dust and grime, some of them hanging crooked. Dirty yellow light filters in through the one window that's still got glass rather than plywood, leaving the door in shadows but not the old coat rack next to it. A midnight blue duster is hanging from the coat rack, perhaps the only thing in the room free from the layer of age and dust.
From somewhere deeper into the building comes the muted sounds of grunting and the rhythmic thuds of someone striking a sandbag. So. Not entirely abandoned after all, perhaps. The sounds halt and there is a few seconds silence, then an inarticulate growl and a very hard thud, followed almost immediately by the boom of a hundred pounds of sand and leather crashing to the ground. Again silence. Footsteps, someone's hard breathing. A blocky figure appears, hard to discern in the shadows and gloom of the room. He stops by the door and an arm appears in the light; leather glove, blue shirt sleeve, a flash of red between the sleeve and the glove. It picks up the duster and pulls it into the shadows where the figure shrugs it on. The figure pauses, perhaps with a hand on the doorknob, then turns back. The arm reappears, now holding an old, beat-up red fedora. Slowly, almost reverently, it hangs the hat on the coat rack. The door opens, and for a moment the figure is in silhouette against the light outside. Bareheaded, misshapen skull, tufts of wiry hair, shoulders slumped in defeat or maybe deep sadness. The figure steps outside, the door closes. The snick of a lock. Faintly, receding footsteps, then nothing. An abandoned building in Kings Row. The plaster on the walls is cracked and stained with water damage. Old pictures on the wall: boxers and wrestlers posing for the camera, faded and grayed out by a dust and grime, some of them hanging crooked. On an old coat rack hangs a battered, old hat, gathering dust. (Although its almost two years since I last played City of Heroes, I'm really sad to see it go and I want to offer a heartfelt farewell to all of you, and in particular to those of the old Union crowd who knows what the above refers to. Seemed the best way to express my feelings. Fare well, everybody, and remember to keep your hats on. Always.) |
An abandoned building in Kings Row. The plaster on the walls is cracked and stained with water damage. Old pictures on the wall: boxers and wrestlers posing for the camera, faded and grayed out by a dust and grime, some of them hanging crooked. Dirty yellow light filters in through the one window that's still got glass rather than plywood, leaving the door in shadows but not the old coat rack next to it. A midnight blue duster is hanging from the coat rack, perhaps the only thing in the room free from the layer of age and dust.
From somewhere deeper into the building comes the muted sounds of grunting and the rhythmic thuds of someone striking a sandbag. So. Not entirely abandoned after all, perhaps. The sounds halt and there is a few seconds silence, then an inarticulate growl and a very hard thud, followed almost immediately by the boom of a hundred pounds of sand and leather crashing to the ground. Again silence.
Footsteps, someone's hard breathing. A blocky figure appears, hard to discern in the shadows and gloom of the room. He stops by the door and an arm appears in the light; leather glove, blue shirt sleeve, a flash of red between the sleeve and the glove. It picks up the duster and pulls it into the shadows where the figure shrugs it on.
The figure pauses, perhaps with a hand on the doorknob, then turns back. The arm reappears, now holding an old, beat-up red fedora. Slowly, almost reverently, it hangs the hat on the coat rack.
The door opens, and for a moment the figure is in silhouette against the light outside. Bareheaded, misshapen skull, tufts of wiry hair, shoulders slumped in defeat or maybe deep sadness. The figure steps outside, the door closes. The snick of a lock. Faintly, receding footsteps, then nothing.
An abandoned building in Kings Row. The plaster on the walls is cracked and stained with water damage. Old pictures on the wall: boxers and wrestlers posing for the camera, faded and grayed out by a dust and grime, some of them hanging crooked. On an old coat rack hangs a battered, old hat, gathering dust.
(Although its almost two years since I last played City of Heroes, I'm really sad to see it go and I want to offer a heartfelt farewell to all of you, and in particular to those of the old Union crowd who knows what the above refers to. Seemed the best way to express my feelings.
Fare well, everybody, and remember to keep your hats on. Always.)