To Foster, Karako, and Epsilon, no time at all will have passed from when they laid to rest on the evening mid-May, up to the morning of July 1st.
But of course, time most certainly has passed. To any companions (or indeed, anyone else they might think to ask), all three of them seemingly disappeared overnight, only to return that morning. It seems no one on the island captured either of those moments, leaving the entire ordeal a complete mystery.
And try as any of them might, the only recollection Foster, Karako, or Epsilon will have is a rather odd dream...
♆ Nice to Meat You ♆
Whether you run or you fight, you're doomed.
You know you're doomed. At the end of the day, it doesn't matter whether you were unfortunate enough to be dragged into the fray or whether you volunteered for this in the first place. Your weapons aren't enough to combat the looming, predatory snarl that arches far, far above your head.
Even as you think, you can feel the smoldering live coals of its eyes settling upon you. It moves faster than lightning, arcing downward with unerring accuracy. You can lash out, fight back, even try and run, but there's no escaping the inevitable. The thick stalk of its neck carries steel-trap jaws forward, forward and down, until hot strings of saliva spatter the ground at your feet and the rank stench of its breath fills your lungs.
The last thing you see is the curves of its fangs closing around you.
no subject
To Foster, Karako, and Epsilon, no time at all will have passed from when they laid to rest on the evening mid-May, up to the morning of July 1st.
But of course, time most certainly has passed. To any companions (or indeed, anyone else they might think to ask), all three of them seemingly disappeared overnight, only to return that morning. It seems no one on the island captured either of those moments, leaving the entire ordeal a complete mystery.
And try as any of them might, the only recollection Foster, Karako, or Epsilon will have is a rather odd dream...
Whether you run or you fight, you're doomed.
You know you're doomed. At the end of the day, it doesn't matter whether you were unfortunate enough to be dragged into the fray or whether you volunteered for this in the first place. Your weapons aren't enough to combat the looming, predatory snarl that arches far, far above your head.
Even as you think, you can feel the smoldering live coals of its eyes settling upon you. It moves faster than lightning, arcing downward with unerring accuracy. You can lash out, fight back, even try and run, but there's no escaping the inevitable. The thick stalk of its neck carries steel-trap jaws forward, forward and down, until hot strings of saliva spatter the ground at your feet and the rank stench of its breath fills your lungs.
The last thing you see is the curves of its fangs closing around you.