Ray still clung to the lip above the cockpit with all his might, but for this, he's just about willing to open both eyes.
The temple that Sargon's people had written about had been dedicated to most of the Sumerian pantheon, but the gods of the Underworld had had pride of place, and so Sargon had gone to some effort to deface the most potent portions. This architect had built those elements up to stand the tests of time and New York weather. The lettering was worn away in places, but the statues remained- the great grinning face of bearded Nergal, the bland but wild-eyed smile of vengeful Ereshkigal, the unwholesomely long-limbed form of Namtar the Herald. There were smallish altars here and there, and smaller statues, and circles engraved on the pavement. A flash of red towards the back spoke of cloth, possibly, but towards the front-
Well.
Seven feet tall and built like a mass of writhing, squirming vileness, the drip-glossy black form of Namtar waited. Beside him stood a shorter, but no less sinister figure: bearded, kilted, and armed, a strongly-built human, Ivo Shandor. At his feet lay the crumpled but still-wriggling form of a nebbishy accountant by the name of Louis Tully.
And some paces away, towards the front, two men in perfectly ordinary, everyday suits- and proton packs.
There is an expression in the American cultural psyche, thanks to a battle of the Revolutionary War: don't fire until you see the whites of their eyes.
Right now- even on dread Namtar- there's a lot of whites to go 'round.
(OOC: Okay. Here, I think, might be a good spot to split into individual subthreads- for Garion, for Sooty, for Eddie, and for Andrew. This way we don't have to worry so much about time-zone foo. Fair?)
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2005-10-10 04:47 am (UTC)The temple that Sargon's people had written about had been dedicated to most of the Sumerian pantheon, but the gods of the Underworld had had pride of place, and so Sargon had gone to some effort to deface the most potent portions. This architect had built those elements up to stand the tests of time and New York weather. The lettering was worn away in places, but the statues remained- the great grinning face of bearded Nergal, the bland but wild-eyed smile of vengeful Ereshkigal, the unwholesomely long-limbed form of Namtar the Herald. There were smallish altars here and there, and smaller statues, and circles engraved on the pavement. A flash of red towards the back spoke of cloth, possibly, but towards the front-
Well.
Seven feet tall and built like a mass of writhing, squirming vileness, the drip-glossy black form of Namtar waited. Beside him stood a shorter, but no less sinister figure: bearded, kilted, and armed, a strongly-built human, Ivo Shandor. At his feet lay the crumpled but still-wriggling form of a nebbishy accountant by the name of Louis Tully.
And some paces away, towards the front, two men in perfectly ordinary, everyday suits- and proton packs.
There is an expression in the American cultural psyche, thanks to a battle of the Revolutionary War: don't fire until you see the whites of their eyes.
Right now- even on dread Namtar- there's a lot of whites to go 'round.
(OOC: Okay. Here, I think, might be a good spot to split into individual subthreads- for Garion, for Sooty, for Eddie, and for Andrew. This way we don't have to worry so much about time-zone foo. Fair?)