Librafield - Part Two- Noctids Actual Play

Something’s wrong with the air tonight. You can taste it before you smell it. A thin metallic tang, like a coin on the tongue or blood on a blade. The kind of scent that makes dogs restless and keeps windows shut, even when the night’s too warm for sleep.

The trams were late this evening. All of them. No reason given, just a silence between stops. That’s the sort of thing you notice in Librafield. Not the noise, but when the noise forgets its cue. The city’s rhythm stuttered, and every brick seemed to hold its breath.

I saw Mrs. Kellan out sweeping her step at midnight. She doesn’t even own a broom. Her eyes looked glassy, like she was trying to remember why she was out there. She didn’t see me, or maybe she didn’t want to. Hard to tell these days.

Walking the Docs

The pigeons are gone too. Used to line the clock tower like they owned the place, now not one in sight. And the cats — well, the cats have gone quiet. You can tell when a city’s about to turn sour because even the strays get superstitious.

They say the fog comes in when the river’s cold. Maybe. But tonight it feels different. Thicker. Intentional. Like it’s not rolling in so much as rising up.

Something’s shifting under the cobblestones. I can feel it. You can’t see it, not yet, but it’s there — a pressure in the lungs, a weight behind the eyes. The kind of unease you can’t quite name, but you know better than to ignore.

Whatever it is, it’s close. And Librafield’s holding its breath, waiting for someone to make the first mistake.