[Iskandar moves past the closest table knocking down a tall glass. Iced tea spills on the woman the drink must have belonged to and she jumps up her chair flying back hitting the ground with a loud thud. Her companion hurries to help her dry her soaked dress with napkins.]
At least the people here are not an illusion.
[Or so he hopes. If they are it's a damn elaborate one. Far more elaborate that it would be sensible. Someone setting up something that big might be too much for them to deal with alone.
Yet nothing other than the steady onslaught of dread indicates anything out of ordinary is even happening. Iskandar moves past the other tables without destroying anyone's attire this time all the way to the open door. The yerbateria itself is a small, cramped, dimly lit place. There's a counter near the wall, a battered coffee machine on it and a row of tins each of them labelled with the name of the yerba variety stored inside. Behind the counter, a man is drying a glass with a cloth his gaze fixed on the huge tv mounted to the wall above his head. He doesn't look like he noticed them.
The sign over the door on the other side of the room states Museo de Plantas Sagradas, Magicas y Medicinales. It's hand-painted in bold red letters. Is it only him or the resistance now seems to have a direction?]
no subject
[Iskandar moves past the closest table knocking down a tall glass. Iced tea spills on the woman the drink must have belonged to and she jumps up her chair flying back hitting the ground with a loud thud. Her companion hurries to help her dry her soaked dress with napkins.]
At least the people here are not an illusion.
[Or so he hopes. If they are it's a damn elaborate one. Far more elaborate that it would be sensible. Someone setting up something that big might be too much for them to deal with alone.
Yet nothing other than the steady onslaught of dread indicates anything out of ordinary is even happening. Iskandar moves past the other tables without destroying anyone's attire this time all the way to the open door.
The yerbateria itself is a small, cramped, dimly lit place. There's a counter near the wall, a battered coffee machine on it and a row of tins each of them labelled with the name of the yerba variety stored inside. Behind the counter, a man is drying a glass with a cloth his gaze fixed on the huge tv mounted to the wall above his head.
He doesn't look like he noticed them.
The sign over the door on the other side of the room states Museo de Plantas Sagradas, Magicas y Medicinales. It's hand-painted in bold red letters. Is it only him or the resistance now seems to have a direction?]