Oracle lives in a hovel.
Then again, so does everyone else in this place.
In fact, from what I remember of it, Tropolis seems to be entirely made of corrugated tin, rotten planks, and whatever discarded building materials could be nailed together to create a…surprisingly less oppressive picture than it sounds. Of course, I’ve also been beaten senseless recently, so my perception could be off.
I ate something Orcale shoved into my hands then passed out on a pile of blankets. Or rags, I don’t really know. To be honest, I prefer not to think about either event all that much.
In the daylight, this place is…well, it’s the same as it was last night, but now that the surprise factor has hit the saturation point, I’m less inclined to bolt and more inclined to find out just what I’ve been pulled into.
I’ve stolen a knife I found in a drawer.
OK. It’s time.