The city is smaller than it used to be. Which makes sense, the river is smaller than it used to be, and it's no longer the Mississippi. That stream now flows a hundred miles west of here. New Orleans now lies on the eastern bank of the Lafitte, a small, sluggish, brackish creek that floods upon occasion.
All that's left of The Big Easy now is the old French Quarter. The riverside docks and wharves are new, built since Old Miss shifted course. The town is a small time port and tourist trap. Nobody minds really. At least when floods come it's no longer the tragedy it once was.
It's late afternoon here. The docks are winding down for the day, while the drinking holes and jazz bars are starting to open up. Down one street a demi-lich, a very old demi-lich, wanders. A partial skull floating about 5 feet off the ground, with a rather distracted air. He isn't drunk, he's only .... not there.
People ignore him, for they can tell he's really not in this world. On occasion he floats into a wall or lamp post, and for awhile he comes back to the world. But it's readily apparent he'll soon decide to go elsewhere. Wherever it is liches go whenever their existence in the mortal realm has come to an end.
As the shadows lengthen the witchlights come on. Cones of light that chase and deepen the shadows. The clothing worn by the people on the street darkens as well. Evening garb, out on the town garb replaces the work day attire that once predominated. An oboe gives voice to an old elven composition. A melancholy hope performed as only an orc can perform it. For while an elf penned the notes, she wrote it for orcs. For only orcs understand.
And while he plays non-orcs can understand what the elf was writing about. But the understanding rarely stays with them.
Other songs, other voices come to life. A squat, stocky dwarf gently coaxes forth a tune of meadows and summer airs from his flute, joined by a goblin played piano that speaks of dark alleys and horse shattered plans. The light baritone of an ogre woman sings of a human who sells his soul to raise his love from the dead, only to learn that without his soul he is incapable of love.
Another weeknight in New Orleans.
The demi-lich is forgotten. In a dark corner away from the witchlights the partial skull halts, falls to the ground, shatters. A translucent form stands over it. A second joins him. They converse. The former lich with some asperity, the angel with humor and understanding. The two fade from sight as the pile of white dust that once was the skull of a lich is scattered by an evening breeze.
All that's left of The Big Easy now is the old French Quarter. The riverside docks and wharves are new, built since Old Miss shifted course. The town is a small time port and tourist trap. Nobody minds really. At least when floods come it's no longer the tragedy it once was.
It's late afternoon here. The docks are winding down for the day, while the drinking holes and jazz bars are starting to open up. Down one street a demi-lich, a very old demi-lich, wanders. A partial skull floating about 5 feet off the ground, with a rather distracted air. He isn't drunk, he's only .... not there.
People ignore him, for they can tell he's really not in this world. On occasion he floats into a wall or lamp post, and for awhile he comes back to the world. But it's readily apparent he'll soon decide to go elsewhere. Wherever it is liches go whenever their existence in the mortal realm has come to an end.
As the shadows lengthen the witchlights come on. Cones of light that chase and deepen the shadows. The clothing worn by the people on the street darkens as well. Evening garb, out on the town garb replaces the work day attire that once predominated. An oboe gives voice to an old elven composition. A melancholy hope performed as only an orc can perform it. For while an elf penned the notes, she wrote it for orcs. For only orcs understand.
And while he plays non-orcs can understand what the elf was writing about. But the understanding rarely stays with them.
Other songs, other voices come to life. A squat, stocky dwarf gently coaxes forth a tune of meadows and summer airs from his flute, joined by a goblin played piano that speaks of dark alleys and horse shattered plans. The light baritone of an ogre woman sings of a human who sells his soul to raise his love from the dead, only to learn that without his soul he is incapable of love.
Another weeknight in New Orleans.
The demi-lich is forgotten. In a dark corner away from the witchlights the partial skull halts, falls to the ground, shatters. A translucent form stands over it. A second joins him. They converse. The former lich with some asperity, the angel with humor and understanding. The two fade from sight as the pile of white dust that once was the skull of a lich is scattered by an evening breeze.
