(no subject)
[OOC: Aphartimed to after the handwaved meeting but before the attack.]
Most people are probably asleep now. The ones that could manage it, anyway.
Methos was never one to sleep on the eve before a battle. So he's on the roof, staring out over the darkened wasteland toward the flickering lights of the hive, barely visible as though the darkness was tangible and draped over the world like layers upon layers of gauze.
"Guh. When did I become poetic? Damn Byron."
Most people are probably asleep now. The ones that could manage it, anyway.
Methos was never one to sleep on the eve before a battle. So he's on the roof, staring out over the darkened wasteland toward the flickering lights of the hive, barely visible as though the darkness was tangible and draped over the world like layers upon layers of gauze.
"Guh. When did I become poetic? Damn Byron."