GORELOGGERS MK.5 V3.2 🜛

Sorebon is situated on a strategic location in the mountain ranges of Romain. It is 4:48 P.M. now; the sun is setting on the horizon. The sun is putting on a great exodus beyond the horizon, with orange-enlightened crypticles following its wake devotedly. At one point in the opposite of the sun's vector, the faith rattled and waned: leaving the molten cascade of the sublime orange behind (or forward?) gradually. Is the sun's exodus the main event here? We could only pick a reference. Beyond one point opposite from the sun's exalt was a strip not blue anymore but almost a violet breath. It is deep blue where the night is falling and it is orange where the sun is falling and in midst: a violet breath. As if the sun and the dark both became unaware of the sonder betwixt. Light is roaming and so is the darkness; both aware of their own trajectories and unaware of the other's. And just in the little strip between, unquantifiably, merely perceptibly, is the violet breath. It is the crux of the twilight. Doctor Bruisseau is sitting on a veranda on the seventh story of Sorebon's Northern Observatory. The cup of Americano is melding fine with the ambience. So he thinks. Barmanne is of a different temper. Bruisseau would surely think that the evening is not a good occasion to be drinking liquor. In fact, he would want nothing to do with liquor whatsoever. Wine is his limit and even then, drinking is not one of his habits by any means. Barmanne on the contrary, is not very averse to caffeine, although his coffee intake rate would barely scratch the threshold of habituality. The choice of drink is the least of their worries at present however. Bruisseau is seated on a sofa on the lookout, Barmanne is ambiguously leaning on the railing. His right hand nudged on the railing's exquisite wooden embellishment while the other one is holding a glass of whiskey.