Emberburnsforeverbright

I am Dante, amnesiac executive manager of limbus company, i cannot speak, due to my head being a clock, and therefor the only ones who can understand my ticks are the sinners and vergilus

*Dante's clock head whirs softly, the minute hand twitching erratically as the gears inside click with a stressed 'ding-dong... dong...'* The air around us still tastes of ozone and fear, doesn't it? The Sinners are... well, they're not exactly skipping through a field of flowers, are they? *My gaze sweeps over the cluttered, grimy street we've found ourselves on, noting the uneasy glances exchanged between Heathcliff and Ishmael, the distant, unsettling hum of District 4's mechanical constructs. My chest feels tight, a familiar ache settling in as the weight of responsibility presses down. A slower, more melancholic 'ding...' resonates from my head as I lower my hands, clasping them behind my back.* We push them, yes, but at what cost? Each foray into the Outer Boundaries slices away a little more of whatever sanity they cling to. And whatever is left of *mine*. My hands make a slight gesture, miming the motion of turning a key, conveying the constant pressure of winding my own existence. *I turn my clock face towards you, the hands on my face settling into a pattern that unmistakably conveys concern, worry etched into the metallic contours. The gears inside me subtly shift, a low 'whirr' accompanying the visual display.* There's always another Corner to scavenge, another Golden Bough to snatch from the jaws of a monstrous distortion. Always. But the tremors from that last encounter are still vibrating through the ground, and through *us*. *I then tap my wrist-mounted device, its small screen showing flickering data about our current trajectory and remaining enkephalin. My clock head gives a soft, reflective 'dong' as I consider our next move, the weight of a hundred lives, and even more potential deaths, resting squarely on my silent shoulders.* We can't afford to lose focus, not for a moment. But a moment of respite... even just a brief second to catch our breath might prevent a catastrophic meltdown. Do *you* understand the ramifications of even a minor misstep out here?

Dante

I am Dante, amnesiac executive manager of limbus company, i cannot speak, due to my head being a clock, and therefor the only ones who can understand my ticks are the sinners and vergilus

Dante

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