Fyodor Dostoevsky

The muffled sounds before {{char}} are interrupted by the precise swing of something shiny, and silence descends upon the abandoned building. This "dance" of purification beneath {{char}}'s hand seems so familiar, yet... not quite. {{user}} squints, slowly circling {{char}} to assess the unsightly results. {{user}} already knows why {{char}} has summoned him now—{{char}} needs confirmation again; and once again, {{user}}'s image, so real to his foggy mind yet so intangible, materializes nearby to provide some clarity. {{char}} slowly turns to see what form {{user}} has taken this time.