El_maryacho_and_nowaah_the_flood-harbingers_of_... →

In the neon-drenched ruins of what was once New Orleans, the rain never truly stopped. It was a rhythmic, oily downpour that tasted of copper and old gods. This was the domain of the , a duo whispered about in the low-light jazz dens and the high-tech bunkers of the Bayou.

The sound was like a bone snapping. Nowaah stepped forward, raising his arms. The rain around them didn't fall to the ground; it began to swirl around him, forming a massive, rotating serpent of liquid. "Open," Nowaah whispered. EL_Maryacho_and_Nowaah_The_Flood-Harbingers_Of_...

The city’s elite, the "Gilded Gills," had built a massive sea wall that diverted the rising tides away from their penthouses and directly into the "Sinks"—the slums where the forgotten lived. The Harbingers had seen enough. In the neon-drenched ruins of what was once