The automat continues its electronic meditation.

The automat continues its electronic meditation.

Steal money from the vending machine.

Buy Camisado Ultra Sweet.

The can makes a pleasant thunk as it lands.

There's nothing sweet about being out of pocket.

Buy Ouroboros Black.

Unfiltered, for maximum taste.

Great time for quitting, given your finances.

Leave.

You turn away from the machine.

The wind rustles the bushes nearby as if hushing those who might speak.

The vending machine hums as if it were in prayer.

It seems nowhere is sacred enough to avoid the grip of automated money-making.

This land lost its innocence when it became a Luzian shrine.

Then you should have no problem stealing from it.

The sol inside that machine isn't tithes. It's measly payment for a moment's relief trudging between shrines.

Rip it out. Take it.

Efficient profiteering might be the only thing worth worshipping in this world.

Then practice what you preach. Make yourself a tidy sum by stealing the sol from this machine.

It's not tithes you'd be taking. It's measly payment for a moment's relief trudging between shrines.

It is a strange place to have something like this...

An eyesore against the muted greens and greys of this hill. Especially when its crude artistry is compared to the carved stone faces of the holy men at the top.

Two-hundred chisels working in rhythm. Rock chips gather on the masons' eyelashes; they blink, dust falls, and slowly a face blinks back in the hardstone opposite them.

A dispenser so garish in a place it doesn't belong is begging to be stolen from.

It wishes to be left alone, but can see the devious intention in your eyes.

STEALING FROM IT IS JUST -- IT WOULD ONLY BE THE MACHINATIONS OF CAPITAL THAT IT BROUGHT TO THIS PLACE BEING ENACTED UPON IT.