quest/www/rss.xml

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  <channel>
    <atom:link href="https://tilde.town/~dozens/quest/rss.xml" rel="self" type="application/rss+xml" />
    <title>BASEMENT QWEST</title>
    <link>https://tilde.town/~dozens/quest/rss.xml</link>
    <description>Friends having ADVENTURES! Huzzah!</description>
    <item>
      <title>42</title>
      <author>dozens@tilde.team (dozens)</author>
      <guid isPermaLink="false">42 - Sat, 17 Dec 2022 08:01:41
-0700</guid>
      <pubDate>Sat, 17 Dec 2022 08:01:48 -0700</pubDate>
      <description>
        <![CDATA[
          <h3 id="00042">00042</h3>
          <blockquote>
          <p>This seems a bit strange. Certainly Blavin has been pulling
          strings from behind the scenes the whole time, but why
          coordinate a special escort for us when there are other
          retrieval teams, and we’ve been less than amicable with the
          bloke the entire time.. Alex thinks to himself.</p>
          <p><em>DM: I’d like to check for any signs of deceit in the
          toques demeanor or communcations with us</em></p>
          <p>Confidence you said right? What would you do if I simply
          chose not to accompany you? I mean, there’s a whole city
          around us, perhaps I’d prefer a drink before climbing a
          mountains worth of stairs. Or better yet, I could get back on
          the boat and ride to the top and same myself the hassle.</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>Bread once again looks confused. Confidence looks
          surprised, caught off guard.</p>
          <!--
          Alex rolls Investigation 2 to check for signs of deceit
          3 5 = Partial Success / Success at Cost
          //-->
          <p>Confidence sputters, “Well, yes, of course. You’ve been
          traveling for some time now, haven’t you? I can assure you
          that the food and drink at Runesocesius will be better than
          anything you can get here! But the choice is entirely yours.
          Feel free to avail yourself of the local offerings. We will
          wait here at the steps for you.”</p>
          <p>Bread nods slowly, and seems to trailing behind the
          conversation just a second or two.</p>
          <p>Their reactions seem genuine to you despite the
          circumstances. They seem like a couple of low level employees
          of a luxury hotel earnestly trying to follow the instructions
          they’ve been given.</p>
          <p>There are a couple of stalls and vendors set up around the
          gondola station. Many of them serve mulled wine and hot
          chocolate. There is some edible fare. Hot sandwiches and
          pitas. Nothing that an empanada from Enrique’s wouldn’t put to
          shame. But they look hot and steamy, and of great comfort to
          anybody who might be hungry and cold. There are a few fire
          pits, next to which there are long benches with blankets,
          where you might sit and warm up for a bit.</p>
          <p>The gondola lift ends here, and does not continue up to the
          mountain any further. The cloud steps are the most common way
          to get up to the peak, and to the Runesocesius. But you’re
          pretty sure one or two of the stalls here offers balloon rides
          up to the peak for thrill seekers and for those with
          accessibility needs.</p>
          <blockquote>
          <p>“I think you already know I’m interested in neither bread
          nor cheese, the second of which I certainly did not ask for
          yet you tried to offer in your hasty pretence.” Inky smiles
          thinly at the toques.</p>
          <p>Taking out a small bag of gold coins and weighing it slowly
          on one hand to the sound of coins clinking inside the pouch,
          Inky continues, “Speak, answer our questions frankly and you
          will be rewarded. The hotelier up there need not know. Breathe
          a word of our little chat to another soul, however …” Inky’s
          gaze cut briefly to four snow ravens perched atop a spiral
          lamp post and back, “and you will learn the meaning of
          disappearing without a trace.”</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>Bread looks confused. You are starting to believe it is
          their default expression. “So, you <em>don’t</em> want no
          chee—”</p>
          <p>“Our only desire is to help!” Confidence hastily
          interrupts. He smiles pleasingly. “We are your guides! Not
          just physically up the steps, but in all things here on Kelsun
          Peak. You have but to ask, and if it is within our power to
          give it, it will be yours! We are but humble ser—”</p>
          <p>And just then Confidence is also suddenly interrupted. A
          thundering boom like a canon sounds from somewhere nearby,
          followed quickly by an explosion somewhere up above. Snow
          ravens fly off in all directions in a panic. The sound ripples
          through the mountaintop, rattling the ground on which you
          stand. A bunch of small rocks and two large boulders shake
          loose from the mountainside. Shoppers and travelers shout and
          duck for cover as they are pelted by the scree. One of the
          large boulder bounces clear over the station and plummets down
          the side of the mountain before disappearing into the cloud
          ocean below. The second one falls straight toward the
          platform. A vendor selling wreaths and candles dives out of
          the way as his stall is crushed by the boulder. A bench is
          toppled over, spilling its blankets into the fire pit, and
          catches fire, quickly spreading to another nearby stall.</p>
          <p>Bread looks up at the sky, confused. You see a thin line of
          black smoke starting to rise up into the sky from over the
          ridge where the Runesocesius lies. Confidence shouts, and you
          see him pointing at the sea, where a balloonship is rising up
          out of the cloud bank, sailing quickly toward you and the
          summit of Kelsun Peak.</p>
          <p>It resembles a seafaring ship, but instead of masts and
          sails, it has two large, colorful, patchwork balloons that
          provide it lift. A large fan on a pivot at the rear of the
          ship provides thrust. As you watch, it fires a second
          canon—that <em>is</em> what the sound was!—nearly straight up,
          arcing up and over the peak at Palace Runesocesius.</p>
          <p>The crew of the ship bustle around on the deck of the ship,
          reloading the canons, firing the balloons, shouting, giving
          and following orders.</p>
          <p>“Cyberplasms,” groans Confidence, and Bread whimpers. Alex,
          that quiet, dull, static roar that has been constantly
          tickling the back of your head ever since you found that
          dagger seems to rise in pitch and in tone. It conveys a sense
          of urgency, of warning. You can <em>almost</em> hear a
          desperate voice behind the static fuzz cautioning you,
          “Evil…”</p>
          <p>The only corporeal element of the crew are their cybernetic
          enhancements. A mechanical leg. A synthetic eye. A claw, a
          hook, a hand. An arm canon. Almost all of them have more than
          one, some as many as 3 or 5. The cybernetic pieces of each
          individual crew member are held together by plasmic energy
          arcs, crackling blue and green. And surrounding the bioware
          and the plasmic arcs of each crew member, like a blanket or a
          cocoon, is the translucent, wavering, ghostly form of some
          humanoid long-dead.</p>
          <p>The figure standing on the deck surveying the work of the
          rest of the crew—presumably the captain—has a synthetic eye
          rotating freely, 360 degrees in all directions, inside its
          skull-like head; a bulky arm canon; and a thin robotic leg
          terminating in a thick boot. Plasmic blasts arc through its
          core, sometimes disrupting and glitching its ghostly body.</p>
          <p>The captain raises its arm canon and shouts to the crew.
          Its voice carried on the breeze sounds like something
          otherworldly rising slowly from the murky deep. “Fire the
          canon, boys! And fire up the balloons! Drop the ballast! That
          crystal is <em>ours!</em>”</p>
          <p>It happens very quickly: the ship ascends to the summit and
          soon is firing grappling hooks at it to pull themselves in and
          breach the walls of the hotel.</p>
          <p>Bread looks at you, wide-eyed and trembling. They let loose
          a pitiful wail and turn and start running up the steps.
          “Bread!” Confidence yells after them. They cast a backward
          glance at you. “I’ve got to help Bread! We’ve got to save the
          hotel!” And they give chase to their fellow toque, bounding up
          the cloudstuff steps.</p>
          <p>WHAT DO YOU DO</p>
          <p><a
          href="https://framalistes.org/sympa/arc/tildepals/2022-12/msg00203.html">www</a></p>
        ]]>
      </description>
    </item>
    <item>
      <title>39</title>
      <author>dozens@tilde.team (dozens)</author>
      <guid isPermaLink="false">39 - Sat, 19 Nov 2022 07:38:02
-0700</guid>
      <pubDate>Fri, 25 Nov 2022 07:11:12 -0700</pubDate>
      <description>
        <![CDATA[
          <h3 id="00039">00039</h3>
          <blockquote>
          <p>Alex silently observes the party and this foolish hobbit,
          before him three untouched drinks have accumulated. He’s a
          little less enthusiatic about taking drink from strangers, too
          much risk in that. As Blavin describes this crystal, whatever
          it may be, he catches a glimpse of the pinkish purplish
          armband on the party across from them. They don’t look out of
          place given the patrons at the tavern, but he’s certain they
          were listening in on the animated conversation of the hobbit.
          It could be nothing, or it coule be connected to Corraidhin,
          best to put a bug on them Alex thinks.</p>
          <p>Silently beneath the table and out of site Alex prepares a
          bug and sets it off to follow the person with the armband.
          Once the bug catches up to the part it’s programmed to perform
          a tcpdump and capture information streaming around it, and
          then report back to Alex once full. By no means a perfect
          method of spying, but it’s low energy and can be maintained
          from great distances without taxing Alex’s energy.</p>
          <p>As Blavin comes back to the group from his grandoise space
          commentary Alex begins to question him.</p>
          <p>Enough of your theatrics hobbit. Tell me about the mark,
          you’ve obviously tipped off the entire tavern as to the
          whereabouts of whatever it is you’re looking for, so give us
          an edge, something those evesdroppers a table over don’t have.
          And cut this tripe about your benefactor, who is he, and what
          does he want with this magical baubbles.</p>
          <p>As Alex finishes his questions he sits quietly for a moment
          staring down Blavin.</p>
          <p>During this outburts, as all eyes turn to Blavin for his
          response, Alex casts yet another bug. This one sneaks onto the
          personage of Blavin himself. Programmed the same way.</p>
          <p>We’ll get information from someone, subtle, or not if
          needed.</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>~</p>
          <blockquote>
          <p>Inky watches with faint amusement as a magical device,
          likely a probe, found its way onto their mission handler.</p>
          <p>Inky might have missed the slight movement under the table
          if they weren’t waiting for it, having received word of the
          younger wizard’s penchant for pre-emptive offence magic. As it
          were, the offices and surrounding premises were routinely
          swept for similar devices, a more recent example of which had
          been placed in plain sight by an overzealous tabloid writer
          hoping to pick up an exclusive reveal. The quality of the
          contraption, which had immediately fallen apart when detached
          from its gum adhesive on the back of a glass vase, had been
          almost insulting.</p>
          <p>It seems Blackfoot hadn’t learned his lesson after all, and
          if Alex was keen to give him a reminder, Inky had no
          objection. As Blavin takes another swig from his sixth drink
          of the evening, the waitress smiling at him with a wink as she
          set down their glasses before skating away to take another
          order (Inky made sure tip her liberally for the attentive
          service), Inky let their line of sight flicker to a
          fuchsia-coloured band on a departing customer’s arm.</p>
          <p>Inky smiles internally at the sight — they can almost hear
          Beaker’s crow of dismay. The poor kingfisher had been under
          increased pressure of late from other scientific associations
          and prominent speakers to exclude BAND from presenting at one
          of the largest annual ornithology conferences of the year on
          accusations of spreading misinformation and junk science in
          addition to attempting to erase the history of native bird
          tribes. There had been a huge row, which ended with the
          BANDits storming off, yelling about “the proof being crystal
          clear” and that they will bring “ancient arcane evidence”. The
          Alcedinian researcher had lamented the halcyon days when
          conferences were avenues for scientific exchange, not
          twittering soapboxes. Not that anyone who had ever tried to
          arrange any gathering of birds of a feather really thought
          things simply glided along smoothly before. However, the
          advent of dedicated carrier pigeon networks had made it easier
          to relay research to and from smaller communities, opening the
          pathways for their participation, including a few somewhat
          Controversial fringe groups like BAND.</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>Alex attempts to shake down the hobbit, who titters merrily
          at his demands.</p>
          <p>“You know nearly everything I do, dear! Your <em>mark</em>
          as you put it,” Blaven theatrically drops his voice as he
          looks around for eavesdroppers, “would be the zephynos of
          Kelsun Peak should you choose to go that route.</p>
          <p>“If you choose to go to the moon, you’ll have a harder go
          of it,” he frowns. He flips the map over and draws four
          circles in a straight line. They have the proportions of a
          grapefruit, an orange, a tangerine, and an orange. He jabs a
          finger at the grapefruit. “This is us, here, earth.” He points
          at the two oranges and the tangerine. “And these are our
          planet’s moons.” He points to them in order. “Selene, the
          Green Lady. Moonmoon. And Lua, the Red Lady. Recently, as you
          well know, we had a super eclipse in which these four bodies
          and the sun all lined up in perfect alignment. The combined
          magnetic pull of the spheres allowed a rare commingling of the
          ionic spheres, and our instruments were able to detect the
          crystal somewhere out there in space. If I were to bet on it,
          I would put my money on Lua.” He points to the farthest moon,
          the Red Lady, with its own tiny satellite, Moonmoon. He looks
          up at you and explains, “She’s far enough away that her
          ionosphere would never make contact with ours except for in
          this particular, rare circumstance. That’s why the crystal has
          escaped our detection for so long.”</p>
          <p>“As for the Benefactor!” He brightens up. “He’s a
          magnificent fellow as you well know! A renowned collector. His
          wishes are to preserve the crystals and protect them (and us!)
          from their misuse or mishandling! He has a hot tub!” he winks
          at you. “Speaking of crystals,” he adds as an afterthought,
          taking another sip of his drink, “why don’t you hand that
          crystal over to me and I’ll deliver it to the Benefactor. That
          is what he’s paying you for after all!”</p>
          <!--
          Meta: Alex rolls Investigation 2 on the Ornithologer Trio
          4, 5 = Mixed Success
          //-->
          <p>The Ornithologer’s Trio leaves Lucy’s Basement quite
          oblivious to their bug. The Ornithologer turns out to be the
          orator of their little group, ranting about the conspiracy,
          the attempted cover up, about how Big Science wants to
          convince you that birds are dinosaurs but they’re just pulling
          the wool over your eyes. The truth is right there in the
          fossil record for crying out loud! All you have to do is look
          for yourself. Nobody these days wants to <em>think</em> is the
          problem. They just get their information from the authorities
          and take it as gospel, but they don’t see that the authorities
          have adopted a narrative that suits their own ends.</p>
          <p>At which point the groll interjects and asks what is the
          end goal of Big Science, and how exactly does convincing the
          proletariat that birds are dinosaurs help achieve it?</p>
          <p>The BANDit scowls and answers, Look, you just don’t get it,
          okay!</p>
          <p>The three split up and go their separate ways and disappear
          into the night.</p>
          <p>You learn the following, one of which is true, one of which
          is false, and one of which is meaningless.</p>
          <ol type="1">
          <li><p>BAND plans to intercept the CRYSTAL of VOID and use it
          to petition the Insatiable Wyrm for definitive proof that
          Birds Are Not Dinosaurs. In this way they shall shame their
          fellow paleornithologists and earn their rightful place at the
          table of Big Science, which they have spent decades
          undermining.</p></li>
          <li><p>The Gnu Zealots intend to reverse engineer the power of
          the crystals, create a newborn godling, and then release their
          findings, thus laying the foundation of the world’s first
          truly open source religion</p></li>
          <li><p>The trio seeks the crystals not at all, but in fact
          search for Sitopotnia, creator and progenitor of the entire
          amaizeon race—including corbits, aurs, centaurs, and
          others—and the only mortal in the history of Basmentaria to
          successfully take the mantle of creation from the
          overgods.</p></li>
          </ol>
          <!--
          Meta: Alex rolls Investigation 2 on Blaven
          1, 3 = Things go poorly, gain 1 xp
          //-->
          <p>Meanwhile, Blaven slips out into the early, early morning
          carrying his own bug. He whistles tunelessly to himself as he
          sails down the street with a wide and veering but surprisingly
          steady gait.</p>
          <p>Once he gets a few blocks away, his gait narrows and his
          step becomes more lively, a bit jaunty. He stands upright and
          ceases whistling. All signs of drunkenness disappear as he
          tugs on his sleeves and straightens his vest, and runs a hand
          through his hair.</p>
          <p>He meets a goblin catcher in the street going the other
          way, wearily making his way home after a long night’s work. He
          wears a tiny goblin in a glass jar around his neck, as is the
          signifier of his trade. And he carries over his shoulder a
          large cloth sack, the contents of which writhe and kick. Looks
          like it was a productive night for our goblin catcher! Blaven
          gives him a little bow and a salute, laughs, and pats him on
          the back in passing, deftly transferring the bug. “Good night
          for it then ey?” he calls cheerily. The goblin catcher smiles
          politely, mumbles a nicety, and carries on.</p>
          <p>Later, hidden safely away from spying eyes and listening
          ears, Blaven sits at his desk, putting the final flourishes on
          a missive. He sits back and re-reads it to himself, lips
          moving silently. He nods and smiles, satisfied, and reaches
          for a stamp to sign the letter. He presses it into a dark red
          ink pad and then onto the parchment, leaving the image of an
          apple and iris. He sands the paper, carefully folds it, and
          places it in an envelope.</p>
          <p>WHAT DO YOU DO</p>
          <p>Note: Feel free to back up and play out some more
          conversation at Lucy’s before Blavin leaves if you want
          to.</p>
          <p>Options on the table:</p>
          <ul>
          <li>To the mountains!</li>
          <li>To the moon!</li>
          <li>Something else!</li>
          </ul>
          <p><a
          href="https://framalistes.org/sympa/arc/tildepals/2022-11/msg00103.html">www</a></p>
        ]]>
      </description>
    </item>
    <item>
      <title>41</title>
      <author>dozens@tilde.team (dozens)</author>
      <guid isPermaLink="false">41 - Wed, 14 Dec 2022 17:50:38
-0700</guid>
      <pubDate>Wed, 14 Dec 2022 17:50:44 -0700</pubDate>
      <description>
        <![CDATA[
          <h3 id="00041">00041</h3>
          <blockquote>
          <p>Alex grips the encoded message he received in reply to his
          last request firmly in his coat pocket. It was simple, curt,
          impactful. “Trust no one”. Which begged the question, could
          even it be trusted? Was HQ compromised? His informants in
          danger? His allies and leads awash in the dark grey mist of
          uncertainity. Or had his message been intercepted, cracked,
          and a farsical response been sent in its place. Alex wasn’t
          certain which, but the strange format and unusually speedy
          response had him on edge.</p>
          <p>This anxiety didn’t boil up to the surface, not a line of
          worry or hint of the inner turbulence broke his cold blue
          eyes. Outwardly he was just as composed as ever, but between
          these uncertainties, the loss of his uncle, and now this
          utterly strange dagger he’d found amongst his uncle’s
          belongings, he wasn’t certain how long that composure would
          last. It didn’t held that he felt this gnawing at the back of
          his mind, as though something was probing, attempting to
          communicate with him, somewhere between telepathy and utter
          magic, and not in any sense that Alex understood.</p>
          <p>And here he stood, a stranger amongst amidst his uncle’s
          allies, and very little intention to change that situation at
          the moment.</p>
          <p>As the gondola touched down and the Toques rushed to greet
          them Alex jumped blithely off the ship and onto firm, but
          fluffy, ground. He cast a look around him at what appeared to
          be an ordinary port of entry, noting the crowds of people
          passing by. As the Toques arrived Alex spoke curtly to them,
          “Who sends you to greet us, and where do you wish to take us,
          and by what means do we travel?”. Short, cut, information
          only. There’s too much unnerving in an unknown situation like
          this.</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>~</p>
          <blockquote>
          <p>Inky greets the toques in turn politely, then turns to the
          second toque and says, “A little bit of bread and no
          cheese.”</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>“Cheese?” Bread cocks their head looks at Inky with a touch
          of embarrassment. They start patting at their pockets,
          presumably looking for a morsel of cheese to share with the
          travelers, but finding none. They groan miserably. Confidence
          butts in apologetically, “There will be plenty of food at the
          hotel if you want some! Some delicious fondue perhaps? Kelsun
          Peak’s famous liquid gold!”</p>
          <p>“Blavin Blandfoot arranged for us to meet you,” Bread
          answers Alex. Confidence nods enthusiastically in agreement.
          “But I suppose technically the hotelier sent us.” Bread points
          up at the sky, in the general direction of the summit of
          Kelsun Peak. “We are to escort you to Palace Runesocesius.”
          They thumb over their shoulder in the general direction of the
          stairs. “By way of the cloud steps. On foot.”</p>
          <p>Confidence leans in close and lowers their voice. “A
          Ginnarak Crystal! I can’t hardly believe it! Thought they had
          all been lost to the ages. I hear it’s complete dumb random
          luck that this one turned up. Story is, an aetherwael beached
          itself on some wide zephynos boulevard. Happens sometimes.
          Poor things can’t distinguish between clouds and cloudstuff. I
          don’t blame ’em! At a distance, you and me can’t either!
          Anyway, this aetherwael has got a harpoon stuck in its side.
          Dratted poachers. May they all fall out of the sky and be
          dashed to a thousand pieces on the rocks below. But it had a
          harpoon in its side and was trailing behind it a float bag
          tethered to the harpoon. And you probably already guessed what
          was inside of it!” By the time Confidence finishes their brief
          story, they are trembling and nearly breathless with
          excitement.</p>
          <p>“Anyway,” Bread interrupts their excited companion in an
          attempt to restore decorum. Both of the toques have been
          gently herding you toward the base of the stairs this whole
          time. “You know how the zephynos are. You could give them all
          the coin in Basmentaria, or something priceless like a
          Ginnarak Crystal, and they’d just as quickly misplace it out
          of carelessness. If it’s not a cloud they can sculpt into the
          shape of seussomorph or the likeness of some fantasy creature,
          they just don’t give a fig. Luckily the hotelier caught wind
          of the aetherwael and found out about the crystal before they
          managed to lose it, or bury it inside of a sculpture or
          something silly! He has it safe and sound in the library up at
          Runesocesius now.” Bread climbs the first step, his foot
          sinking barely a centimeter into wispy cloud before striking
          the solid cloudstuff. “Come! The hotelier will be very excited
          to greet you!”</p>
          <p>WHAT DO YOU DO</p>
          <p><a
          href="https://framalistes.org/sympa/arc/tildepals/2022-12/msg00193.html">www</a></p>
        ]]>
      </description>
    </item>
    <item>
      <title>40</title>
      <author>dozens@tilde.team (dozens)</author>
      <guid isPermaLink="false">40 - Sun, 27 Nov 2022 01:30:42
-0700</guid>
      <pubDate>Wed, 14 Dec 2022 05:41:15 -0700</pubDate>
      <description>
        <![CDATA[
          <h3 id="00040">00040</h3>
          <blockquote>
          <p>As Blavin finished his afterthought about handing over the
          crystal, a yelp was the only warning they heard before a young
          waiter was suddenly half-sprawled over the hobbit, a tray of
          ginger beers toppled from his hand and the mugs’ contents
          splashed onto the hobbit’s front, though fortunately some of
          it ended up in a large puddle on the ground rather than on
          Blavin’s person. The waiter had tripped over a bag on the
          floor on his way to the table two over from theirs and was
          scrambling to his feet.</p>
          <p>“By Nullar’s nuts, I— OH SH——!! S-s-sorry, sir! Hold on,
          l-lemme get— uh—” the waiter looked around frantically. The
          waitress who had brought their drinks rushed over with some
          clean dry towels, a few of which she handed to the other
          waiter, and they both proceeded to wipe and dab at Blavin’s
          damp clothes amid the hapless waiter’s babbled apologies.
          Under the cover of the towels, the waitress patted down the
          hobbit’s vest and replaced the sheaf of papers she had
          covertly lifted from one of the vest pockets earlier with a
          beguiling smile and wink. Once the beer on the floor had been
          cleaned up (the despondent young waiter had offered to pay for
          Blavin’s next two rounds of drinks) and the waiters had moved
          on to serve other customers, Inky spoke.</p>
          <p>“You don’t mind that we prefer to deliver it to the
          Benefactor personally, of course,” Inky piped cheerily,
          referring to the crystal. “The late wizard thought it was
          prudent to cover our bases since you’re a new, untested case
          manager after all. Besides, a little delayed gratification
          never hurt anybody, did it?” Inky smiled and raised their
          drink. “Another toast in tribute to Master Corraidhín! May his
          courage and buoyant spirit guide us on our next mission!”</p>
          <p>~</p>
          <p>When Inky stepped out of the tavern and was a few paces
          away, someone clattered through the door and called out, “Hey!
          You forgot your takeout!”</p>
          <p>Inky turned in the direction of the voice. It was the
          waitress who had served their table earlier. She waved a brown
          paper bag in one hand. Inky gave her an embarrassed smile and
          said, “Thanks.” As the bag changed hands, the waitress mouthed
          soundlessly, <em>We’ll report any more.</em> She went back
          inside, and Inky strolled off into the cool night air with the
          bag securely tucked away next to a tea pouch and a more
          pressing question: what blend would go best with fried
          tofurkey balls?</p>
          <p>~</p>
          <p><em>(Meanwhile)</em></p>
          <p>“The BANDit and his associates had gone to the tavern.” His
          assistant looked up from the scrap of paper held under a
          claw.</p>
          <p>Beaker heaved a sigh and rubbed the tips of one wing
          against his forehead. Surely he had better things to do than
          play Eye Spy over a bunch of crackpots, such as peer reviewing
          the latest draft of a paper on the development of Cerylidian
          hunting techniques for an upcoming issue of <em>The
          Ichnition</em>. But Cio seemed to think something may come of
          it and unfortunately, she was usually right about
          troublemakers.</p>
          <p>“Tell them to continue tailing from a distance,” he replied
          with a distracted wave, and his assistant left the room.</p>
          <p>Anyway, if he had the spare time, he could look at more
          interesting things, like the data he had collected surrounding
          the disappearance of the time anomaly that had popped up a few
          weeks ago. It had happened gradually, and he still wasn’t
          entirely sure what had caused this particular incident, but
          the signals picked up by his instruments had later faded, just
          like other ones before it. Still, it was comparatively larger
          than previous ones, and seemed to have taken slightly longer
          to dissipate, which meant more data points.</p>
          <p>He stole another glance at his Dat repositories before
          sighing again, swivelling his chair and attention back to the
          manuscript before him. Work first … then more work.</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>~</p>
          <blockquote>
          <p>The party dispersed after the discussion with Blavin.
          Nobody had wanted to relinquish the crystal to him, personally
          Alex felt that was prudent, though he still wasn’t sure what
          the point of it all was. The foolish hobbit had blathered on
          and on about their “mark” tactfully ignoring the real
          questions. And then the bug, damn it, the bug that chittered
          on about absolutely nothing for hours. It didn’t take Alex too
          long to figure out why, but he clung to the transmission until
          it died out hoping he’d be mistaken.</p>
          <p>So there he sat, in the attic of his once Uncle, staring
          bleakly into a cup of dark black coffee. The desk strewn with
          hastily scratched notes pulled from the bugs feeds. At least
          the one that had tracked that nosey group had proved somewhat
          helpful. Turns out this little group has less friends than a
          drunk who’s run up their tab.</p>
          <p>Still, there’s no point to share any of this information.
          It’s too loose, not definitive enough to action with the
          group.</p>
          <p>Alex begins to pen a message to an fellow operative, in
          hopes that HQ will pick it up and assign someone to the
          task.</p>
          <pre><code>&lt;- OP 2817 * LOC MB-A
-&gt; OP 25120 * LOC ESPER

CLEARANCE: SECRET
PACKET ENCLOSED. YOUR EYES ONLY.

REQUESTING DETAIL ON BLAVIN
EMPLOY OF &quot;THE BENEFACTOR&quot;
PERCEPTIVE, AWARE OF BUGS.
DO NOT CONTACT, DO NOT DISRUPT
EXTREME CAUTION IMPERATIVE.</code></pre>
          <p>Once penned Alex encrypts it with GPG and sends it along.
          These channels have worked well for him in the past. If Blavin
          wants to play games, then games we shall have.</p>
          <p>“I hate to do this” Alex mumbles to himself. “Normally I’d
          trail him myself, but I don’t think I have much say in the
          matter.” As it stands the group is dead set on gathering more
          of these cyrstals, regardless of what the danger may be, and
          if Alex wants to find his Uncle, they’re his best bet in doing
          so. Blavin doesn’t even matter outside of that. But if he can
          help the group reach their end faster, or force the
          information out of Blavin, perhaps it can come sooner..</p>
          <p>Alex lets out another sigh and glances wistfully around the
          gloomy attic room. It looked just like he remembered his
          Uncle’s office looking like at the College of Sysorcerery when
          he had taught there. He always was so particular. Pushing his
          chair away and grabbing his coffee he wanders to the bookshelf
          where a large steamer chest sits beside it. The bookshelf is
          covered in manuscripts, “Practical Common Lisp”, “The C
          Programming Language Vol 2”, “RHEL 5 Systems Administration”,
          each one arcane and well worn. And the amount of volumes,
          sometimes it’s a wonder Corraidhin had time to do anything
          other than read.</p>
          <p>“Maybe if I had been a little more studious I’d know how to
          help you..” as he pulls “A Guide to Backups and All Things
          Necessary” off of the shelf a knife falls out of the book, and
          clatters onto the floor glaring malevolently up at Alex.</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>Your gondola lift finally rises above the thick layer of
          clouds. The sudden flash of clear blue sky is a revelation
          after ascending for nearly 60 minutes through clouds so thick
          you couldn’t see through the foggy windows more than three
          feet. Above you towers rocky, imposing Kelsun Peak. You can
          just see a tiny portion of the hotel roof through a cleft in
          the rocks. Below you, a frozen turbulent ocean of clouds
          dotted with twisting leaning spires and spiraling branching
          towers, all made out of solid cloudstuff. Handiwork of the
          whimsical and industrious zephynos.</p>
          <p>You spot two or three of them now, leaping and diving
          playfully through the clouds like dolphins, spinning the
          clouds like yarn, and packing them into solid constructs.
          Their current project resembles a garden of outlandish,
          distorted tubas, french horns, and trombones.</p>
          <p>The small cloud dragons are about 6 - 8 feet long including
          their thick tails. They have wide faces with round lidless
          eyes, and always seem to be smiling. Their heads are topped
          with multiple pairs of filamented stalks. They have six short,
          stubby arms with long thin fingers that they use to knead and
          pull clouds into solid shapes.</p>
          <p>They build ceaselessly and mostly for the sake of building:
          they have no apparent need for the structures themselves,
          living as they do floating among the clouds. On occasion they
          have been entreated to build on behalf of others. And the rare
          floating palace or city can still be found drifting around
          Basmentaria as a result. The great city of Vay’Neddas—tethered
          to the ground by great chains to Primora in the north and
          Agendell in the south—is one of their greatest enduring
          works.</p>
          <p>You approach the gondola station at the base of Kelsun
          Peak, and exit your cable car as it slowly rounds the
          bullwheel. There are two toques—presumably meant to be
          operating the lifts—standing off to the side, ignoring their
          responsibilities, complaining loudly to nobody and everybody
          about being forced to work long hours and being unfairly
          compensated. The tips of their soft, conical heads slump
          forward, calling to mind revolutionaries, or smurfs.</p>
          <p>It is wicked cold as you step out onto the platform and the
          wind nips and bites at you relentlessly.</p>
          <p>At the edge of the platform, foggy white steps made of firm
          cloudstuff climb up around the side of the mountain peak to
          the Palace Runesocesius. Once the conspicuously extravagant
          residence of one of Basmentaria’s most powerful politicians,
          it has since—after its owner fell from public favor and was
          routed out—been gutted and transformed into a luxury hotel of
          equally conspicuous extravagance. It continues to be one of
          the highest inhabitable places on Basmentaria.</p>
          <p>Two small toques at the base of the steps rush forward to
          meet you—the floppy tips of their coneheads waggling side to
          side in their exuberance—and introduce themselves as
          Confidence and Bread, your guides. They have been instructed
          to guide you up to Runesocesius where you will take posession
          of the Ginnarak Crystal.</p>
          <p>WHAT DO YOU DO</p>
          <p><a
          href="https://framalistes.org/sympa/arc/tildepals/2022-12/msg00186.html">www</a></p>
        ]]>
      </description>
    </item>
    <item>
      <title>38</title>
      <author>dozens@tilde.team (dozens)</author>
      <guid isPermaLink="false">38 - Mon, 14 Nov 2022 18:30:25
-0700</guid>
      <pubDate>Mon, 14 Nov 2022 18:30:35 -0700</pubDate>
      <description>
        <![CDATA[
          <h3 id="00038">00038</h3>
          <blockquote>
          <p>The mission, party-wise, had been an abject failure.</p>
          <p>They had found the crystal, and Master Corraidhín had
          vanished. Inky wasn’t sure which was worse — the appalling
          lack of water-resistant fireworks surrounding the
          disappearance, or the bears’ ceaseless waterworks in grief
          over their ghostly counterparts. Said bears plus a giant manta
          ray were eventually left with the remains of Inky’s two snack
          stashes. (The third was back on the <em>Diamond Howler</em>.)
          The crystal was currently securely hidden away inside the Milk
          Market, which was for the best. Inky was not about to drag
          around an inedible melon that could potentially level entire
          cities, if the wizard’s hints about its power were true. The
          crystal-retrieval missions were a cover anyway — Inky had
          gotten what they were looking for. The equipment and
          provisions sponsored by the Benefactor were a handy bonus
          though.</p>
          <p>Inside the tent, Inky adds the finishing flourishes to a
          package and places it to one side, next to two others of a
          similar size and a thin envelope already piled inside a padded
          sack on the ground. The client should be pleased. It had taken
          longer, but the result had been worth the additional hassle.
          The envelope, on the other hand … who knew what had become of
          the previous one, sent in an impulsive fit of post-dive haze
          once the ship had docked at the port town. Donning a grey
          fedora, a worn light brown jacket, a flask kettle and a wooden
          box with carrying straps, Inky the “Tiny” tea seller leisurely
          sets off for the post office, sack in hand.</p>
          <p>It was still a bit strange — if less shocking than the
          first time it happened — to speak in rabbiton with the
          postmistress at the counter, although Inky couldn’t actually
          detect any significant differences from the common tongue
          besides occasionally being reminded they shouldn’t be able to
          understand the sounds at all. Rabbiton or rabbitoff, hare mail
          couriers are among the fastest across Basmentaria and will
          ensure any parcels and letters arrive at their recipients in a
          timely manner. Due to their broad network and high delivery
          confidence, letters without return addresses were no issue;
          they can deliver with a valid recipient address, which they
          are able to verify from an extensive series of registries and
          course codes before taking the item. So it was that one such
          envelope containing yet another somewhat unusual recipe was
          promptly delivered to the Milk Market’s ground floor on a
          blustery Boltday afternoon.</p>
          <p>Postage done, Inky wanders through one of the city’s
          seedier districts, peddling cups of hot tea along the way.
          This had become a daily routine for a little over a month
          since the Sugrin Sea mission (longer and more sporadically
          before that whenever the imp was in the city), including a
          spontaneous fifteen-minute “Tiny Teatime” held in open areas
          such as small parks, or occasionally in a back alley between
          several crowded residences. The tea happening had initially
          been a whimsical response to <em>Teatime with Tanokuma</em>
          and still regularly attracted children when iced drinks were
          served during the summertime.</p>
          <p>Rows of slightly crooked houses sandwiched among acacia
          trees line a narrow, winding lane. Inky passes the elderly
          playing tabula surrounded by a small group of onlookers,
          people chewing on sweet lemongrass or peeling vegetables,
          hanging up laundry on colourful lines made of scrap rags,
          children laughing and chasing soapy bubbles with wands
          dripping from laundry water, and all sorts of activity that
          made houses into homes. Many of them were frank about not
          having any spare coins for extras like speciality teas brewed
          “just like them shops”, but gladly accepted a steaming bamboo
          cup upon realising they needn’t pay, if sometimes a little
          suspiciously at first. Instead of coin, they held a rich font
          of stories, local legends, folk remedies, cooking methods,
          insider tip-offs and rumours, which they were often eager to
          impart to an attentive audience.</p>
          <p>Some of the passer-by were always in a hurry, downing the
          tea as though it were a shot of hard liquor before retrieving
          a handful of loose coins from a pocket or sock. When Inky
          smiled and told them there was no charge, most would return a
          puzzled look or uncertain smile, or roll their eyes, and drop
          a copper coin into a slot on the lid of the box anyway. A few
          had promptly walked off wordlessly with snickering faces, as
          though they had gotten away with something clever. Regardless,
          it was one of the best ways to see and observe a bustling
          metropolis. No one took any particular notice of young urchins
          and vendors selling refreshments, flowers and various trinkets
          on the streets.</p>
          <p>Likewise no one witnessed a tea seller pause near one of
          the windows at the back of Enrique’s Empanada Emporium late in
          the day. For a while they watch the chef within in action,
          clearly in his element, before reluctantly pulling away and
          retreating quietly up the stairs to the second floor. They
          should wash up and see if their marketing manager is in the
          mood for some takeout and Terrapin Ale this evening.</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>~</p>
          <blockquote>
          <p>Background: Alex isn’t young, but in comparison to his
          whizzened uncle Corraidhin he’s the depiction of youth. He has
          jet black hair and alert blue eyes, and a quiet serenity about
          him that gives one pause, as though he’s constantly
          calculating. He gives into his passions quickly however, and
          becomes rather animated when his emotions break loose. He’ll
          be the first to curse his uncle for his foolish endeavors,
          never quite understanding the sysorcerer’s way. Early in life,
          after the death of his parents, Corraidhin took him under his
          wing and tried in vain to teach him the ways of magical
          systems administration. Much to Corraidhin, it only resulted
          in damaged systems, and a rift with his nephew.</p>
          <p>It took years to recover from that, but eventually the two
          grew close again, though distant nonetheless. That closeness
          reflects itself in the situation Alex finds himself in now, a
          mysterious alert from some overly contrived magical system,
          ruining his perfectly good winning streak. It’s not that he
          was necessary bad at all of that stuff, it just, wasn’t as
          much fun as gambling. And it certainly wasn’t as exhillerating
          as writing malware.</p>
          <p>Breaking into a system, smashing it to bites and pieces,
          watching the carefully wrought design burn in amber and green,
          now THAT was magic.</p>
          <p>META: Alex is like Corraidhin in some aspects, he’s
          younger, more brash, more given to whim and fancy. He’s
          somewhat greedy and craven, attracted to riches far too
          easily. He’s a passionate gambler, not due to his skill, but
          by virtue of his ability to distract and confuse, which gives
          him a delightful edge. Some would call it lucky, but he calls
          it subterfuge. He has some sysorcerer skills, nothing quite as
          flexible as Corraidhin, but he delightfully wreaks havoc with
          worms, scrapers, ransom &amp; spyware. If he can’t bypass
          something, he’ll delightfully destroy it. If he can’t break
          in, he’ll distract someone or something so he can slip by.</p>
          <p>(Think rogue + illusion magic, where Corraidhin is straight
          Wizard)</p>
          <p>Introduction: Kev, just give it to me straight, the hell
          does this Deadman’s trigger mean. You can’t have a service
          like that flap, it’s a boolean, you’re either dead or your
          not. And don’t try to lie to me, I’m not some project managing
          schmuck, you know full and well Uncle Corraidhin taught me. I
          know enough to tell when you’re lying.</p>
          <p>(Kevin) Ah, well, umm. Yes I suppose that’s true. You can’t
          be dead and not. It’s just not an option. But Zabbix doesn’t
          lie! It’s what monitors your Uncle’s life force, the state of
          his infrastructure so to speak. Look check your own, there’s
          nothing to indicate any issue with you, but your uncle’s
          fluxuates consistently. None of his other state checks are
          failing though! So it could just be a problem with his
          Deadman’s trigger code.</p>
          <p>Absolutely not. Corraidhin might be a flighty fool, but
          he’s not someone who would deploy faulty code to production.
          There’s no way in hell it would get past his linter, let alone
          all of the QA he does before it even gets that far. Look, what
          the hell did you drag him into, you know exactly what he gets
          up to, just point me in his direction so I can get this shit
          over with.</p>
          <p>(Kevin) Hmm, he didn’t really want me to talk about it, but
          last I saw him, he was babbling on and on about some magical
          Json sword or something. I couldn’t quite keep up with it.</p>
          <p>You were trying to get him to buy into KDL again weren’t
          you?</p>
          <p>(Kevin) It’s a good language I swear, and if your uncle had
          just.. (Alex cuts him off)</p>
          <p>Hush it. What did the sword look like, where was he
          headed?</p>
          <p>(Kevin) <em>sigh</em> it was large, with a ruby hilt, and a
          magical eye of some sort. I’m certain if you just ask around
          you’ll find it. Just ask about the sysorcerer who mutters to
          his sword, that’s how the poor bastard is remembered around
          here these days.</p>
          <p>With this information Alex departed the Sysorcerer’s guild
          in search of his Uncle. As he asked around town, people shied
          away. Nasty business talking about that one, they’d tell him.
          A few mentioned something about an attack, and a dagger and
          bloodlust the likes of which they’d only heard from the bard
          at their local tavern. None of this sounded like the Uncle he
          remembered, but he followed the trail until it lead him to the
          Milk Maid.</p>
          <p>As Alex checked around for someone, anyone who seemed to be
          in the know, he spotted Inky, serving tea as she watched the
          ongoings at the Empanada shop near the Milk Maid.</p>
          <p>Excuse me, miss? You wouldn’t have happened to seen my
          Uncle, he’s an old whizened fellow. Constantly harrumphs and
          goes on and on endlessly about some magical script, or how
          much he hates the School of Powershell. I haven’t been able to
          find him, and I’ve been looking all over the city for the
          better part of 3 days. Note even his best friend Kevin at the
          Sysorcer’s guild knew where he was, and I’m just, I’m at a bit
          of a loss..</p>
          <p><em>sigh</em> I’m sorry to just unload on your like that.
          If you don’t know him that’s okay, I’d be happy to pay for a
          cup of tea for your time.</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>~</p>
          <blockquote>
          <p><em>(Two days prior)</em></p>
          <p>An office, barely illuminated by the glow of a moonstone
          lamp.</p>
          <p>An elf attired in red silk dress robes with a shimmering
          pattern of butterflies, a red floral picture hat and matching
          high heel boots lounged in the visitor’s chair in front of a
          heavy wooden desk. The charms dangling from her wrist circlets
          tinkled as she reached for a teacup. A silver tray was placed
          to one side of the desk with a pot of maghrebi francus, two
          porcelain cups and a bowl of sugar cubes. The remaining
          surface was mostly covered by a map of Basmentaria, the
          moonstone lamp and a short stack of books. Behind the desk sat
          an imp in a midnight blue suit, a dart pen balanced on the
          edge of two fingers of one hand, while the other tapped a
          silent rhythm on the pineapple leather armrest.</p>
          <p>The lady in dress robes spoke first. “I made some
          inquiries. That sysorcerer acquaintance of yours seems to be
          stuck in some sort of spatial-temporal loop. The anomalies are
          usually salvageable given time and expert attention. His
          nephew is out looking for him now.” She hands the imp a sheet
          with a drawing of a pensive but bright-eyed young man with
          dark hair, and several lines of notes below. “How are things
          at your end?”</p>
          <p>“The situation is tenable for the moment. One checked,
          another disengaged. Between the wizard and bard, Blackfoot
          will think twice before making any more untoward moves. One of
          the waiters at the club said the bard gave him a little
          dressing-down after the stabbing. He was practically shaking
          in his boots by the end of it.”</p>
          <p>The elf laughed. “I read your earlier missive. Slipping a
          catalyst into a milk pudding to stir up a bloodthirsty sword?
          I guess you were pretty sure the thirst wouldn’t get out of
          hand and kill the hobbit outright.”</p>
          <p>“Not entirely, but the good wizard would fight it with
          considerable strength of will. That guild of his may be full
          of white hats too busy with their petty squabbling over
          semantics to see trouble looming until it smacked them in
          their faces, but they have their principles and will not give
          in easily when challenged.” The imp grimaced. “An unpleasant
          matter but arguably a necessity. It was only a matter of time
          before the cursed sword would find itself a target. May as
          well put evil to good use.”</p>
          <p>“You did what you had to do, Ink. And that sailor with the
          gold eye?”</p>
          <p>“Met with an unfortunate … accident. Securing the crystal
          would have been sufficient, but the horkosgrampus weren’t
          terribly impressed with him. The Benefactor should be
          relieved. Men of their ilk would sooner sell to the highest
          bidder.” The pen twirled in their hand once, twice, before
          pausing with the nib pointing downward at a spot on the map.
          The imp continued, “All the more reason to move as soon as the
          young man finds his uncle. Kelsun Peak, most likely.”</p>
          <p>“Right. I’ll let the others know if anything happens.” She
          rose to her heels in a whisper of brocade silks. “Do you want
          an antidote for … ?” She gestured with a slim, graceful hand
          framed in delicate strands of the gold bracelets towards her
          companion.</p>
          <p>The imp inclined their head slightly in grateful
          acknowledgement. “No need. The condition is relatively
          harmless and reversing the effects now might raise suspicion.
          The postmistress at the Hutcheon Lane branch of Leplus Post
          was very tickled by it.”</p>
          <p>“I see. So that’s how it is.” she replied with undisguised
          mirth. The imp ignored her smirk. “Please see to it the
          preparations are carried out. The fate of your beloved
          operetta house may well depend upon it.”</p>
          <p>“You would never!” The elven lady exclaimed in mock
          affront. “No, I wouldn’t, even though it is the bane of all
          fine glassware. However, if the crystals came to less
          discerning hands …” They shared a solemn look before the elf
          nodded and swept out of the room, leaving the cloying scent of
          violets in her path.</p>
          <p>~</p>
          <p>Inky gestures wordlessly for the young wizard to follow
          them upstairs to the second floor of the Milk Market, heading
          straight for the room at one end of a long hallway.</p>
          <p>As Inky enters, their small and fluffy marketing manager
          pops its head out of the wooden tub of water standing to one
          side of the room. “We have a visitor!” Inky cheerfully tells
          the duck. Their marketing manager looks back at them both and
          says, “QUACK!”</p>
          <p>Inky turns back to the young man with a smile. “Please have
          a seat. How may we address you? Tea? No charge for Master
          Corraidhín’s nephew, of course.”</p>
          <p>Once seated on some cushions thrown over a slightly ratty
          tartan rug and having poured out a steaming cup of mandarin
          pekoe for each of them, Inky begins, “So, about your uncle.
          The good news is, we know him. The bad news is, we knew him.”
          They then proceed to recount the events of their latest
          mission at the site of a shipwreck out in the Sugrin Sea, and
          the elder sysorcerer’s disappearance.</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>Prelude:</p>
          <p>A fringe movement of lunatic paleornithologists and
          crackpots of various other professions has slowly been gaining
          traction over the last few decades. The movement was born when
          the enterprising Modern Fuchsia, at the time a budding young
          scientist on a dig yearning to make a name for himself, found
          the fossil of a modern feathered bird—probably some kind of
          swallow—alongside a theropod, that variety of dinosaur widely
          accepted to be the ancestor of modern birds. Faced with what
          he believed to be irrefutable evidence of a modern descendant
          coexisting alongside its own ancient ancestor, Fuchsia arrived
          at the only conclusion he was capable of making: Birds Are Not
          Dinosaurs. And thus BAND came into being.</p>
          <p>Ever since, Fuschia and his BANDits have spent considerable
          amounts of time and energy attending conferences and
          publishing papers, pouting and demanding to be taken seriously
          by the wider scientific community. A community which, if it
          pays them any attention at all, merely mocks and ridicules
          their crackpot theories.</p>
          <p>Modern Fuschia is of course wrong. But neither he nor his
          BANDits know how dangerously close he came to the actual
          truth.</p>
          <p>For much, much deeper in the shadowy fringes of
          paleornithology, there is a clandestine operation called BATT.
          And only BATT knows the actual explanation for how a modern
          descendant might coexist alongside its own ancestor. Birds Are
          Time Travelers.</p>
          <p>In the far future when birds are the dominant intelligent
          life on Basmentaria, they do indeed invent time travel. The
          end result was catastrophic and is the real reason that the
          dinosaurs went extinct.</p>
          <p>It is a common misconception that barn swallows are the
          most common and widespread species of swallow. That
          distinction in fact belongs to the <em>time swallow</em>.
          Although—if you’re lucky—you’ll never actually see one. Since
          the Incident, the secret agents of BATT have vowed never again
          to interfere with or try to alter the time stream. Nor to
          allow anyone else to. The time swallows are special bred,
          special trained, appearing wherever and whenever an anomaly
          appears to remove it and restore the proper timeline. The tiny
          birds quite literally swallow, consume, and destroy anything
          that meddles with time.</p>
          <p>At their headquarters, in the present day, BATT Director
          Purple Martin is delivering a report to his superior. Martin
          has a throaty and rich voice of which he is self-conscious in
          the presence of his superior’s persistent silence.</p>
          <p>“We have successfully extracted the sysorcerer and have
          repaired the anomaly. The subject is currently under the care
          of Felixe and is expected to make a full recovery. In his
          possession were a couple of interesting artifacts. One Class C
          sentient object, a sword. And a piece of exotica of unknown
          origin. Our researchers so far suspect that it is a sort of
          reliquary containing both elemental and divine arcana. The
          xot’s physical manifestation—a crystalline ore—thus far
          prevents us from determining the precise identity of the
          arcana.”</p>
          <p>Director Purple Martin is delivering this report to a
          lanky, thin man folded into an armchair. He wears thin, wire
          spectacles with round lenses, and dangles a walking stick over
          the arm of the chair as he sits. He interrupts Martin with a
          rare utterance. “The reliquary. I shall like to see it.”</p>
          <p>Now then:</p>
          <p>Retrieval Team 43 welcomes Alex into their ranks even as
          they mourn the loss of Corraidhín the Wizened.</p>
          <p>It starts off as a somber affair at Lucy’s as you all sit
          around your regular table, ensconced and wedged into a corner
          surrounded on two sides by the red velvet curtains that line
          the walls.</p>
          <p>But then the hobbit joins you.</p>
          <p>Blavin Blandfoot orders a round of drinks in tribute to
          Corraidhín. And then another round of drinks to welcome his
          nephew Alex. “A family affair, is it not!” And then another
          round of drinks because he is thirsty.</p>
          <p>The hobbit is in high spirits, brimming with flair and good
          cheer. His arm is fully healed from the attack over a month
          ago at this very table. His fond memories and frequent toasts
          to the sysorcerer make no reference to the incident.</p>
          <p>“The Benefactor is immensely pleased with your performance
          so far!” He punches a new hole in your Frequent Retrieval
          cards. “You are one step closer to winning a FABULOUS PRIZE! I
          don’t mind telling you I’m a little jealous. Assuming you go
          the distance, of course. I mean who doesn’t love hot dogs and
          hot tubs!” He winks conspiratorially at you. “To say nothing
          of actually getting to meet the Benefactor! Just imagine!”</p>
          <p>After a few more drinks he eventually clears a space on the
          table and rolls out a map of Basmentaria. “We once again have
          two reports of a crystal spotting!” He jabs a finger at the
          mountain range in northern Primora. “The first, as you know,
          has been reported by the zephynos high atop Kelsun Peak.”</p>
          <p>“The second,” his voice quivers with excitement. He looks
          up at you wide-eyed and gestures away from the map into open
          space. “Is on the moon!”</p>
          <p>Seated a couple tables away from you is the same trio who
          were present the last time you all met here: a dusty groll, a
          matted gnu, and a curious Ornithologer. The observant among
          you, if you happened to look, would notice that the
          Ornithologer wears a pinkish purplish red armband with the
          word BAND on it. They listen to your proceedings with great
          interest while trying really hard to look like they’re not
          listening. After Blavin’s final proclamation, the trio
          finishes their drinks, stands, and starts to leave the dining
          room.</p>
          <p>WHAT DO YOU DO</p>
          <ul>
          <li>Do you give the second crystal to Blavin?</li>
          <li>Do you choose to go to Kelsun Peak, or to the moon?</li>
          <li>Who is the Lady in Red and what does she want?</li>
          <li>Will Corraidhín recover in the care of Felixe?</li>
          <li>Who does the Director of BATT report to and what do they
          want with the 1st Crystal?</li>
          <li>What’s the deal with the Ornithologer’s Trio?</li>
          <li>Who left you the note signed with an iris and apple?</li>
          </ul>
          <p>Find out next time on BASEMENT QUEST</p>
          <p><a
          href="https://framalistes.org/sympa/arc/tildepals/2022-11/msg00097.html">www</a></p>
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