319 lines
15 KiB
Markdown
319 lines
15 KiB
Markdown
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---
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title: 00055
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created: Thu, 05 Jan 2023 08:21:34 -0700
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updated: Thu, 05 Jan 2023 08:21:34 -0700
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public: yes
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syndicated: yes
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---
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### 00055 {#00055}
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> The nibs had disappeared.
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>
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> Inky had spotted the small ceramic and wicker teapot among a long
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> row of boxes and bowls at the antique shop on the thirteenth floor
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> of the Wandering Bazaar while looking for a Near-weightless
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> Verifying Matter enclosure (NVMe) to their Handy Duffer Discette as
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> a primary storage. The witch shopkeeper, Agate, had helpfully
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> mentioned the teapot could be used to steep very acidic or alkaline
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> solutions, as well as distil solubles. The box it was subsequently
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> packed in did not include instructions on activating the
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> precipitation feature. With the shop not returning for another week
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> by Confidence's reckoning, Inky had used the teapot in the meantime
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> to rinse off any impurities from an old set of nibs — the very
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> first functional set they had made as an apprentice inkling —
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> except the nibs were nowhere to be found when they poured out the
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> citronella solution and removed the lid. Inky supposed it was to be
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> expected — some witches liked to go on about equal payment for
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> wishes, as if it were as easy as reading off a price tag, and it
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> was difficult to stay irritated at a cute teapot for long. Inky
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> wrote it off as a gift for what would hopefully thereafter be a
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> cutely functional teapot. The shop had a no-refunds policy.
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>
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> Then came the dream. At first Inky had attributed them to reading
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> the book on the mythology of The Trine that they had slipped out of
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> the Runesocesius Library, along with an obscure cactus
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> leather-bound manuscript containing first-hand accounts of the
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> Artifice Wars. When the dream repeated itself on the third night,
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> Inky suspected it had something to do with the crystals under the
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> Milk Market's roof. While not horrifically bloody in the way Master
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> Corraidhín's description of the vision he had from the first
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> crystal had been, it was haplessly boring when lucid intervention
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> didn't seem to have any effect. It ran on like a low-budget B-Grade
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> play that had only three scenes with a few props each. By the
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> fourth night, the dream had become worse than a nib-nibbling teapot
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> that they stayed up entire nights for the rest of that week while
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> they were camping at the Milk Market.
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>
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> It was mostly an excuse to drop into the kitchens downstairs —
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> which they could now enter on the pretext of visiting Bread to
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> observe the apprentice's progress — in the early morning hours and
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> push new tea blends onto its unfortunate occupants. Most of the
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> three dozen or so infusions had been full of fruits and spices, six
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> of which would go well with items on the empanada shop's current
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> menu. A handful were medicinal after procuring a herb illustrated
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> on one moth-bitten page snatched on the hotel steps back on the
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> Peak. A few others were teas in the loosest sense of the word.
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> These were as tasteless and colourless as tap water, only the scent
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> offering a faint clue as to their ingredients. They had other
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> applications, least of which was in a prank on one empanada chef.
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> (Inky left him a box of zephyl tea — another Kelsun Peak speciality
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> besides mulled wine — before he could too riled up, though.)
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>
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> The note left at the Milk Market was the black cherry atop the
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> hassle cake. Confidence was fairly sure that the fine establishment
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> mentioned in the note wouldn't appear on the day indicated.
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> Couldn't "Mother" have chosen to meet somewhere a little more
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> convenient? So it was that despite the shop having a no-refunds
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> policy, or because of it, Inky found themselves returning to the
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> antique shop inside the Wandering Bazaar a week later looking for
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> another item. "Do you sell flight vessels that could transport
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> people to and from specific places … such as the Harpoon Club?"
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> they asked the witch.
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You and the witch go back and forth a few times before she realizes
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that you want to visit a place where it is when it isn't there.
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"Transdimensional extratemporal colocation?" Agate claps her hands in
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delight. "This is going to be fun! A witchy problem wants a witchy
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solution. That's what my Auntie Tenfingers always said!"
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"Why bother with flying contraptions when you yourself are a
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perfectly adequate vessel? I'm going to prescribe you a dream
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ritual," she says, scribbling in a notebook. "It's complex. But only
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because it's a lot of steps. And the timing is kind of particular in
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a couple places. But if you follow the directions, you shouldn't have
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any trouble." She rips the page out of the notebook and hands it you.
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"Basically, you'll enter a host's dreams, and then delve into the
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Collective Unconsciousness. From there you should be able to find the
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Wandering Bazaar's pocket dimension. Of course you'll need to find a
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guide to take you there. You'll have to find one in the Sea of
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Dreams."
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"And you'll need this!" She ducks behind the counter and reappears
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with a smoke-gray box bound with thick black ribbon. It's about as
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long as her forearm. She unwraps the box and opens it and pulls out a
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thick, round candle. It is an unhealthy, sickening translucent
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yellow. In the base of the candle is a large, blackened, withered,
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and shriveled hand. It is within and without the candle. As though it
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is grasping the base of the candle, but also like it has been molded
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into the candle on purpose. As though the hand is imprisoned in the
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wax. You can just make out a hazy small round object in the center of
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the candle through the wax. A large nut or marble. The hand looks
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like it is reaching for it. The candle has been burned down a fair
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bit. The wick is low and trimmed, and the edges are black and warped
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where the fatty wax has melted and hardened. You guess there's only
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about two-thirds left of the candle.
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The witch measures down from the top of the candle with a length of
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string and bores a small hole in its side. She wedges a large nail
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into the hole, leaving half of it jutting out. "A crude clock," she
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winks at you. "Place the candle on a hard metal plate. When it burns
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down enough for the wax here to soften, the nail will fall out and
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strike the plate and wake you up."
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She pushes it across the counter toward you and frowns. "Eh, should
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be okay," she shrugs. "But if at any point it looks like the base
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gets soft enough that the hand might be able to grasp the eye," she
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cautions pointing toward the round object in the center of the
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candle, "smash the thing. As hard as you can. Destroy the hand, and
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run."
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"The rest of the instructions should be pretty self explanatory!" she
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exclaims, perking up. "Let me know if you have any questions!"
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<details>
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<summary>Ritual Details</summary>
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![ritual outline](https://tilde.town/~dozens/quest/ritual.png)
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Ritual Steps In Brief:
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1. Find a volunteer to be the Dream Host.
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2. Link your sanctum to the place where the Bazaar will be on the
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appointed date. (You can't just do your ceremony out in the open in
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the middle of the street! Find somewhere you can safely leave your
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bodies for a few hours.)
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3. Draw a circle of salt.
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4. At the appointed time, put the Dream Host in the circle. Also the
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Travelers (you), the Dream Sigil, and the Nyxmaer Candle.
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5. Once the Host is asleep (Sleep spell not included), light the
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candle and enter the Host's dream.
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6. Turn "away" from the dream, cross the Sea of Dreams to the
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Collective Unconsciousness.
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7. Find the Bazaar's pocket dimension.
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</details>
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> The day the letter arrived Alex was nowhere to be found. It was a
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> bit strange, somewhat chilling even, that he'd disappear like that.
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> Ever since they had arrived back at the Milk Maid he'd been seen
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> skulking about his uncle's study, or pacing the garden out back
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> somewhat agitatedly. Unbeknownst to the party, Alex had anticipated
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> the arrival of the letter, HQ had been following every lead they
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> could pull in since he began with the Ginnarak recovery team. Not
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> that they really had much to go off of, but the courier who left
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> the letter wasn't hard to track. That was, until he slipped inside
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> one of the ever changing shops right as it was moving along.
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>
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> The trail went cold after that. Which meant Alex had to get it
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> moving again, or at least the crumpled communique he'd received
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> said as much. Things were moving too quickly to think too hard on
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> the how, all that was needed was action, something drastic to flush
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> things out.
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>
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> That's why Alex finds himself on the east side of the market, skulk
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> about the back alley behind The Temporal Cup.
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>
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> "Gotta get this shit ready, there's no other options here" Alex
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> thought to himself. He loathed this type of work, it was messy,
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> abhorrently vile in his mind, but what choice did he have? His
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> hands worked deftly at the wires in the small package hidden inside
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> the recess of a loose brick. Once finished, the little packet came
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> to life, muted lights blicking away happily as the brick slid back
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> over it.
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>
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> This was the 3rd and final eavesdropping device, all placed at the
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> busiest cafes in market, all rigged with self destruct mechanisms
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> large enough to level the building if they're found.. The
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> eavesdropping Alex could abide by, but the wanton destruction for
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> the sake of security was painful to swallow.
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>
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> But once again, it wasn't much like Alex had a say in the matter.
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> The first sign of objection, an inclination that he'd refuse
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> orders, and they'd have an assassin on him before he could leave
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> the alley. And if he took it out, they'd send double, there'd be no
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> rest.
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>
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> --- Later that day
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>
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> Alex watched twtxt feeds scroll through from his monitoring
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> devices. Most of it unimportant gossip. So and so haves an affair,
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> what's for lunch, where to find good empanadas in the market, so on
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> and so forth. An endless stream on the pulse of the market.
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>
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> It was errant curiosity to watch these, the Magic Lichen in the
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> monitoring system was trained to hunt for any hint of what the
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> courier was up to, any twinge from Blavin and his ilk. It'd send
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> alerts straight to him as soon as something came up, but it was
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> interesting to see the pulse of the city trail by. And what else
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> could he do? It was too dangerous to go back to the Milk Maid, any
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> hint he was there could blow his cover. Best to lay low for the
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> time being, let the scrapers scrape and the agents comb the streets
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> until they get a bead on their target.
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Milk Market HQ ought to be quiet. Alex has been conspicuously absent.
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Missing in action. Inky seems to be out making rounds delivering tea,
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or spending more time than usual at the empenadaria. So Milk Market
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HQ ought to be quiet.
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Instead, a certain young hemogoblin and a certain yellow duck (both
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of whom have yet to be named, by the way) are squealing as they
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rampage through the rooms on the top floor of the building, upsetting
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the furniture in their wake and in general making a huge mess.
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It took some coaxing on the hemogoblin's part. The duck was
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determinedly uninterested in anything besides a soak in its tub and a
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nap on its cushion. And it did a good job of ignoring the persistent,
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pestering goblin for most of the afternoon. But jumping into a wooden
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tub full of blood cracked the foul's disinterested facade. It gave
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furious chase to the goblin until the heat of the moment cooled down.
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At which point the two of them simply enjoyed the thrill of chasing
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each other through the apartments.
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Confidence is actually the first one to stumble across the carnage.
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They were just popping by to drop off some new pamphlets, but froze
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in the doorway when they saw the suite in disarray and the walls
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plastered with blood and feathers. "What the toque..." And then they
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quietly closed the door and left without going in after all.
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~
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Gliftwirp browses the stalls trailing behind the Wandering Bazaar. He
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is bare chested save for a sleeveless vest. He wears long, baggy,
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striped trousers bunched at the ankle, and a bright red sash tied
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loosely around his waist. He grins a wide, gap-toothed grin as he
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thumps a melon.
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"Look at the size of this melon! And perfectly ripe!" he beams at the
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stall vendor. "You'll be here next week? With more like this?"
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Very few people would be able to tell Gliftwirp's profession from his
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attire. For those who can, one look at his red sash would immediately
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cause them to give him a wide berth. Because Gliftwirp is a
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warpwefter. A master assassin trained in the ancient art of
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sarong-fu. That is, the deadly application of soft and flexible
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weapons. Whips, chains, garrotes, nunchucks. And most famously---and
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most effectively---sashes, sarongs, scarves, and the like. The saying
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goes that a clothed warpwefter is never unarmed. Nor even is a nude
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one if they can get their hands on *your* clothes. And a warpwefter
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can sneak their weapons into the most secure of locations.
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"I am a visitor here, and don't know my way around," he keeps up the
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small-talk with the vendor, having paid for the melon. "Do you know
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if there is a building around here called 'Milk Market?' I'm supposed
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to meet someone there. No, they're not expecting me. It's going to be
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a surprise!"
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He grins his wide toothy grin.
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~
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The twtxt feed from the listening devices is dull and quiet. The
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monitoring software is designed to only deliver messages containing
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certain buzzwords. And those messages are few and far between.
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You decide to tap into the unfiltered stream and let the endless
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waves of blather wash over you. It's inane. Idle gossip and mindless
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chitter-chatter.
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After a day or two of this, you notice yourself getting
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uncharacteristically agitated. You squint at the lines of messages
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coming in and notice a few transposed characters in some of them,
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forming new nonsensical words. A couple messages are missing some
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whitespace, squishing words together in maddening run-ons. Glitchy.
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There's no reason the listening devices should be returning errors
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like this.
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Later still, the feeds have gotten worse. Some words seem to be
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written backwards. Entire messages are garbled word soup, devoid of
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any meaning or sense whatsoever. Some of the timestamps are invalid
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datetimes. But you prefer them to the ones that are valid, but which
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are stamped years ago. And you far prefer them to the ones that are
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stamped far in the future.
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The anomalies are overall infrequent. On their own, they don't amount
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to much. And when you show them, nobody at HQ gives you with much
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more than a slightly patronizing, indulgent shrug. But the glitches
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shouldn't be happening at all, is the thing. And when you compile
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them all together, you start to notice things. Patterns insinuating
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themselves, maddeningly just short of reason or meaning. Like a song
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stuck in your head when you can't remember the lyrics or the melody.
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But there's something there nonetheless. The promise of something, at
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least. Something bigger. A wide tapestry of links and connections,
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wanting to be known.
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There are names. Ellis, the lady in red who sits at the center of a
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tangled web. Ousia, a sea of endless knowledge. A sea of magic. The
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215R Dude, a denizen of the other side who can deliver you to its
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shores. Other strange beings who lurk just out of sight, just beyond
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the veil of perception. The veil that you are now beginning to pierce
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with the snippets and snatches of information you pluck from your
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feeds.
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You start to see signs of the veil elsewhere. Of the conspiracy.
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Whatever. You can't decide what to call it. Street graffiti outside
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of a red spider spinning a red web. Phrases like "215R" show up in
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random articles in the paper. As though the secret world is trying to
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cross over. Or to draw you into it.
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WHAT DO YOU DO
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