quest/www/rss.xml

<?xml version="1.0" ?>
<rss version="2.0" xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom">
  <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>56</title>
      <author>dozens@tilde.team (dozens)</author>
      <guid isPermaLink="false">56 - Mon, 16 Jan 2023 14:10:25
-0700</guid>
      <pubDate>Mon, 16 Jan 2023 14:10:25 -0700</pubDate>
      <description>
        <![CDATA[
          <h3 id="00056">00056</h3>
          <blockquote>
          <p>The agitation Alex feels bubbles just beneath the surface.
          Patterns where patterns shouldn’t be, strange orders from HQ,
          indifference where once was ample aide as well. It was
          maddening. Combine it all with the haunting suspicion that
          there was constantly someone just around the next corner, and
          it was enough to truly drive Alex mad.</p>
          <p>That uneasiness takes its toll on a long enough time line,
          but Alex wasn’t about to let it get to him. Or so he thought
          to himself as he cast a furtive look at his monitoring
          equipment. This paranoia had served him well in the past, very
          well in fact. It’s a sort of sixth sense in a way, always kept
          Alex off the edge of the cliff, especially when someone
          stepped close enough to push him off. Those were the types of
          skills HQ sought after in the first place.</p>
          <p>Alex closes the iron door on his bunker, leaving his
          monitoring equipment running, dead man’s trigger set to blow
          the place shoul anyone enter it. Can’t be too careful these
          days..</p>
          <p>Emerging from the sewer grate, sticking to the shadows,
          Alex makes his way down an alley, then another, and yet
          another, finally emerging a few blocks from the Milk Market.
          Across the street, as he had expected, was Marvelo’s Marvelous
          MurderSticks, a quaint place should one needed something, well
          you get the picture, they don’t really sell anything but
          weaponry here.</p>
          <p>Alex ducked into the entrance of the shop and strode
          towards the back rack, where a collection of knives was on
          display. A rough looking fellow, ruddy red beard, thinning
          hair, moved from the counter as he saw Alex approach. “Fine
          sampling of knives we have, could I interest you in one?”
          Marvelo says. Alex reaches for a thin stilleto style dagger,
          and hands it to Marvelo “This one seems about right, but I’d
          like an extra sharp edge put on it, if you don’t mind”.
          Marvelo takes the stilleto from Alex say “Not a problem at all
          sir”, and he heads into the back.</p>
          <p>He sets to work honing the edge, and once complete he
          places it on his work bench. Grabbing a velvet lined case from
          a stack, he deftly removes the bottom and places a rolled
          piece of paper into the bottom, alongside an m1911 style
          pistol, and a couple of clips of ammo. He then places the
          velvet bottom back over the equipment, and places the stilleto
          on top, bringing the entire package back to the front. “An
          extra fine edge on this one sir, that’ll be 15 gold, plus
          another 5 to cover the service.</p>
          <p>Alex pays, and nips out the shop and heads back to the back
          alley. Paranoia begets what it requets, Alex mutters to
          himself as he disassembles the box holstering the pistol and
          ammo, and sheathing the dagger. Can’t keep going unarmed like
          I’m some kind of beat cop, not anymore.. Alex discards the
          case and unfurls the message, quickly deciphering the
          encryption set on it by Marvelo.</p>
          <pre><code>The hunt is still on, no word on Blavin nor the Iris group, yet.
Agent 7 heard rumor of a couple of persons inquiring about the &quot;Milk Market&quot; these past few days.
Agent 3 heard similar rumors, was able to bribe a melon vendor to acertain the figure wore a red sash, and was looking for friends.
Agent 6 has kept watch on the Market, nothing strange yet, coming and goings as usual, no strange visitors
Agent 4 monitoring feeds still present glitches, something abnormal
Agent 5 found the melon vendor dead in a back alley, strangled to death, not immediate signs of blunt force trauma, caution advised</code></pre>
          <p>Alex burned the note, striding rapidly away from the alley,
          taking a meandering route away from the Milk Market, looping
          back around, and heading back towards it by yet another.
          Nobody appeared to be following him, yet he paused at each
          corner and turn, waiting for the footsteps of a pursuant.</p>
          <p>Noting nothing, he made his way through the back entrance
          of Enrique’s Empanadas greeting the cook quietly, but jovial.
          “Enrique, where’s Inky? We’ve got a problem.”</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>~</p>
          <blockquote>
          <p>Inky skims the page. They thank the witch, pay for the
          items and exit the shop, promptly discarding all notions of
          meeting Bother at the place stipulated on the note.</p>
          <p><em>(Half and one hour later)</em></p>
          <p>One-sixths into a caramel cantaloupe cream cornet, Inky
          runs into Confidence outside the Wandering Bazaar and obtains
          some of their new pamphlets, minted with luminescent ink for
          the convenience of late-night tourists. These are subsequently
          hare-mailed to every editor at the <em>Niuewstijl</em> office,
          which is almost certain to earn another chiding remark from
          Tess about etiquette and the handling of unsolicited bulk mail
          to parent editorial teams.</p>
          <p><em>(Half and two hours later)</em></p>
          <p>The installation on display at the Milk Market was
          grotesque — that is to say, a work of beauty. Inky steps
          carefully through the rooms to not disturb the piece.
          Afterwards, they sign the guestbook set up on an upturned milk
          crate by the door, delightedly pasting rows of horse head and
          thumbs-up emo Gs on a page thoughtfully titled “you can’t ed
          the unedible”.</p>
          <p><em>(Half and three hours earlier)</em></p>
          <p>Thanking Agate for her time, Inky passes her a sheet of
          paper on which were written a few questions about the
          prescribed ritual, with some space after each question should
          the witch prefer to scribble a response:</p>
          <ul>
          <li><p>What do guides in the Sea of Dreams and the Ravenfolk
          typically seek in return for directing travellers to the
          correct pocket dimension?</p></li>
          <li><p>An establishment inside the Bazaar is only open in the
          evenings whenever it appears in the city. How long does travel
          to a pocket dimension typically take, allowing for time to
          seek out a guide? Is there a way travellers can estimate the
          time to set out on their journey, in order to arrive at the
          establishment while it is open?</p></li>
          <li><p>Who are the Red Spider and “Dude 215R” mentioned in the
          ritual? How can travellers avoid summoning them?</p></li>
          <li><p>Would anything happen to the travellers if any of the
          sigils were removed during the ritual before they wake
          up?</p></li>
          </ul>
          <p><em>(Half and four hours later)</em></p>
          <p>Two sets of eyes peer down at the contents of an open tin.
          One accompanied by a focused look and a little trepidation,
          following the pinkish, flesh-like chunks speckled with white
          pockets of fat as they tumble into a hot pan and almost
          immediately begin to move of their own accord. The moving
          mounds resemble small round mouths opening, each with a rim of
          sharp teeth. The other pair of eyes belongs to a grinning face
          that beams when the mounds bloom into bright red flat caps,
          the edges beneath about to soften in the olive oil.</p>
          <p>Minutes after, The slices are ready. Inky accepts the plate
          of tostada with spicy pickled artichoke mushrooms and tomatoes
          with a murmur of thanks. Reassembling the recipe for the
          tinned spicy artichoke mushrooms had been a tedious process —
          someone had ripped out the pages from an old pickling book
          that had long ceased publication. Eventually Inky found a
          former nomad who had eaten them for two years in their youth
          and could recall or somewhat describe the taste. Flowery and
          savoury, they said. Many taste tests later, it turned out to
          be closer to partially decomposed cheese in ponderosa lemon
          juice. Canning was fortuitously easier with the increasing
          portability of sealers. Rather than telling the empanada chef
          any of this, Inky watches satisfaction slowly spread across
          his face. The tale that follows is far more entertaining.</p>
          <p><em>(Half and five hours later)</em></p>
          <p>While measuring out ingredients for the forty-second tea
          infusion since the start of the missions, not that Inky was
          keeping a close count, they hear a familiar voice a short
          distance outside the door asking for their whereabouts.
          Without pausing in their whisking, Inky simply informs the
          owner of the voice they’re not here, obviously, before
          emerging from the storage pantry with a fresh pot and bowls on
          a wooden tray, and greets the returning sysorcerer.</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>Agate writes back quickly:</p>
          <blockquote>
          <p>What do guides in the Sea of Dreams and the Ravenfolk
          typically seek in return for directing travellers to the
          correct pocket dimension?</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>Intangibles. Usually memories, hopes, or dreams.</p>
          <blockquote>
          <p>An establishment inside the Bazaar is only open in the
          evenings whenever it appears in the city. How long does travel
          to a pocket dimension typically take, allowing for time to
          seek out a guide? Is there a way travellers can estimate the
          time to set out on their journey, in order to arrive at the
          establishment while it is open?</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>You’ll find that time is rather malleable on the Otherside.
          You’ll likely arrive exactly when you’re meant to. No need to
          worry too much about it.</p>
          <blockquote>
          <p>Who are the Red Spider and “Dude 215R” mentioned in the
          ritual? How can travellers avoid summoning them?</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>Godforms manifested by the Linking Sigil and the Dream
          Sigil, respectively. It’s not <em>terrible</em> if they show
          up. But it’s definitely not ideal. You shouldn’t register on
          their radar as long as you don’t pump too much energy into, or
          siphon to much energy out of, the sigils. If they do show up,
          just know that you’re in the presence of a godlike power, and
          behave accordingly.</p>
          <blockquote>
          <p>Would anything happen to the travellers if any of the
          sigils were removed during the ritual before they wake up?</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>If the sigils are removed or if the circle is broken,
          you’ll likely just wake up before you wanted to. Same goes for
          if your dreamform is destroyed while in the Dreaming. The only
          real danger you may encounter is the Scissormen and their ilk.
          They will attempt to permanently sever your dreamform from
          your waking body. Which would leave your body a soulless husk,
          and leave your consciousness adrift in the Sea of Dreams. But
          that probably won’t happen! Okay good luck, have fun!</p>
          <p>WHAT DO YOU DO</p>
        ]]>
      </description>
    </item>
    <item>
      <title>59</title>
      <author>dozens@tilde.team (dozens)</author>
      <guid isPermaLink="false">59 - Mon, 30 Jan 2023 21:41:56
-0700</guid>
      <pubDate>Mon, 30 Jan 2023 21:41:56 -0700</pubDate>
      <description>
        <![CDATA[
          <h3 id="00059">00059</h3>
          <blockquote>
          <p>Alex procures from a pocket of his trenchcoat a tiny vial.
          On the vial is a small strip of parchment which reads:</p>
          <pre><code>#!/bin/ash
sleepy=true

sleep() {
        while sleepy; do
                sleep(10)
        done
}

trap sleep INT EXIT</code></pre>
          <p>He empties the vial into a glass of warm milk and hands it
          to bread.</p>
          <p>“Drink up friend, this’ll relax and soothe you. You’ll
          probably have the best night’s sleep you’ve ever had”</p>
          <p>Over the radio Alex provides a quick reminder to
          Marvelo.</p>
          <p>“7, remember, should you need to wake bread to get us out
          you can interrupt or cancel the sleep script, Ctrl + C should
          work for the disruption work. Or if you need to you can set
          sleepy=false, if it gets crazy and you need to modify the
          metavarbalic properties of the enchantment.”</p>
          <p>Turning to Inky, “Eight bells and all’s well, lets get this
          show on the road”</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>Bread smiles and thanks you for the milk. They down the
          glass, smack their lips a few times, and wipe their mouth with
          the back of their hand. Their eyelids grow heavy and close,
          and they slump down on the cushions. They’re already asleep by
          the time their head hits the pillow.</p>
          <blockquote>
          <p>Inky nods once at Alex’s words and finishes off their own
          cuppa steeped with calea and thyme, and blended into osmanthus
          matcha. Lucida, Protege, Aware, Perfume. A meaningless
          mantra.</p>
          <p>They glance to their owlish accomplice (who, she will
          remind you, is well-trained and needs no sleeping aid, thank
          you very much, unlike her impish charge) and silently mouth
          the words “Dude 215R” with a wink. Then they settle for a nap,
          chin pillowed on their forearms, which are propped atop
          drawn-up knees. A walking stick rests on their lap. A herb
          bouquet of pink blooms becomes an owl cushion.</p>
          <p>Inky dreamforms of a cream noogle. Puko. And Fuko is, well,
          still Fuko.</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>You light the Nyxmaer. The flame crackles and dances. It
          smokes darkly, and the scent it gives off is thick and
          heady.</p>
          <p>You breathe deeply of it and settle down to sleep.</p>
          <p>When you open your eyes you are standing on the branch of
          an enormous white tree. It’s as wide as a narrow street. Its
          leaves are silver blades that uncurl in the dappled light from
          below.</p>
          <p>One of the first things you notice is that gravity is
          reversed here. The branches below you reach down, grazing an
          endless sky. Small iridescent jellyfish medusae drift lazily
          far, far below, catching and reflecting the light. And the
          trunk thickens as it reaches up overhead, where its roots
          drill into the ceiling above.</p>
          <p>Because of dream logic, you know that in some way this tree
          represents Kelsun Peak, Bread’s home. And also because of
          dream logic, you know that the branches furthest away from you
          in some way represent the great dragon Lucin who lives deep in
          the mountain. And they are just as dangerous. They sway in the
          breeze and seem to be aware of you, and are for now satisfied
          at the distance you keep from them.</p>
          <p>There is a chipmunk sitting cross-legged before you on the
          branch. It looks curiously up at you and says, “The Red
          Squirrel stole my acorns! Are you going to get them back for
          me?”</p>
          <p>You can feel a metaphysical tug in your gut as your orient
          yourself to dreamspace like the needle of a compass. “Inward”
          you can feel a tug toward Bread’s deep unconscious. To their
          core memories. “Outward” you can feel a tug away from Bread
          toward the shores of the Sea of Dreams, where you may continue
          your journey through the Collective Unconsciousness to the
          pocket dimension of the Wandering Bazaar. You need not move
          physically to travel in either direction. It’s more a matter
          of choosing a destination, and letting the winds blow you in
          that direction.</p>
          <p>“My acorns!” insists the chipmunk, wringing its hands. “The
          Red Squirrel has taken them all! Are you going to help
          me?”</p>
          <p>WHAT DO YOU DO</p>
        ]]>
      </description>
    </item>
    <item>
      <title>57</title>
      <author>dozens@tilde.team (dozens)</author>
      <guid isPermaLink="false">57 - Mon, 16 Jan 2023 20:30:44
-0700</guid>
      <pubDate>Fri, 20 Jan 2023 14:58:46 -0700</pubDate>
      <description>
        <![CDATA[
          <h3 id="00057">00057</h3>
          <blockquote>
          <p>Alex lifts his teacup and sips the fragrantly tea,
          “perfumed of rosehips, and cardamum? An interesting choice. I
          appreciate it Inky, these past few days have been terribly
          rough, and I’m rather tired of field rations.” Alex takes a
          sip, and then continues hurridly. “I’ve been monitoring the
          Bazar, we are in grave danger. It started with just me, but I
          fear it’s bled over to everyone here at the Milk Market. I
          can’t be entirely certain.”</p>
          <p>Alex looks worriedly at Inky. “There’s a lot going on here.
          As soon as we got back from Kelsun I was sent on an
          assignment, normally not an issue, but they wanted me to level
          3 of the busiest coffee shops in the bazar. I planted those
          bombs, alongside listening devices, and then I bugged out. My
          team appears to have been assigned equally bizarre
          assignments, all rather violent messy things. A lot of
          innocent lives are on the line here.”</p>
          <p>“We dropped off the grid, I’ve got an isolated listening
          post in the sewers here, it’s heavily reinforced and that’s
          where I’ve been hiding out, but I’m not certain it’s safe.
          Agent 5 found a melon vendor dead in the market, and this
          vendor was specifically seeking out the Milk Market, looking
          for us. I believe it may be an assassin, could be from HQ,
          could be from Blavin. It’s entirely opaque to me.”</p>
          <p>“As far as I can tell, my agents are all loyal to me,
          there’s 5 of them in total, 6 if you count me. We could man
          the ship and get the hell out of here in a few hours, and it
          may be our best chance. But there’s the iris letter we need to
          attend to, and I cannot for the life of me find anything, not
          a damn trace, of Blavin. And I think all of this bodes very
          poorly for us.”</p>
          <p>Alex looks worriedly at Inky, and you’re telling me we have
          a ritual we have to perform, to find the iris group’s meeting
          place.. I’m leery Ink, I have to be you see. But my uncle
          trusted you, and I do as well. If you think this is our best
          shot, we can hole up in the sewers and try to perform this
          dream walk of your witch friend’s. But if this iris business
          turns out to be a trap, well, how well can you handle a
          gun?</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>~</p>
          <blockquote>
          <p>“Your courage and concern are admirable, Master Alex.
          Caution is likewise advisable.” Inky nods seriously.</p>
          <p>The next moment, they gave the sysorcerer a slightly
          deranged grin. “I’m sure you have already seen many grave
          dangers. What’s another one for the bucket list? What’s life
          if not violent and messy? So many melons dismembered and laid
          waste daily—”</p>
          <p>As if suddenly recalling a detail, Inky pauses and blinks.
          “Melon vendor? Oh, poor Pepo. He has been complaining about
          his neighbour’s boa constrictors for years. The serpents were
          drawn to the rodents his fruits typically attracted, which
          might not have been a problem were it not for them hanging out
          at his stall and scaring off his customers. Maybe he finally
          took matters into his own hands, with tragic results.” They
          look at an empty mixing bowl across the table glumly. “He had
          offered to bring over a few of the new variety as soon as they
          arrived, as he was already delivering to a household the next
          district over.”</p>
          <p>They send Master Alex a sidelong glance. “Someone is after
          you? You didn’t do something horrid like help an old
          grandmother cross the street on sockless skates, for
          instance?” Refilling the sysorcerer’s cup, Inky continues, “As
          for Blavin, only 3 of the crystals have been recovered. Blavin
          knows Team 43 is his best chance of obtaining the others.
          Until he has all the crystals, he will stay his hand. If he
          doesn’t know that, then he is hardly a threat.”</p>
          <p>Setting down the teapot, Inky shrugs. “They seem eager to
          get our attention. I suppose I could spare them their twelve
          minutes of fame, for the right price. Enlightenment would
          probably be too much to ask of a nightmare. If you’d rather
          take your team and make a run for it instead, that’s fine too.
          If they come knocking I’ll just tell them you missed the hotel
          fondue at Kelsun Peak.”</p>
          <p>Their gaze skips to one of the cups before they shake their
          head. “No gun.” They turn around and take down a bamboo
          walking stick hanging from a hook on a wall next to a worn
          coat. Inky grasps the handle and pulls. It slides out quietly
          to reveal a long, thin, tapered surgical steel tube which, if
          someone were to lean in for a closer inspection, is sparsely
          covered in tiny, needle-like protrusions along the surface. On
          the underside, a transparent sliver ran the length of the tube
          to end about a forefinger’s length from the handle. Visible
          through the narrow window is a colourless liquid, most likely
          a sedative or toxin, fills the reinforced steel interior.</p>
          <p>They smile mirthlessly at Master Alex. “I don’t know that
          Master Corraidhín trusted me, because if he did, it would have
          been the most foolhardy thing the wise man has ever done. You
          would do well to not make that mistake.”</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>~</p>
          <blockquote>
          <p>“It doesn’t sound like we have all too much of an option”,
          Alex says, as a little Scarab beetle in his pocket chimes,
          “that’ll be the dead man’s trigger going off in my
          hideout.”</p>
          <p>Alex frowns, shame to lose all of that data, those systems,
          that hideout.. but I hope whoever broke in enjoys thermite,
          assuming they don’t asphyxiate quickly enough to miss the
          fun..</p>
          <p>Inky, you’re right, life is a bit violent and messy, so
          lets bring the violent mess to these bastards. If you’ve got a
          lead on this with this dream ritual, then fuck it, lets take
          the risk. I won’t run from this fight, my uncle sure as hell
          wouldn’t. And at worst, he’d go out with a magnificient bang.
          Lets give it back tenfold, for poor Pepo.</p>
          <p>Nodding his own approval Alex continues, I have another
          hideout in the eastern quandrant, near the sysorcerer’s guild.
          It’s a little risky to head out that way, but none of my
          Zabbix alerts indicate it was compromised. It has automated
          IDS and IPS systems, so we should be safe enough in there once
          we whole up. At very least we’ll know if someone comes for us,
          and we’ll have a little bit of time to react on it. We should
          bring the Toques with us, and little blod clot, and the
          duck.</p>
          <p>Looking sorrowfully at Enrique, “I think it might be best
          if you got the hell out of dodge too friend, it isn’t safe,
          and I don’t want to see you become collateral here. Head down
          to the wharf, I’ll have agent 5 meet you there, he’ll help you
          and your family lay low until all of this blows over.”</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>~</p>
          <blockquote>
          <p>At Enrique’s deep frown, Inky sighs and adds, “Might as
          well do as Master Alex says. He can spot danger twelve blocks
          away, and turtle soup is really out of fashion these
          days.”</p>
          <p>Then they excuse themselves to pack a few items, returning
          about fifteen minutes later with a knapsack and a cross-strap
          carrier draped in a black cloth cover. Inky says, “I hope you
          don’t mind if I bring along a guest as well.”</p>
          <p>The cover is pulled back to expose a dome-shaped birdhouse,
          with transparent circular rings at the top partially obscured
          by sliding shutters of the same shape. A wooden hoop with a
          woven, web-like pattern and adorned with a string of feathers
          hangs from one side. On the opposite side is a double door
          with a miniature knob over each door. Inky lightly taps on one
          of the doors, and at a low click coming from within in
          response, swings the doors wide enough for the kitchen lamps
          to illuminate the great horned owl resting on a pillow inside.
          The bird opens one amber eye for a moment, gaze sweeping idly
          across the occupants in the room before dozing off again.</p>
          <p>“This is Fuko. She and her twin brother Futa have certain
          shared connections. What one sees, the other will also know. I
          asked their caretaker if I could borrow them for a while. Fuko
          will accompany me for the ritual. Her brother is at another
          location and can send a message if a need arises.” Inky
          explains with a wry expression. “Think of it as a minor
          indulgence of sorts. I was told their kind, along with eagle
          owls, are very good at negotiating with those of the
          ravens.”</p>
          <p>They give the owl a small smile. “She may be a little
          temperamental, but she is well-trained.” Closing the birdhouse
          doors, Inky turns back to Master Alex. “I suppose you’d rather
          not reveal the location of your hideout to any more people
          than necessary. Her carrier will remain covered on the way in
          and out.”</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>Gliftwirp stands under the branches of a tree, pooled in
          shadow, far from the small gathering. He has been to plenty of
          funerals. Often under these very circumstances, in fact. And
          he always keeps his distance out of respect.</p>
          <p>For one, he owns no clothes but his vest, sash, and
          trousers. And his bright red colors would be a sign of
          disrespect among the mourners. Secondly and most importantly,
          he himself is the one who put the man in the ground.</p>
          <p>Sadly, he had little choice. He had underestimated the
          sysorcer. Didn’t realize he had his own agents working for
          him. When he realized that one of the agents had been in
          contact with the melon vendor, he knew that Popplewick could
          and would identify the warpwefter if pressured.</p>
          <p>Gliftwirp had grown to enjoy his daily chats with the melon
          vendor. Popplewick was a kind, determined man. A refugee from
          the Cinderlands, his family came to Vay’Nullar following the
          Artifice Wars when he was just a boy. He grew up poor, and
          often relied on the generosity of others. But eventually he
          was able to support himself and his small family. He was proud
          of the life he had built.</p>
          <p>So Gliftwirp took no pleasure in what came next. Late one
          night when Popplewick was on his way home from the market, the
          assassin slipped a bag over his head and dragged him into a
          dark alley. He cinched the bag tight, cutting off his air.
          There was a brief struggle before Popplewick passed out and
          Gliftwirp lowered him down to the ground. He held him there,
          unconscious and not breathing, until he was gone. In only took
          but a moment. And then Gliftwirp stood up and left.</p>
          <p>Now at the funeral, the mourners leave one by one. Until
          only the widow is left, cradling a small sleeping child to her
          chest. “Oh, Pepo,” she whispers to the headstone. “What can I
          do now?”</p>
          <p>When she leaves, she does not return to the main path. She
          meanders slowly as though in a daze toward the back of the
          graveyard and down the hill. She steps into the wood. A flash
          of red follows her at a distance.</p>
          <p>She kneels on the banks of the forest river and sets the
          child down on wide flat rock. It is awake now and looks up at
          her with solemn eyes. “I am sorry, made-of-me,” she says to
          the child. And that is all the explanation it gets.</p>
          <p>She stands and turns and walks away. The child watches her
          go.</p>
          <p>When she has been gone for some minutes, Gliftwirp steps
          out of the shadows and crouches down beside the child. It
          looks up and reaches for him. “Look at you,” he says to the
          child as he scoops it up. “Who would throw you away? A
          perfectly good baby!” He stands and bounces the child. “A
          sweet little melon rind is what you are. Ha! Very well. Come,
          Rind, we have work to do.”</p>
          <p>The assassin, child in his arms, walks back toward the
          city.</p>
          <p>~</p>
          <p>In the aftermath, Agent 5 is found down by the docks. They
          clearly struggled in death. The assassin blamed him for
          Popplewick’s death and the widow’s weakness.</p>
          <p>Down in the sewers, two tiny mittened hands reach up and
          awkwardly turn the doorknob to Alex’s hideout. The bolt clears
          the latch with a faint click. Two tiny cloth hands struggle
          against the heavy iron door, pushing it slowly open, inch by
          inch. A mechanism clicks inside and there is a whoosh of air
          and then a boom as the bunker violently ignites. The tiny
          figure is incinerated, and blown back into the sewer
          tunnel.</p>
          <p>Gliftwirp steps forward into the light of the blaze and
          crouches down by the tiny figure. He picks it up, a tattered
          and burned bundle of cloth. “Look, Rind,” he says to the small
          child standing at his elbow. “You must always acknowledge and
          be grateful for those who sacrifice for you.” He starts to
          untie and unfold the cloth puppet as he speaks. It unfurls and
          smooths out and stitches itself back together under his touch.
          Even the burn marks fade, and soon Gliftwirp is once again
          holding his red sash.</p>
          <p>“Now, Rind,” he says standing up and taking the child’s
          hand, squinting into the fire. “Let’s see what we can salvage
          here.”</p>
          <p>WHAT DO YOU DO</p>
          <ul>
          <li>The time of the ritual is at hand.</li>
          <li>What final preparations do you make before entering
          Dreamspace?</li>
          </ul>
        ]]>
      </description>
    </item>
    <item>
      <title>58</title>
      <author>dozens@tilde.team (dozens)</author>
      <guid isPermaLink="false">58 - Sat, 21 Jan 2023 16:24:45
-0700</guid>
      <pubDate>Sun, 29 Jan 2023 11:02:32 -0700</pubDate>
      <description>
        <![CDATA[
          <h3 id="00058">00058</h3>
          <blockquote>
          <p><em>(A week prior)</em></p>
          <p>The secretary collected the stack of papers that had
          accumulated at one corner of the desk. “This might help,” she
          said, setting down a bundle of herbs with white and pink
          flowers in place of the papers.</p>
          <p>Inky stared at the blooms, hands stilled over the owl’s
          plumage. “Oh! Thanks. Good thinking, really. It’ll help make
          the stench more bearable when they find the remains.”</p>
          <p>The grey elf was confused for a moment, then mortified as
          the words sank in. “That’s not what I meant! It’s for the
          circle,” she clarified.</p>
          <p>Seeing the imp’s preoccupied nod, she coughed lightly to
          regain their attention, then spoke in a hushed voice.
          “Beaker’s associates have picked up the empanada shop
          proprietor and transported him to an undisclosed location.
          There will be a retinue with him at all times.”</p>
          <p>Inky seemed to visibly pull themselves back to the room
          before responding, “Thank you, Salvia. One more thing — if I
          do not return by the indicated time, please activate the
          hitsuzen protocol. As precaution.”</p>
          <p>The secretary looked at Inky in concern. “Is everything all
          right? If you’re still troubled by the hotelier, accidents
          happen. A single incident—”</p>
          <p>“Third. An unidentified man was attacked at the docks. He
          was probably sent to investigate the melon vendor. One of the
          other stall owners heard him asking questions shortly after
          the melon vendor disappeared.”</p>
          <p>Salvia’s violet eyes narrowed. “What, the fruit vendor?
          Didn’t the tabloids say it was an accident? He tried to get
          rid of a neighbor’s nest of snakes.”</p>
          <p>Inky only raised an eyebrow at her.</p>
          <p>The secretary let out a low curse. “You didn’t tell her.
          You didn’t want her to worry,” she said aloud in realization.
          She sighed. “She’s going to be pretty angry with you when she
          finds out, you know.”</p>
          <p>Inky offered her a sardonic smile. “Making people angry is
          my job. You of all people know this well. In the event of my
          timely demise I’m sure the others would find it cause for a
          grand celebration.” They replied matter-of-factly before
          returning to smoothing the feathers of one bird wing.</p>
          <p>Salvia shook her head vehemently. “That’s not true. You’ll
          make it back, Ink. What then—”</p>
          <p>“Then our fair Lady’s ire would be the least of the
          problems.”</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>~</p>
          <blockquote>
          <p>Alex stared morosely into his cup of coffee. He’d received
          word of agent 5’s demise that morning, and had been the only
          thing on his mind since. 5, no Be’tram knew the risks, we all
          knew the risks defying HQ brought, but to happen so suddenly?
          He’d snuck down to the wharf once he’d heard, making sure to
          cover his tracks and dodge any potential witnesses. He even
          managed to slip past the police cordon they’d setup around the
          body. What he’d found wasn’t pretty, it looked like Be’Tram
          had suffered in his final moments. The bruising around his
          neck pointed to strangulation, with some sort of cloth,
          perhaps a rope. The bruising was deep, and there wasn’t a cut,
          burn, shot or something of the likes on his otherwise.</p>
          <p>The kill had been intimate.</p>
          <p>Alex had worked quickly that night, popping Be’Tram’s eye
          had been hard, but he’d of wanted Alex to have it. Behind his
          right eye was a recording device, it could only catch the last
          15m or so of what he had seen, but it would give him a clear
          look at what had happened. And potentially lead Alex to the
          killer. Miserable business, but Be’Tram knew it could make a
          difference.</p>
          <p>Alex had planted a bomb on the body after he had extracted
          the eye, and made his way well away from the area before it
          went off obliterating the remains. A regrettable end for an
          old friend, but it was too dangerous to leave.</p>
          <p>And then there was the matter of the zabbix alert, a little
          purple red critical for the sewer hideout. He’d had time to
          send out a drone beetle. The smoldering slag that was left was
          reassuring. Most of the equipment was utterly destroyed, racks
          upon racks of servers reduced to twisted melted metal. The
          effectively of the destruction was delightful, in a sick sort
          of desperate way. Alex felt assured that most if not all of
          the equipment was useless, but this spelled the end of a
          valuable listening outpost. And whoever had done it wasn’t
          part of the slag pile.</p>
          <p>Alex stood up, his coffee untouched. The cafe around his
          burbled in quiet excitement. The city had lit up since the
          Melon vendor’s death. A thousand rumors abounded about it, but
          none of them held true; some said the city had become
          dangerous, a crime syndicate had arisen in the neighboring
          city block another thought, and did you hear about the
          explosion at the wharf the other night, the city was electric,
          yet somehow ever so slightly off the pulse of the issue.</p>
          <p>As Alex stepped away a woman with horn rimmed glasses
          strode past the table he had just abandoned, deftly pulling
          the note from beneath the coffee cup, left for her.</p>
          <pre><code>4 -&gt; 3
Daylight breaks on the morrow
The suns rays make chase
casting soft cloth
across the nap of nature&#39;s neck

So, night relents and gives way
biding time until
it can rule
in its own domain</code></pre>
          <p>For the passerby, it was but a bit of poetry, scribbled
          carelessly on the back of a napkin in a coffee near the wharf.
          But for Agent 3 it was a warning, one part notes on Agent 5s
          demise recovered from his eyecam, one part orders; stay low
          and we’ll strike these bastards from the shadows, on our
          terms, on our ground. Similar missives were delivered to
          Agents 6 &amp; 7. The numbers were dwindling rapidly, even
          just one agent lost was hard to stomach.</p>
          <p>Alex hand gripped the pistol in his coat pocket with a
          white knuckled grip as he stepped from the coffee shop into
          the city. Whatever was after him, whatever had gotten to
          Be’Tram, it had better know he was coming, and he’d happily
          send it straight to hell. HQ be damned, the rules be damned,
          this little game of cat and mouse had just gotten
          personal.</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>~</p>
          <blockquote>
          <p>Alex, Inky, Confidence, Bread, and Agent 7 find themselves
          in a dark backroom in a secluded corner of an old fish
          processing plant on the wharf. The accommodations are rough,
          and the stench is abhorrent, but it’s the best that could be
          procured in a pinch. And it should provide enough
          seclusion.</p>
          <p>The backroom is like that of many factories, high up near
          the ceiling, a single rusty rickety staircase winds its way
          along the side of the building for what seems to be 3 flights,
          before it reaches a metal room with dusty grimy windows, and a
          single steel door. The windows on the interior overlook the
          fish processing plant, where rows of belts and machinery stand
          still, covered in dust and long forgotten blood. You’re glad
          to know that the factory stopped operating years ago, hygiene
          is lacking in every sense.</p>
          <p>Alex stares forlornly out the exterior windows, the sky is
          a grey overcast, it matches his mood perfectly. He didn’t like
          what him and Inky were about to do, but they didn’t have much
          they could do about it. They would be vulnerable for the
          duration of the ritual. But Agent 7 and Confidence were there
          to help mitigate that risk. Alex and Agent 7 had taken every
          precaution they could think of.</p>
          <p>The plant floor was scattered with booby traps, trip wires,
          and alarms. The other agents were laying low, but kept drones
          around the wharf feeding in a network of twtxt data back to
          Agent 7 for recon. And that was on top of the double barred
          steel doors, and reinforced glass box they’d chosen as their
          hide out. Meticulously planned, Alex expected no less from
          Agent 7.</p>
          <p>See Marvelo had been at this as long as Alex had, and then
          some. He was sharp as a tack, with an animal-like third sense
          that came from years of close calls. He was, simply put, the
          right man for the job, when that job was keeping your
          unconscious ass alive.</p>
          <p>Alex turns away from the window and addresses Inky.
          “Apologies for the smell, it turns out there’s a strong
          correlation between disgust and seclusion, but I believe we
          should at least be safe here. Safer than we would have been
          back home. I’m ready if you are, as ready as I’ll ever be that
          is.”</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>The Golden Iris have summoned you to appear at the Harpoon
          Club this evening. But the Harpoon Club is nowhere to be found
          on this plane of existence. It won’t appear until a week and a
          half from now, on the last day of the month.</p>
          <p>Confidence the Guide has predicted exactly where the
          Wandering Bazaar will be on that day. With a small bucket of
          red paint and a large brush, he has drawn a Linking Sigil on
          the ground at the location. He sits nearby, making sure
          careless passersby and mischievous kids don’t disturb it, but
          otherwise letting the sigil absorb the energies of the bustle
          of shopping and commerce.</p>
          <p>At the fish market, Marvelo is posted outside. He keeps
          vigilant watch, alert to every movement and disturbance.</p>
          <p>And inside, Bread, Inky, Fuko, and Alex are huddled up in
          the office in the back near the ceiling. They all sit inside a
          dark circle that has been smudged on the floor with a paste
          made of ash and salt. Painted on the ground is a second
          Linking Sigil, connecting this spot to Confidence’s, allowing
          the energies of the two locations to co-mingle. There is also
          the Dream Sigil, which will connect this place to the
          Dreaming.</p>
          <p>Bread the Host is propped up on some pillows and cushions
          in the center of the circle, next to the Nyxmaer. The candle
          is alleged to be made of the flesh and fat of a certain
          nightmare. Its hand and eye bound in the wax. The Dream Sigil
          is the door, but the Nyxmaer is the key. The catalyst that
          will cause all of the otherwise inert metaphysical particles
          to become volatile and reactive. It is what will allow you to
          actually pass over and arrive on the shores of the Sea of
          Dreams.</p>
          <p>Per the shop witch’s instructions, the Nyxmaer has been
          placed on a thin, hard tin plate. As the candle burns, the wax
          will soften and eventually allow the large metal nail in its
          side to fall. When it strikes the plate, you will awaken,
          exiting the Dreaming. You expect hours may pass in the realm
          of sleep. But only about thirty minutes will pass here.</p>
          <p>Inky and Alex sit inside the circle, near the perimeter,
          facing Bread in the center. Fuko the owl sits at Inky’s
          side.</p>
          <p>It is dim. You are illuminated by mundane, non-magical
          candles set around the edges of the circle. Outside, a steady
          rain beats on the roof and the windows of the building. The
          smell of fish is faint but ever-present. A constant reminder
          of the small creatures that have left their bodies in a
          fashion far more permanent and irreversible than the
          separation of spirit and body you are about to experience. You
          hope.</p>
          <p>WHAT DO YOU DO</p>
          <ul>
          <li><p>How do you induce a deep and powerful slumber in
          Bread?</p></li>
          <li><p>What shape or form will you take when you arrive in the
          Dreaming?</p></li>
          <li><p>What are you secretly worried or hopeful about being
          exposed in the dreamland, the realm of metaphor?</p></li>
          </ul>
        ]]>
      </description>
    </item>
    <item>
      <title>54</title>
      <author>dozens@tilde.team (dozens)</author>
      <guid isPermaLink="false">54 - Tue, 03 Jan 2023 16:12:08
-0700</guid>
      <pubDate>Wed, 04 Jan 2023 08:18:44 -0700</pubDate>
      <description>
        <![CDATA[
          <h3 id="00054">00054</h3>
          <blockquote>
          <p>Once back in the Milk Bar, with the airship safely anchored
          to the roof of the building, Alex finds himself amongst the
          old belongings of his former uncle.</p>
          <p><em>sigh</em> “Best get a request to HQ for this airship,
          maybe they’ll let us operate it for a bit, if not I suppose we
          have to impound it..”</p>
          <pre><code>&lt;- OP 2817 * LOC MB-A
-&gt; OP 25120 * LOC ESPER

CLEARANCE: INFORMATIONAL
REQUEST ENCLOSED.

REQUESTING PERMISSION TO IMPOUND OR OPERATE.
ONE CYBERPLASM AIRSHIP &quot;The Rusty Maiden&quot;</code></pre>
          <p>“There’s also the matter of this little hemogoblin..” Alex
          mutters to himself while said hemogoblin happily dances around
          the room, dripping little pools of blood hither and
          tither.</p>
          <pre><code>&lt;- OP 2817 * LOC MB-A
-&gt; OP 41154 * LOC ESPER

CLEARANCE: TOP SECRET
REQUEST ENCLOSED
PACKET ENCLOSED

REQUESTING ANALYSIS
ONE GDB @gdb-readout.dat
TWO BLOOD @blood-soaked-handkerchief
NOTE GDB INDICATES SOME ANOMALY</code></pre>
          <p>“Hey little guy, lets go get an empanade. Inky says they’re
          divine.” Alex says as he scoops up the little goblin and
          gently carries him downstairs.”</p>
          <p>Striding into Enriques kitchen, and availing himself to the
          empanadas, ignoring an indignant Enrique’s protests that these
          were for paying customers until a small bag of coins is tossed
          careless over one shoulder. Alex stride through the kitchen
          and then out and away into the garden to enjoy their pilfered
          treats.</p>
          <p>“I suppose this is more interesting than being on the force
          at times”</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>~</p>
          <blockquote>
          <p>Inky stepped into the toques’ cabin below deck with a tray
          of turmeric ginger tea and lavender biscuits. After checking
          on Bread’s bandages and offering the toque reclined on the
          berth the last bag of mango croutons — or at least the last
          one for the next two hours — Inky perched on a wooden barrel
          across from where Confidence sat on a creaking old chair next
          to the bunk and spoke. “We’ll be landing in about an hour and
          getting Bread to a medical facility. You can stay with him
          while he heals and rest up.”</p>
          <p>They paused to take a long sip from their cup, as if the
          liquid was being used to summon their next words. “On behalf
          of myself and the party, I apologise for the … disruption, and
          for what had befallen the hotelier. As you may have already
          noticed, we’re a fair distance away from the Peak and will be
          arriving in Vay’Nullar soon. This airship was taken over from
          the cyberplasms in the course of getting the crystal out and
          the injured to a safe location, and her new captain could
          hardly fly it back straight into the pirates’ hands now.</p>
          <p>What we propose is this: you and Bread may take as long as
          you need to recover. We can arrange for lodgings and new posts
          in the city. One of our party runs a Milk Market that could
          certainly use some hired help, and a garden in the back that
          would benefit from more attention. Pay will be double your
          current salary at the hotel. Master Alex may also recruit you
          for other tasks. You don’t need to have an answer just yet —
          think on it for a bit while you rest and let us know.
          Afterwards, if you find that you still wish to return to
          Kelsun Peak, we will pay for travel.”</p>
          <p>Inky winked at Bread conspiratorially. “You may be
          interested to know there is a bakery on the Milk Market’s
          first floor. If you like the look of the place, perhaps we can
          convince the chef to take on an assistant.”</p>
          <p>~</p>
          <p>Tess watched her adviser from her position on one end of
          the plush chaise lounge in her office, who returned her stare
          impassively as they sat in the adjoining armchair to her
          right. The ornate coffee table before them had been laid out
          for tea, but the other cup remained untouched, which was in
          itself unusual. Ink rarely turned down tea when it was
          offered, which likely meant they were preoccupied with
          something they were unwilling to discuss. This had been
          happening more frequently since their plans to intercept the
          Ginnarak Crystals, which was a little concerning, but she knew
          it would be no use to question them directly. The missive she
          had received this time through Piskin’s people was brief,
          almost annoyingly so, but they had returned earlier than
          expected with the articles that production had requested,
          which had fortunately made up for lost time from the previous
          delays.</p>
          <p>With this in mind, she settled on a lighter note as she
          picked up her own teacup. “Salvia passed on the items to the
          production team. Thank you for picking them up from the
          Runesocesius. I would send my regular couriers but they are
          tied up with another event. One of them had to care for their
          sick child and couldn’t leave the city. As usual, time and
          discretion are of the essence.”</p>
          <p>When her adviser only nodded, she continued. “How is he? He
          probably insisted on bringing the manuscripts out for you
          himself. The man is cautious with valuables.”</p>
          <p>“Quite dead but managing, or so I heard.” Ink intoned
          drily.</p>
          <p>Tess caught on immediately. “Didn’t you meet with him? The
          message only mentioned the items had been obtained. Did
          something happen?”</p>
          <p>The imp shrugged. “We met, I delivered the letter and
          collected the items. We didn’t get a chance to talk.”</p>
          <p>The hotel was slowly but steadily attracting visitors
          again, especially after their last play had prominently
          featured the Runesocesius Library as a research partner in the
          programme credits, but Tess didn’t think the hotelier was so
          busy as to entrust this task to one of his underlings. The man
          was proud of the first editions the library had amassed, and
          the notebooks of Lucidieau that the playwright sought as a
          reference were no doubt counted among the treasures, even if
          only an expensive commissioned facsimile was permitted out of
          the library. Something had happened, she was sure, but decided
          not to press further for the moment.</p>
          <p>“And the other matter?” she asked.</p>
          <p>“Someone already knew the crystal was at the hotel and
          retained a crew of cyberplasmic pirates to storm the place.”
          Ink replied flatly. “And yes, your acquaintance is very much
          dead, shot by the crew leader in the scuffle. As the rumour
          rags have it, his ghost is now overseeing the building
          repairs.”</p>
          <p>Tess was about to admonish the imp gently for the tasteless
          jest when there was a knock at the door. At her response, the
          door opened and her secretary entered with a box of pastries
          and two sets of tableware, which she placed on the coffee
          table before leaving and closing the door behind her.</p>
          <p>Noticing Ink’s look of recognition, Tess smiled and
          ventured, “This is the second time is as many months you
          awarded that empanada place a glowing review in <em>The Tiny
          Toaster</em>. I can count the ratings higher than a 10 you’ve
          ever given on one hand — of course I had to try it. Why don’t
          you have some as well?”</p>
          <p>Ink blinked. “I didn’t write the latest review.”</p>
          <p>Tess shot them an accusing mock-glare as she lifted a puffy
          golden brown pastry onto a plate. “It has your inkprints all
          over it.”</p>
          <p>“I don’t know what you mean. Surely I’m allowed to treat a
          colleague to lunch, and they are free to express their
          satisfaction with a meal openly if they wish,” Ink replied
          smoothly.</p>
          <p>Tess rolled her eyes. “There’s a name for that. It’s called
          bribery.”</p>
          <p>Ink smiled faintly. “Just so. However, the selection speaks
          for itself.”</p>
          <p>“Oh, absolutely! These mini ambrose apple empanadas are
          wonderful. In fact,” Tess prodded the open end of the pastry
          with her fork, where a light yellow filling was visible, “they
          remind me a little of the very crispy tortelli
          <em>someone</em> made several years ago just for the opening
          reception of <em>The Two Genteelkin of Virdantha</em>.”</p>
          <p>“Any resemblance is coincidental. The chef is very
          capable.” Ink said evenly.</p>
          <p>Tess sighed and returned her plate to the table. “We’ve
          talked about this before, Ink. You don’t have to hole up in
          some poor scrub’s excuse for a kitchen in a closet. If you
          need more room downstairs then expand it. Just tell Salvia and
          she’ll take care of it.”</p>
          <p>Ink lowered their gaze to the teacups. “I appreciate the
          offer, but the answer is the same. There will be no rest until
          the crystals are secured.”</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>Some time passes.</p>
          <p>The hemogoblin turns out to be a fine housemate and less of
          a problem than you thought it would be. Be it because its not
          in the excitement of battle onboard a pirate ship, or be it
          because it is maturing slightly, it seems in better control of
          its blood sacs. Barring a few small accidents, it doesn’t make
          much of a mess. It has found and claimed as its own a few
          unused blankets, and has made a little burrow nest in an out
          of the way corner behind the furniture.</p>
          <p>Bread makes a full recovery and in fact is doing better
          than ever before. The blood goblin stays by their side during
          the first hours and days and keeps them pumped full of clean,
          synthetic blood. Afterwards the toque is flushed a healthy
          pink and has new vigor. Enrique takes them under his tutelage.
          And Bread ends up making a fine baker’s apprentice. Dough
          seems to rise more and quicker after he kneads it. “The lad
          has solar hands,” Enrique boasts of his new protegee.</p>
          <p>Confidence becomes enthralled with the semi-sentient
          Wandering Bazaar. The thirteen story building moves with
          glacial speed up and down the streets, vendors and stalls and
          shoppers following in its wake. But then also it will
          disappear in the blink of an eye only to reappear in a totally
          different part of the area known as the Wandering Bazaar
          District. Each floor of the tall, narrow tower is occupied
          entirely by a single shop. But which shop it is seems to vary
          from day to day. One day the seventh level will be occupied by
          Fedik’s Butcher shop. And the next, Lario’s Bakery. It might
          be days or weeks before one can once again buy hotlinks from
          Fedik’s. Where the shops go when they’re not here is one of
          Basmentaria’s great mysteries.</p>
          <p>The toque studies the Bazaar’s movements and are able to
          predict its route with more and more accuracy. They become a
          highly sought out guide. Tourists and visitors trust them to
          take them to the very spot the Bazaar will appear that day.
          Residents appreciate the heads up and not getting trapped in
          their houses when the Bazaar wedges its way into their narrow
          residential streets, blocking their front doors. And owners of
          traditional, less ambulatory shops are able to plan ahead for
          the crowds that will appear on “Bazaar Day”.</p>
          <p>~</p>
          <p>Members of the Retrieval Team who sleep in Milk Market HQ
          start having dreams of the same mysterious figure. Of course
          at first nobody knows their dreams are shared by the others.
          Not until they become more frequent, more regular. By the time
          the figure has visited you every night for nearly a week,
          somebody speaks up and you realize the coincidence.</p>
          <p>The figure is clad in voluminous robes of deep purple.
          Long, straight, blonde hair falls around their shoulders.
          Their soft features are boyish and womanly. They wear a golden
          circlet on their head and a golden eye in the middle of their
          forehead. Their passive, neutral face betrays no emotion the
          entire time.</p>
          <p>The dream is always the same. They reach out to you with
          one hand and turn their palm up. And because of dream logic,
          in the palm of their hand you can hear the jingling of coins,
          mirthful laughter, and hushed stories told around a campfire.
          They curl their fingers into a loose first and the sounds
          stop. They spread their arms wide and in the folds of their
          robes you can see three siblings fighting, squabbling over a
          broken loom.</p>
          <p>Then you’re standing next to them, and the two of you watch
          three friends, Snake, Owl, and Dolphin. Owl tells Snake that
          he is tired of flying and hooting, and doesn’t want to be an
          owl any more, he wants to be flowers. And Snake laughs and
          tells him that he is Owl, and an owl he must remain. And she
          leaves him to go eat rodents and bake in the sun. So Owl tells
          Dolphin that he is tired of flying and hooting, and doesn’t
          want to be an owl any more, he wants to be flowers. Dolphin
          doesn’t want to help Owl, because if he is flowers, they won’t
          be able to be together any longer. But Dolphin finally agrees
          to help even though they don’t want to, because Dolphin loves
          Owl. With all their strength, they create a great waterspout
          that will turn Owl into flowers. But the waterspout is too
          strong, and Dolphin is too weak to control it. It sprays Owl
          but does not turn him into flowers. Owl’s wing is broken and
          he falls to the ground in a heap of feathers. The waterspout
          shakes a great boulder from the earth and traps Snake under
          it. And Dolphin sinks to the bottom of the sea.</p>
          <p>And then you wake up.</p>
          <p>~</p>
          <p>Later you find a letter in the common area of Milk Market
          HQ. It is not addressed to anybody. When you open it up, it
          reads:</p>
          <blockquote>
          <p>Time is running out, Retrieval Team 43. Things are starting
          to draw to a close. We cannot delay our meeting any longer if
          we both are to achieve our goals. We have information that you
          are looking for. Meet us at the Harpoon Club next Selday. We
          will wear the sign.</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>The letter is signed with a white iris and golden
          apple.</p>
          <p>Anyone in Vay’Nullar would be able to tell you that the
          Harpoon Club is a game room and fine dining club, and one of
          the rotating tenants of the Wandering Bazaar. But Confidence
          would tell you, were you to ask them, that the club won’t be
          there next Selday. (When the Bazaar will appear at East and
          Lowland.) It is in fact not scheduled to appear until a week
          and a half after next Selday, on Third Tensday. (When the
          Bazaar will appear at Cathedral and Pine.)</p>
          <p>WHAT DO YOU DO</p>
        ]]>
      </description>
    </item>
    <item>
      <title>55</title>
      <author>dozens@tilde.team (dozens)</author>
      <guid isPermaLink="false">55 - Thu, 05 Jan 2023 08:21:34
-0700</guid>
      <pubDate>Thu, 05 Jan 2023 08:21:34 -0700</pubDate>
      <description>
        <![CDATA[
          <h3 id="00055">00055</h3>
          <blockquote>
          <p>The nibs had disappeared.</p>
          <p>Inky had spotted the small ceramic and wicker teapot among
          a long row of boxes and bowls at the antique shop on the
          thirteenth floor of the Wandering Bazaar while looking for a
          Near-weightless Verifying Matter enclosure (NVMe) to their
          Handy Duffer Discette as a primary storage. The witch
          shopkeeper, Agate, had helpfully mentioned the teapot could be
          used to steep very acidic or alkaline solutions, as well as
          distil solubles. The box it was subsequently packed in did not
          include instructions on activating the precipitation feature.
          With the shop not returning for another week by Confidence’s
          reckoning, Inky had used the teapot in the meantime to rinse
          off any impurities from an old set of nibs — the very first
          functional set they had made as an apprentice inkling — except
          the nibs were nowhere to be found when they poured out the
          citronella solution and removed the lid. Inky supposed it was
          to be expected — some witches liked to go on about equal
          payment for wishes, as if it were as easy as reading off a
          price tag, and it was difficult to stay irritated at a cute
          teapot for long. Inky wrote it off as a gift for what would
          hopefully thereafter be a cutely functional teapot. The shop
          had a no-refunds policy.</p>
          <p>Then came the dream. At first Inky had attributed them to
          reading the book on the mythology of The Trine that they had
          slipped out of the Runesocesius Library, along with an obscure
          cactus leather-bound manuscript containing first-hand accounts
          of the Artifice Wars. When the dream repeated itself on the
          third night, Inky suspected it had something to do with the
          crystals under the Milk Market’s roof. While not horrifically
          bloody in the way Master Corraidhín’s description of the
          vision he had from the first crystal had been, it was
          haplessly boring when lucid intervention didn’t seem to have
          any effect. It ran on like a low-budget B-Grade play that had
          only three scenes with a few props each. By the fourth night,
          the dream had become worse than a nib-nibbling teapot that
          they stayed up entire nights for the rest of that week while
          they were camping at the Milk Market.</p>
          <p>It was mostly an excuse to drop into the kitchens
          downstairs — which they could now enter on the pretext of
          visiting Bread to observe the apprentice’s progress — in the
          early morning hours and push new tea blends onto its
          unfortunate occupants. Most of the three dozen or so infusions
          had been full of fruits and spices, six of which would go well
          with items on the empanada shop’s current menu. A handful were
          medicinal after procuring a herb illustrated on one
          moth-bitten page snatched on the hotel steps back on the Peak.
          A few others were teas in the loosest sense of the word. These
          were as tasteless and colourless as tap water, only the scent
          offering a faint clue as to their ingredients. They had other
          applications, least of which was in a prank on one empanada
          chef. (Inky left him a box of zephyl tea — another Kelsun Peak
          speciality besides mulled wine — before he could too riled up,
          though.)</p>
          <p>The note left at the Milk Market was the black cherry atop
          the hassle cake. Confidence was fairly sure that the fine
          establishment mentioned in the note wouldn’t appear on the day
          indicated. Couldn’t “Mother” have chosen to meet somewhere a
          little more convenient? So it was that despite the shop having
          a no-refunds policy, or because of it, Inky found themselves
          returning to the antique shop inside the Wandering Bazaar a
          week later looking for another item. “Do you sell flight
          vessels that could transport people to and from specific
          places … such as the Harpoon Club?” they asked the witch.</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>You and the witch go back and forth a few times before she
          realizes that you want to visit a place where it is when it
          isn’t there.</p>
          <p>“Transdimensional extratemporal colocation?” Agate claps
          her hands in delight. “This is going to be fun! A witchy
          problem wants a witchy solution. That’s what my Auntie
          Tenfingers always said!”</p>
          <p>“Why bother with flying contraptions when you yourself are
          a perfectly adequate vessel? I’m going to prescribe you a
          dream ritual,” she says, scribbling in a notebook. “It’s
          complex. But only because it’s a lot of steps. And the timing
          is kind of particular in a couple places. But if you follow
          the directions, you shouldn’t have any trouble.” She rips the
          page out of the notebook and hands it you.</p>
          <p>“Basically, you’ll enter a host’s dreams, and then delve
          into the Collective Unconsciousness. From there you should be
          able to find the Wandering Bazaar’s pocket dimension. Of
          course you’ll need to find a guide to take you there. You’ll
          have to find one in the Sea of Dreams.”</p>
          <p>“And you’ll need this!” She ducks behind the counter and
          reappears with a smoke-gray box bound with thick black ribbon.
          It’s about as long as her forearm. She unwraps the box and
          opens it and pulls out a thick, round candle. It is an
          unhealthy, sickening translucent yellow. In the base of the
          candle is a large, blackened, withered, and shriveled hand. It
          is within and without the candle. As though it is grasping the
          base of the candle, but also like it has been molded into the
          candle on purpose. As though the hand is imprisoned in the
          wax. You can just make out a hazy small round object in the
          center of the candle through the wax. A large nut or marble.
          The hand looks like it is reaching for it. The candle has been
          burned down a fair bit. The wick is low and trimmed, and the
          edges are black and warped where the fatty wax has melted and
          hardened. You guess there’s only about two-thirds left of the
          candle.</p>
          <p>The witch measures down from the top of the candle with a
          length of string and bores a small hole in its side. She
          wedges a large nail into the hole, leaving half of it jutting
          out. “A crude clock,” she winks at you. “Place the candle on a
          hard metal plate. When it burns down enough for the wax here
          to soften, the nail will fall out and strike the plate and
          wake you up.”</p>
          <p>She pushes it across the counter toward you and frowns.
          “Eh, should be okay,” she shrugs. “But if at any point it
          looks like the base gets soft enough that the hand might be
          able to grasp the eye,” she cautions pointing toward the round
          object in the center of the candle, “smash the thing. As hard
          as you can. Destroy the hand, and run.”</p>
          <p>“The rest of the instructions should be pretty self
          explanatory!” she exclaims, perking up. “Let me know if you
          have any questions!”</p>
          <details>
          <summary>
          Ritual Details
          </summary>
          <figure>
          <img src="https://tilde.town/~dozens/quest/ritual.png"
          alt="ritual outline" />
          <figcaption aria-hidden="true">ritual outline</figcaption>
          </figure>
          <p>Ritual Steps In Brief:</p>
          <ol type="1">
          <li><p>Find a volunteer to be the Dream Host.</p></li>
          <li><p>Link your sanctum to the place where the Bazaar will be
          on the appointed date. (You can’t just do your ceremony out in
          the open in the middle of the street! Find somewhere you can
          safely leave your bodies for a few hours.)</p></li>
          <li><p>Draw a circle of salt.</p></li>
          <li><p>At the appointed time, put the Dream Host in the
          circle. Also the Travelers (you), the Dream Sigil, and the
          Nyxmaer Candle.</p></li>
          <li><p>Once the Host is asleep (Sleep spell not included),
          light the candle and enter the Host’s dream.</p></li>
          <li><p>Turn “away” from the dream, cross the Sea of Dreams to
          the Collective Unconsciousness.</p></li>
          <li><p>Find the Bazaar’s pocket dimension.</p></li>
          </ol>
          </details>
          <blockquote>
          <p>The day the letter arrived Alex was nowhere to be found. It
          was a bit strange, somewhat chilling even, that he’d disappear
          like that. Ever since they had arrived back at the Milk Maid
          he’d been seen skulking about his uncle’s study, or pacing the
          garden out back somewhat agitatedly. Unbeknownst to the party,
          Alex had anticipated the arrival of the letter, HQ had been
          following every lead they could pull in since he began with
          the Ginnarak recovery team. Not that they really had much to
          go off of, but the courier who left the letter wasn’t hard to
          track. That was, until he slipped inside one of the ever
          changing shops right as it was moving along.</p>
          <p>The trail went cold after that. Which meant Alex had to get
          it moving again, or at least the crumpled communique he’d
          received said as much. Things were moving too quickly to think
          too hard on the how, all that was needed was action, something
          drastic to flush things out.</p>
          <p>That’s why Alex finds himself on the east side of the
          market, skulk about the back alley behind The Temporal
          Cup.</p>
          <p>“Gotta get this shit ready, there’s no other options here”
          Alex thought to himself. He loathed this type of work, it was
          messy, abhorrently vile in his mind, but what choice did he
          have? His hands worked deftly at the wires in the small
          package hidden inside the recess of a loose brick. Once
          finished, the little packet came to life, muted lights
          blicking away happily as the brick slid back over it.</p>
          <p>This was the 3rd and final eavesdropping device, all placed
          at the busiest cafes in market, all rigged with self destruct
          mechanisms large enough to level the building if they’re
          found.. The eavesdropping Alex could abide by, but the wanton
          destruction for the sake of security was painful to
          swallow.</p>
          <p>But once again, it wasn’t much like Alex had a say in the
          matter. The first sign of objection, an inclination that he’d
          refuse orders, and they’d have an assassin on him before he
          could leave the alley. And if he took it out, they’d send
          double, there’d be no rest.</p>
          <p>— Later that day</p>
          <p>Alex watched twtxt feeds scroll through from his monitoring
          devices. Most of it unimportant gossip. So and so haves an
          affair, what’s for lunch, where to find good empanadas in the
          market, so on and so forth. An endless stream on the pulse of
          the market.</p>
          <p>It was errant curiosity to watch these, the Magic Lichen in
          the monitoring system was trained to hunt for any hint of what
          the courier was up to, any twinge from Blavin and his ilk.
          It’d send alerts straight to him as soon as something came up,
          but it was interesting to see the pulse of the city trail by.
          And what else could he do? It was too dangerous to go back to
          the Milk Maid, any hint he was there could blow his cover.
          Best to lay low for the time being, let the scrapers scrape
          and the agents comb the streets until they get a bead on their
          target.</p>
          </blockquote>
          <p>Milk Market HQ ought to be quiet. Alex has been
          conspicuously absent. Missing in action. Inky seems to be out
          making rounds delivering tea, or spending more time than usual
          at the empenadaria. So Milk Market HQ ought to be quiet.</p>
          <p>Instead, a certain young hemogoblin and a certain yellow
          duck (both of whom have yet to be named, by the way) are
          squealing as they rampage through the rooms on the top floor
          of the building, upsetting the furniture in their wake and in
          general making a huge mess.</p>
          <p>It took some coaxing on the hemogoblin’s part. The duck was
          determinedly uninterested in anything besides a soak in its
          tub and a nap on its cushion. And it did a good job of
          ignoring the persistent, pestering goblin for most of the
          afternoon. But jumping into a wooden tub full of blood cracked
          the foul’s disinterested facade. It gave furious chase to the
          goblin until the heat of the moment cooled down. At which
          point the two of them simply enjoyed the thrill of chasing
          each other through the apartments.</p>
          <p>Confidence is actually the first one to stumble across the
          carnage. They were just popping by to drop off some new
          pamphlets, but froze in the doorway when they saw the suite in
          disarray and the walls plastered with blood and feathers.
          “What the toque…” And then they quietly closed the door and
          left without going in after all.</p>
          <p>~</p>
          <p>Gliftwirp browses the stalls trailing behind the Wandering
          Bazaar. He is bare chested save for a sleeveless vest. He
          wears long, baggy, striped trousers bunched at the ankle, and
          a bright red sash tied loosely around his waist. He grins a
          wide, gap-toothed grin as he thumps a melon.</p>
          <p>“Look at the size of this melon! And perfectly ripe!” he
          beams at the stall vendor. “You’ll be here next week? With
          more like this?”</p>
          <p>Very few people would be able to tell Gliftwirp’s
          profession from his attire. For those who can, one look at his
          red sash would immediately cause them to give him a wide
          berth. Because Gliftwirp is a warpwefter. A master assassin
          trained in the ancient art of sarong-fu. That is, the deadly
          application of soft and flexible weapons. Whips, chains,
          garrotes, nunchucks. And most famously—and most
          effectively—sashes, sarongs, scarves, and the like. The saying
          goes that a clothed warpwefter is never unarmed. Nor even is a
          nude one if they can get their hands on <em>your</em> clothes.
          And a warpwefter can sneak their weapons into the most secure
          of locations.</p>
          <p>“I am a visitor here, and don’t know my way around,” he
          keeps up the small-talk with the vendor, having paid for the
          melon. “Do you know if there is a building around here called
          ‘Milk Market?’ I’m supposed to meet someone there. No, they’re
          not expecting me. It’s going to be a surprise!”</p>
          <p>He grins his wide toothy grin.</p>
          <p>~</p>
          <p>The twtxt feed from the listening devices is dull and
          quiet. The monitoring software is designed to only deliver
          messages containing certain buzzwords. And those messages are
          few and far between.</p>
          <p>You decide to tap into the unfiltered stream and let the
          endless waves of blather wash over you. It’s inane. Idle
          gossip and mindless chitter-chatter.</p>
          <p>After a day or two of this, you notice yourself getting
          uncharacteristically agitated. You squint at the lines of
          messages coming in and notice a few transposed characters in
          some of them, forming new nonsensical words. A couple messages
          are missing some whitespace, squishing words together in
          maddening run-ons. Glitchy. There’s no reason the listening
          devices should be returning errors like this.</p>
          <p>Later still, the feeds have gotten worse. Some words seem
          to be written backwards. Entire messages are garbled word
          soup, devoid of any meaning or sense whatsoever. Some of the
          timestamps are invalid datetimes. But you prefer them to the
          ones that are valid, but which are stamped years ago. And you
          far prefer them to the ones that are stamped far in the
          future.</p>
          <p>The anomalies are overall infrequent. On their own, they
          don’t amount to much. And when you show them, nobody at HQ
          gives you with much more than a slightly patronizing,
          indulgent shrug. But the glitches shouldn’t be happening at
          all, is the thing. And when you compile them all together, you
          start to notice things. Patterns insinuating themselves,
          maddeningly just short of reason or meaning. Like a song stuck
          in your head when you can’t remember the lyrics or the melody.
          But there’s something there nonetheless. The promise of
          something, at least. Something bigger. A wide tapestry of
          links and connections, wanting to be known.</p>
          <p>There are names. Ellis, the lady in red who sits at the
          center of a tangled web. Ousia, a sea of endless knowledge. A
          sea of magic. The 215R Dude, a denizen of the other side who
          can deliver you to its shores. Other strange beings who lurk
          just out of sight, just beyond the veil of perception. The
          veil that you are now beginning to pierce with the snippets
          and snatches of information you pluck from your feeds.</p>
          <p>You start to see signs of the veil elsewhere. Of the
          conspiracy. Whatever. You can’t decide what to call it. Street
          graffiti outside of a red spider spinning a red web. Phrases
          like “215R” show up in random articles in the paper. As though
          the secret world is trying to cross over. Or to draw you into
          it.</p>
          <p>WHAT DO YOU DO</p>
        ]]>
      </description>
    </item>
  </channel>
</rss>