2022-11-15 01:28:58 +00:00
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---
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title: 00038
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created: Mon, 14 Nov 2022 18:30:25 -0700
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updated: Mon, 14 Nov 2022 18:30:35 -0700
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2022-11-19 01:14:31 +00:00
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syndicated: yes
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public: yes
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2022-11-15 01:28:58 +00:00
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---
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### 00038 {#00038}
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2022-11-19 01:14:31 +00:00
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> The mission, party-wise, had been an abject failure.
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>
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> They had found the crystal, and Master Corraidhín had vanished.
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> Inky wasn't sure which was worse — the appalling lack of
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> water-resistant fireworks surrounding the disappearance, or the
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> bears' ceaseless waterworks in grief over their ghostly
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> counterparts. Said bears plus a giant manta ray were eventually
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> left with the remains of Inky's two snack stashes. (The third was
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> back on the *Diamond Howler*.) The crystal was currently securely
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> hidden away inside the Milk Market, which was for the best. Inky
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> was not about to drag around an inedible melon that could
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> potentially level entire cities, if the wizard's hints about its
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> power were true. The crystal-retrieval missions were a cover anyway
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> — Inky had gotten what they were looking for. The equipment and
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> provisions sponsored by the Benefactor were a handy bonus though.
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>
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> Inside the tent, Inky adds the finishing flourishes to a package
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> and places it to one side, next to two others of a similar size and
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> a thin envelope already piled inside a padded sack on the ground.
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> The client should be pleased. It had taken longer, but the result
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> had been worth the additional hassle. The envelope, on the other
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> hand … who knew what had become of the previous one, sent in an
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> impulsive fit of post-dive haze once the ship had docked at the
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> port town. Donning a grey fedora, a worn light brown jacket, a
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> flask kettle and a wooden box with carrying straps, Inky the "Tiny"
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> tea seller leisurely sets off for the post office, sack in hand.
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>
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> It was still a bit strange — if less shocking than the first time
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> it happened — to speak in rabbiton with the postmistress at the
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> counter, although Inky couldn't actually detect any significant
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> differences from the common tongue besides occasionally being
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> reminded they shouldn't be able to understand the sounds at all.
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> Rabbiton or rabbitoff, hare mail couriers are among the fastest
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> across Basmentaria and will ensure any parcels and letters arrive
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> at their recipients in a timely manner. Due to their broad network
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> and high delivery confidence, letters without return addresses were
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> no issue; they can deliver with a valid recipient address, which
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> they are able to verify from an extensive series of registries and
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> course codes before taking the item. So it was that one such
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> envelope containing yet another somewhat unusual recipe was
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> promptly delivered to the Milk Market's ground floor on a blustery
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> Boltday afternoon.
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>
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> Postage done, Inky wanders through one of the city's seedier
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> districts, peddling cups of hot tea along the way. This had become
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> a daily routine for a little over a month since the Sugrin Sea
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> mission (longer and more sporadically before that whenever the imp
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> was in the city), including a spontaneous fifteen-minute "Tiny
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> Teatime" held in open areas such as small parks, or occasionally in
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> a back alley between several crowded residences. The tea happening
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> had initially been a whimsical response to *Teatime with Tanokuma*
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> and still regularly attracted children when iced drinks were served
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> during the summertime.
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>
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> Rows of slightly crooked houses sandwiched among acacia trees line
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> a narrow, winding lane. Inky passes the elderly playing tabula
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> surrounded by a small group of onlookers, people chewing on sweet
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> lemongrass or peeling vegetables, hanging up laundry on colourful
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> lines made of scrap rags, children laughing and chasing soapy
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> bubbles with wands dripping from laundry water, and all sorts of
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> activity that made houses into homes. Many of them were frank about
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> not having any spare coins for extras like speciality teas brewed
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> "just like them shops", but gladly accepted a steaming bamboo cup
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> upon realising they needn't pay, if sometimes a little suspiciously
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> at first. Instead of coin, they held a rich font of stories, local
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> legends, folk remedies, cooking methods, insider tip-offs and
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> rumours, which they were often eager to impart to an attentive
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> audience.
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>
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> Some of the passer-by were always in a hurry, downing the tea as
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> though it were a shot of hard liquor before retrieving a handful of
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> loose coins from a pocket or sock. When Inky smiled and told them
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> there was no charge, most would return a puzzled look or uncertain
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> smile, or roll their eyes, and drop a copper coin into a slot on
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> the lid of the box anyway. A few had promptly walked off wordlessly
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> with snickering faces, as though they had gotten away with
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> something clever. Regardless, it was one of the best ways to see
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> and observe a bustling metropolis. No one took any particular
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> notice of young urchins and vendors selling refreshments, flowers
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> and various trinkets on the streets.
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>
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> Likewise no one witnessed a tea seller pause near one of the
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> windows at the back of Enrique's Empanada Emporium late in the day.
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> For a while they watch the chef within in action, clearly in his
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> element, before reluctantly pulling away and retreating quietly up
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> the stairs to the second floor. They should wash up and see if
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> their marketing manager is in the mood for some takeout and
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> Terrapin Ale this evening.
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2022-11-15 01:28:58 +00:00
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2022-11-19 01:14:31 +00:00
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~
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> Background: Alex isn't young, but in comparison to his whizzened
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> uncle Corraidhin he's the depiction of youth. He has jet black hair
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> and alert blue eyes, and a quiet serenity about him that gives one
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> pause, as though he's constantly calculating. He gives into his
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> passions quickly however, and becomes rather animated when his
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> emotions break loose. He'll be the first to curse his uncle for his
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> foolish endeavors, never quite understanding the sysorcerer's way.
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> Early in life, after the death of his parents, Corraidhin took him
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> under his wing and tried in vain to teach him the ways of magical
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> systems administration. Much to Corraidhin, it only resulted in
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> damaged systems, and a rift with his nephew.
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>
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> It took years to recover from that, but eventually the two grew
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> close again, though distant nonetheless. That closeness reflects
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> itself in the situation Alex finds himself in now, a mysterious
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> alert from some overly contrived magical system, ruining his
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> perfectly good winning streak. It's not that he was necessary bad
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> at all of that stuff, it just, wasn't as much fun as gambling. And
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> it certainly wasn't as exhillerating as writing malware.
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>
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> Breaking into a system, smashing it to bites and pieces, watching
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> the carefully wrought design burn in amber and green, now THAT was
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> magic.
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>
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> META: Alex is like Corraidhin in some aspects, he's younger, more
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> brash, more given to whim and fancy. He's somewhat greedy and
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> craven, attracted to riches far too easily. He's a passionate
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> gambler, not due to his skill, but by virtue of his ability to
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> distract and confuse, which gives him a delightful edge. Some would
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> call it lucky, but he calls it subterfuge. He has some sysorcerer
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> skills, nothing quite as flexible as Corraidhin, but he
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> delightfully wreaks havoc with worms, scrapers, ransom & spyware.
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> If he can't bypass something, he'll delightfully destroy it. If he
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> can't break in, he'll distract someone or something so he can slip
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> by.
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>
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> (Think rogue + illusion magic, where Corraidhin is straight Wizard)
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>
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> Introduction: Kev, just give it to me straight, the hell does this
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> Deadman's trigger mean. You can't have a service like that flap,
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> it's a boolean, you're either dead or your not. And don't try to
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> lie to me, I'm not some project managing schmuck, you know full and
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> well Uncle Corraidhin taught me. I know enough to tell when you're
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> lying.
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>
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> (Kevin) Ah, well, umm. Yes I suppose that's true. You can't be dead
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> and not. It's just not an option. But Zabbix doesn't lie! It's what
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> monitors your Uncle's life force, the state of his infrastructure
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> so to speak. Look check your own, there's nothing to indicate any
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> issue with you, but your uncle's fluxuates consistently. None of
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> his other state checks are failing though! So it could just be a
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> problem with his Deadman's trigger code.
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>
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> Absolutely not. Corraidhin might be a flighty fool, but he's not
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> someone who would deploy faulty code to production. There's no way
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> in hell it would get past his linter, let alone all of the QA he
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> does before it even gets that far. Look, what the hell did you drag
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> him into, you know exactly what he gets up to, just point me in his
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> direction so I can get this shit over with.
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>
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> (Kevin) Hmm, he didn't really want me to talk about it, but last I
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> saw him, he was babbling on and on about some magical Json sword or
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> something. I couldn't quite keep up with it.
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>
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> You were trying to get him to buy into KDL again weren't you?
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>
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> (Kevin) It's a good language I swear, and if your uncle had just..
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> (Alex cuts him off)
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>
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> Hush it. What did the sword look like, where was he headed?
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>
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> (Kevin) *sigh* it was large, with a ruby hilt, and a magical eye of
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> some sort. I'm certain if you just ask around you'll find it. Just
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> ask about the sysorcerer who mutters to his sword, that's how the
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> poor bastard is remembered around here these days.
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>
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>
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> With this information Alex departed the Sysorcerer's guild in
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> search of his Uncle. As he asked around town, people shied away.
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> Nasty business talking about that one, they'd tell him. A few
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> mentioned something about an attack, and a dagger and bloodlust the
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> likes of which they'd only heard from the bard at their local
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> tavern. None of this sounded like the Uncle he remembered, but he
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> followed the trail until it lead him to the Milk Maid.
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>
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> As Alex checked around for someone, anyone who seemed to be in the
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> know, he spotted Inky, serving tea as she watched the ongoings at
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> the Empanada shop near the Milk Maid.
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>
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> Excuse me, miss? You wouldn't have happened to seen my Uncle, he's
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> an old whizened fellow. Constantly harrumphs and goes on and on
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> endlessly about some magical script, or how much he hates the
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> School of Powershell. I haven't been able to find him, and I've
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> been looking all over the city for the better part of 3 days. Note
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> even his best friend Kevin at the Sysorcer's guild knew where he
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> was, and I'm just, I'm at a bit of a loss..
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>
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> *sigh* I'm sorry to just unload on your like that. If you don't
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> know him that's okay, I'd be happy to pay for a cup of tea for your
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> time.
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~
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> *(Two days prior)*
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>
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> An office, barely illuminated by the glow of a moonstone lamp.
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>
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> An elf attired in red silk dress robes with a shimmering pattern of
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> butterflies, a red floral picture hat and matching high heel boots
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> lounged in the visitor's chair in front of a heavy wooden desk. The
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> charms dangling from her wrist circlets tinkled as she reached for
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> a teacup. A silver tray was placed to one side of the desk with a
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> pot of maghrebi francus, two porcelain cups and a bowl of sugar
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> cubes. The remaining surface was mostly covered by a map of
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> Basmentaria, the moonstone lamp and a short stack of books. Behind
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> the desk sat an imp in a midnight blue suit, a dart pen balanced on
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> the edge of two fingers of one hand, while the other tapped a
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> silent rhythm on the pineapple leather armrest.
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>
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> The lady in dress robes spoke first. "I made some inquiries. That
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> sysorcerer acquaintance of yours seems to be stuck in some sort of
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> spatial-temporal loop. The anomalies are usually salvageable given
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> time and expert attention. His nephew is out looking for him now."
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> She hands the imp a sheet with a drawing of a pensive but
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> bright-eyed young man with dark hair, and several lines of notes
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> below. "How are things at your end?"
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>
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> "The situation is tenable for the moment. One checked, another
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> disengaged. Between the wizard and bard, Blackfoot will think twice
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> before making any more untoward moves. One of the waiters at the
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> club said the bard gave him a little dressing-down after the
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> stabbing. He was practically shaking in his boots by the end of
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> it."
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>
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> The elf laughed. "I read your earlier missive. Slipping a catalyst
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> into a milk pudding to stir up a bloodthirsty sword? I guess you
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> were pretty sure the thirst wouldn't get out of hand and kill the
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> hobbit outright."
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>
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> "Not entirely, but the good wizard would fight it with considerable
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> strength of will. That guild of his may be full of white hats too
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> busy with their petty squabbling over semantics to see trouble
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> looming until it smacked them in their faces, but they have their
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> principles and will not give in easily when challenged." The imp
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> grimaced. "An unpleasant matter but arguably a necessity. It was
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> only a matter of time before the cursed sword would find itself a
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> target. May as well put evil to good use."
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>
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> "You did what you had to do, Ink. And that sailor with the gold
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> eye?"
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>
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> "Met with an unfortunate … accident. Securing the crystal would
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> have been sufficient, but the horkosgrampus weren't terribly
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> impressed with him. The Benefactor should be relieved. Men of their
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> ilk would sooner sell to the highest bidder." The pen twirled in
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> their hand once, twice, before pausing with the nib pointing
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> downward at a spot on the map. The imp continued, "All the more
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> reason to move as soon as the young man finds his uncle. Kelsun
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> Peak, most likely."
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>
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> "Right. I'll let the others know if anything happens." She rose to
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> her heels in a whisper of brocade silks. "Do you want an antidote
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> for … ?" She gestured with a slim, graceful hand framed in delicate
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> strands of the gold bracelets towards her companion.
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>
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> The imp inclined their head slightly in grateful acknowledgement.
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> "No need. The condition is relatively harmless and reversing the
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> effects now might raise suspicion. The postmistress at the Hutcheon
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> Lane branch of Leplus Post was very tickled by it."
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>
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> "I see. So that's how it is." she replied with undisguised mirth.
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> The imp ignored her smirk. "Please see to it the preparations are
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> carried out. The fate of your beloved operetta house may well
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> depend upon it."
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>
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> "You would never!" The elven lady exclaimed in mock affront. "No, I
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> wouldn't, even though it is the bane of all fine glassware.
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> However, if the crystals came to less discerning hands …" They
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> shared a solemn look before the elf nodded and swept out of the
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> room, leaving the cloying scent of violets in her path.
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>
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> ~
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>
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> Inky gestures wordlessly for the young wizard to follow them
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> upstairs to the second floor of the Milk Market, heading straight
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> for the room at one end of a long hallway.
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>
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> As Inky enters, their small and fluffy marketing manager pops its
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> head out of the wooden tub of water standing to one side of the
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> room. "We have a visitor!" Inky cheerfully tells the duck. Their
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> marketing manager looks back at them both and says, "QUACK!"
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>
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> Inky turns back to the young man with a smile. "Please have a seat.
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> How may we address you? Tea? No charge for Master Corraidhín's
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> nephew, of course."
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>
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> Once seated on some cushions thrown over a slightly ratty tartan
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> rug and having poured out a steaming cup of mandarin pekoe for each
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> of them, Inky begins, "So, about your uncle. The good news is, we
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> know him. The bad news is, we knew him." They then proceed to
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> recount the events of their latest mission at the site of a
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> shipwreck out in the Sugrin Sea, and the elder sysorcerer's
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> disappearance.
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Prelude:
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A fringe movement of lunatic paleornithologists and crackpots of
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various other professions has slowly been gaining traction over the
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last few decades. The movement was born when the enterprising Modern
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Fuchsia, at the time a budding young scientist on a dig yearning to
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make a name for himself, found the fossil of a modern feathered
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bird---probably some kind of swallow---alongside a theropod, that
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variety of dinosaur widely accepted to be the ancestor of modern
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birds. Faced with what he believed to be irrefutable evidence of a
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modern descendant coexisting alongside its own ancient ancestor,
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Fuchsia arrived at the only conclusion he was capable of making:
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Birds Are Not Dinosaurs. And thus BAND came into being.
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Ever since, Fuschia and his BANDits have spent considerable amounts
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of time and energy attending conferences and publishing papers,
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pouting and demanding to be taken seriously by the wider scientific
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community. A community which, if it pays them any attention at all,
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merely mocks and ridicules their crackpot theories.
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Modern Fuschia is of course wrong. But neither he nor his BANDits
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know how dangerously close he came to the actual truth.
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For much, much deeper in the shadowy fringes of paleornithology,
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there is a clandestine operation called BATT. And only BATT knows the
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actual explanation for how a modern descendant might coexist
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alongside its own ancestor. Birds Are Time Travelers.
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In the far future when birds are the dominant intelligent life on
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Basmentaria, they do indeed invent time travel. The end result was
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catastrophic and is the real reason that the dinosaurs went extinct.
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It is a common misconception that barn swallows are the most common
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and widespread species of swallow. That distinction in fact belongs
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to the *time swallow*. Although---if you're lucky---you'll never
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actually see one. Since the Incident, the secret agents of BATT have
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vowed never again to interfere with or try to alter the time stream.
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Nor to allow anyone else to. The time swallows are special bred,
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special trained, appearing wherever and whenever an anomaly appears
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to remove it and restore the proper timeline. The tiny birds quite
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literally swallow, consume, and destroy anything that meddles with
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time.
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At their headquarters, in the present day, BATT Director Purple
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Martin is delivering a report to his superior. Martin has a throaty
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and rich voice of which he is self-conscious in the presence of his
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superior's persistent silence.
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"We have successfully extracted the sysorcerer and have repaired the
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anomaly. The subject is currently under the care of Felixe and is
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expected to make a full recovery. In his possession were a couple of
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interesting artifacts. One Class C sentient object, a sword. And a
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piece of exotica of unknown origin. Our researchers so far suspect
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that it is a sort of reliquary containing both elemental and divine
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arcana. The xot's physical manifestation---a crystalline ore---thus
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far prevents us from determining the precise identity of the arcana."
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Director Purple Martin is delivering this report to a lanky, thin man
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folded into an armchair. He wears thin, wire spectacles with round
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lenses, and dangles a walking stick over the arm of the chair as he
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sits. He interrupts Martin with a rare utterance. "The reliquary. I
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shall like to see it."
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Now then:
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Retrieval Team 43 welcomes Alex into their ranks even as they mourn
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the loss of Corraidhín the Wizened.
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It starts off as a somber affair at Lucy's as you all sit around your
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regular table, ensconced and wedged into a corner surrounded on two
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sides by the red velvet curtains that line the walls.
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But then the hobbit joins you.
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Blavin Blandfoot orders a round of drinks in tribute to Corraidhín.
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And then another round of drinks to welcome his nephew Alex. "A
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family affair, is it not!" And then another round of drinks because
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he is thirsty.
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The hobbit is in high spirits, brimming with flair and good cheer.
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His arm is fully healed from the attack over a month ago at this very
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table. His fond memories and frequent toasts to the sysorcerer make
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no reference to the incident.
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"The Benefactor is immensely pleased with your performance so far!"
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He punches a new hole in your Frequent Retrieval cards. "You are one
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step closer to winning a FABULOUS PRIZE! I don't mind telling you I'm
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a little jealous. Assuming you go the distance, of course. I mean who
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doesn't love hot dogs and hot tubs!" He winks conspiratorially at
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you. "To say nothing of actually getting to meet the Benefactor! Just
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imagine!"
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After a few more drinks he eventually clears a space on the table and
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rolls out a map of Basmentaria. "We once again have two reports of a
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crystal spotting!" He jabs a finger at the mountain range in northern
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Primora. "The first, as you know, has been reported by the zephynos
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high atop Kelsun Peak."
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"The second," his voice quivers with excitement. He looks up at you
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wide-eyed and gestures away from the map into open space. "Is on the
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moon!"
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Seated a couple tables away from you is the same trio who were
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present the last time you all met here: a dusty groll, a matted gnu,
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and a curious Ornithologer. The observant among you, if you happened
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to look, would notice that the Ornithologer wears a pinkish purplish
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red armband with the word BAND on it. They listen to your proceedings
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with great interest while trying really hard to look like they're not
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listening. After Blavin's final proclamation, the trio finishes their
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drinks, stands, and starts to leave the dining room.
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WHAT DO YOU DO
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- Do you give the second crystal to Blavin?
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- Do you choose to go to Kelsun Peak, or to the moon?
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- Who is the Lady in Red and what does she want?
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- Will Corraidhín recover in the care of Felixe?
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- Who does the Director of BATT report to and what do they want with
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the 1st Crystal?
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- What's the deal with the Ornithologer's Trio?
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- Who left you the note signed with an iris and apple?
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Find out next time on BASEMENT QUEST
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[www](https://framalistes.org/sympa/arc/tildepals/2022-11/msg00097.html)
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2022-11-15 01:28:58 +00:00
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