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title: 00027
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created: Tue, 25 Oct 2022 14:14:31 -0600
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updated: Fri, 28 Oct 2022 10:36:42 -0600
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public: yes
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syndicated: yes
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---
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### 00027 {#00027}
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> Inky stares down at the package, weighing it on one hand.
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>
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> It was lighter than it should be given the density of the contents
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> within, wrapped in straw and thick brown weight-absorbent parcel
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> paper for dry goods. Most of the clientele were merchants and
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> cultists from other parts of the continent who ordered pallets to
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> be shipped back from the port town and sold to select boutique
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> grocers or spilled on altars. Inside was a block of congealed
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> synthetic blood shaped like a mud brick, the dark crimson almost
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> black under the shop's dim light.
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>
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> It was sheer happenstance that Inky had found this particular
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> supplier. Having been informed heir boat to the shipwreck would not
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> arrive for several hours, the members of their merry tea party had
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> wandered off to enjoy the local sights while they waited. Inky had
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> inquired about the hemogoblins and learned in passing that there
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> was a district at the western edge of the town where a smaller
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> group had set up warehouses, which would save them a two-day trip
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> deep into the Hartlands. The hemogoblins in the district were
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> primarily wholesalers, and it had taken some convincing before one
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> of the proprietors agreed to sell a block of it, along with
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> assurances Inky would purchase exclusively from him next time and
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> in larger quantities.
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>
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> Thin fingers fiddle with the string before the package was set to
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> one side.
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>
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> What were they doing?
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>
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> If quenching the thirst were so simple, wouldn't any student of
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> magic have already thought of it, let alone an experienced
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> sysorceror? In all likelihood he had already known the inevitable,
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> but was too polite to refuse Inky's funny concoctions. Maybe deep
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> down, Inky already knew too, but didn't want to say it out loud.
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> That the long feather they thought they had seen among the tea
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> leaves was actually a dagger. That they hadn't wanted to admit some
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> problems could not be whisked away with some tincture or another.
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> That they had failed, again.
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>
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> They hadn't searched enough for better ingredients to go into the
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> pudding, hadn't reacted fast enough after noticing the sword had
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> abruptly disappeared, hadn't thrown the large platter of mouldy
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> meat the terrified waitress next to them had been holding at
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> Blavin's head, or something. The sword had gotten what it demanded,
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> and Inky couldn't be angry with it — it had never been subtle about
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> what it wanted. Had the blood pudding worsened the effects? Potions
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> had never been on Inky's menu. Brewing inks and teas with certain
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> mild effects was straightforward enough, but curing chronic
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> ailments was firmly in healers' territory and just as bewildering.
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> While it may be true nobody could be held to account for the
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> actions of another not in full control of themselves, and hardly
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> those of a rogue weapon with a mind of its own, sticking their nose
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> in other people's affairs was the surest way to get into trouble, a
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> fact Inky still has difficulty learning after decades of wandering
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> the continent.
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>
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> Would this substrate even work? Maybe it acted differently for
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> cursed objects than coffin sleepers. Having brought it back and now
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> aboard the ship, how would they even give it to the wizard? Should
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> they wait and made sure Master Corraidhín was truly rested and
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> recovered, despite his insistence he was more than fine? Would it
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> be an insulting reminder of weakness, despite the wizard having
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> proven unusual mental fortitude in staving off the screams for
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> blood as long as he had? Was this more of the same, adding to what
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> they had (not) done?
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>
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> After a long moment, Inky rolls the package with the producers'
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> leaflet haphazardly in an old sailor's rags still reeking of cheap
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> alcohol, and passing by the wizard's empty cabin on the way to the
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> deck, places the messy bundle on the floorboards two steps from the
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> door. Let the fates decide this one, because Inky's magic 0 ball
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> sure doesn't make the best life choices.
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Blavin has arranged transportation to the shipwreck ahead of time.
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All you have to do is head down to the docks and meet your contact,
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Three-Fingered Gerald, at a seedy dive bar named Inquire Within Upon
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Everything.
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Inquire Within is as eclectic and gaudy as the name would imply. The
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bar serves as an extensive and impressive piece of living
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documentation, drawing heavily on the port town's cosmopolitan
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mixture of culture. Every kind of style, cuisine, decor, and beverage
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can be found here mishmashed together irregardless of good taste. Its
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contents are encyclopedic and claustrophobic. And yet it is not
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without its own peculiar brand of overwhelming, garish charm.
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You find Mister Three-Fingered at the bar entertaining his fellow
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patrons with a grotesque sleight of hand routine that involves
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passing his gold-plated false eye from its socket, to either hand,
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inside his mouth, and back with lots of flourish, fanfare, and
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misdirection along the way.
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He is a merry, boisterous sailor short one eye, half an ear, several
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fingers, and---he confesses to you---the heel of his left foot. "It's
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why I walk so slow, you see." The other barflies call him "Lucky"
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Three-Fingered Gerald. Because a certain kind of man---and Gerald is
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one of them---can never have enough nicknames. After you buy him a
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drink or three, he escorts you out of Inquire Within and to the slip
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where the sloop *Diamond Howler* is docked. Its captain, Enid Barlow,
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welcomes you aboard.
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Before long, *Diamond Howler* pulls out under the command of Captain
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Barlow and First Mate "Lucky" Three-Fingered Gerald. The site isn't
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too far off the coast, and you arrive fairly quickly.
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"Aye, here she is. The SS RSS." says Captain Barlow mournfully. "You
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can't see her from up here. But you rest assured, she's down there,
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resting on the seabed. She was the best cargo runner on the Sugrin
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back in her day! Distributing goods up and down the coast. Until the
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day she disappeared. Nobody knew what happened to her, not for sure.
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Still don't. But at least we know where she wound up!"
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While the captain reminisces, Three-Fingered Gerald drags a large
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water tank across the deck, sloshing water over the edge with each
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step. Translucent orb-like jellyfish wobble around and bump into each
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other inside the tank, releasing little effervescent bubbles that
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fizzle and pop when they collide. "Here we go!" announces Mister
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Three-Fingered, depositing the tank of jellies in front of you.
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"Sailed through a big bloom of breathing bells just last week, didn't
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we! Managed to scoop up a whole bunch of the little suckers. You ever
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use a breathing bell before? No? Aw, it's easy! Ya just pull one on
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over your head like a hood, and it'll breathe for ya while you're
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below the waves!"
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WHAT DO YOU DO
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NOTE: We just covered a lot of narrative ground. Feel free to react
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to anything that happened between arriving at the docks, meeting
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Gerald and drinking at Inquire Within, boarding the Diamond Howler,
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and sailing to the site of the wreck.
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[www](https://framalistes.org/sympa/arc/tildepals/2022-10/msg00020.html)
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