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---
title: Appendix A
created: Thu, 29 Dec 2022 15:46:36 -0700
updated: Thu, 29 Dec 2022 15:46:37 -0700
public: yes
---
## Appendix A: Barefoot Quackery
Being apocryphal and supplemental material posted to the *Barefoot Quackery*
thread on tildepals, including depictions of loose pages torn from books of the
Runesocesius Library, and original fictions and other diversions, and more.
### Cease and Desist
> To: durrendal
> From: LABATT
> Subject: Cease and Desist Order
>
> To whom it may concern:
>
> It has recently come to our attention that a personhood has withheld
> important document(s) which affect the structural nature of a sensitive
> publication, namely the [REDACTED] zine.
>
> Please cease and desist immediately. You may comply with this order by
> submitting the aforementioned document(s) to the designated drop-off point as
> instructed on the imprint accompanying your submission form by midnight
> Coordinated Basmentaric Time (BTC) of Day 22 of Member 12 in the year 2202.
>
> Continued infringement represents an escalation and will result in sanctions,
> including but not withstanding a remote cursery execution (RCE) on your
> monitoring and calendar infrastructure.
>
> We reserve the right to pursue other corrective actions through
> temporally-attuned means to protect the release timeline integrity of key
> cultural assets.
>
> Sincerely,
>
> Luminati Association of Bears as Time Travellers (LABATT)
---
> Dear sir and/or madame and/or bear and/or time travel NSA agent,
>
> We've read your cease and desist, and while we understand its intent, we're
> unable at this time to comply, not through any inability of our own, but
> rather through our inability to stop writing run on sentence; you see we
> never truly learned how to grammar goodly and now we just go on and on, ad
> nauseum, so on and so forth; truly it is a depressing and persistent problem,
> if we were ever to find the correct punctuation to prevent these run ons from
> happening we might be able to cease, potentially even desist, but probably
> both at the same time, or neither all at once, we're really uncertain at this
> point; all that is know is that nothing is truly known once you've gone this
> far down the grammartical, and metaphorical, rabbit hole; to speak
> metaphorically that is on a subject that is somewhat subjectively objective
> while simultaneously being an objective objection to your subjective
> summation of our grevious misgivings, truly one must infer that the meaning
> of these metaphoric subjectively objective objections are subjective in their
> own right, potentially reaching the height of metaphysical incanatation; one
> could say this run on sentence is one giant invocation, a charm of warding
> against cease and desist notices, to protect the poor photographer from his
> abject abandonment of his own promises; though some may object to my absolute
> misuse of proper punctuation and grammar to the point where said people
> stopped reading long again and began readying pitchforks and torches, likely
> they're on their way to Maine now ready to burn my witchy incantating self
> for the hum dinger of a grammatical curse I sit here writing, but to these
> people I say NAY, nay sir I object to your cease and desist, and to their
> objection to this abject horror of a sentence, and I abject my throne as
> well, for you know I once was a king, not a very rich king, but a king in my
> own right; why yes, indeed I was, king of stream of concious ramblings
> without respect for grammar, punctuation, or any of that high falootin
> nonsense that the yonder rich kings hold dear, and which I hold to be a
> dreadful and dire curse upon us all, but with that I really must bid you Good
> Day madame, though let this not be an ending, but the begining of a wonderful
> and delightful sort of cease and desist based relationship,
---
> To: durrendal
> From: LABATT
> Subject: Re: Cease and Desist Order [#20221221-1946]
>
> To whom it may concern:
>
> Please be advised that any evidence you provided in your response may be used
> against you in the event an injunction is filed against your personhood
> should you fail to comply with the order. This includes any admission of
> culpability or liability stemming from failure to submit the aforementioned
> document(s) in a timely manner.
>
> LABATT is a renowned non-profit organisation dedicated to the preservation of
> historical continuity of cultural works in the fabric of space-time. We
> deplore the designation of "NSA agent" and invite you to learn more about our
> mission and vision on our website and free seminars one of our offices across
> Basmentaria.
>
> Sincerely,
>
> Luminati Association of Bears as Time Travellers (LABATT)
### On the Origins of Santa Claws
125
On the Origins of Santa Claws
Maximus N. Grinchescu
It should heretofore be common knowledge that the Santa Claws of present day is
the stuff of fantasy and make-believe, a story fabricated on the spur of the
moment by some exasperated mother who could not for the life of her induce her
children to behave. The very notion of reward in the form of toys and presents,
or punishment in the lack thereof of aforementioned items, is no doubt
appealing to many parents who are themselves motivated similarly and thus can
only appeal to their offspring at the most superficial level. The lifelong goal
in the pursuit of consumption has been drummed into these unfortunate
children's heads from a young age, with thinly-veiled threats of a thorough
mauling for those who dare to deviate from the well— and truly down— trodden
path. It is the means by which the cycle of ignorance and conceit perpetuates
among the unwashed masses — young mops bragging about having the largest
present under the tree, to become adults boasting of receiving the most
expensive gifts from a spouse or ever-widening court of suitors. The myth of
Santa Claws is a gross distortion of facts disguised as a moralistic narrative
that promotes annually renewing contracts of obedience in exchange for
short-term material gains. Astonishingly, nary a word of doubt would be heard
from the parents on the merits of accepting gifts from an obsessive stranger
who prowls the streets at night watching their children sleep, in addition to
claiming knowledge of the children's every move rivalling their own.
It is regrettable that the image of Santa Claws in the eyes of many has been
reduced to that of a jolly dangerous delivery worker. Little do they know that
the real Santa Claws came from a long line of frockin — wandering folk who don
a cassock and dedicate their lives to aiding the hungry, desperate and needy.
On occasions for gifts, they gave to all regardless of whether they were
perceived by friend or foe of the recipients to be good or evil, for such is
the willingness of the frockin to set aside their quarrels on the Day of
Bountiful Blessings. They travel across Basmentaria in fortles which house a
multitude of rooms and supplies required to sustain their livelihoods. Inside
the fortles were workshops in which carpenters, woodworkers, drafters, tailors,
various craftspeople as well as farmers and cooks plied their skills.
One frockin in particular became known for rescuing ransomed young maidens and
poor indentured servants who faced torture by the oil vat at the hands of cruel
employers in the nick of time that they became known as Nick, Blessed of
Neddas, or Nick of Mairas as they gained grateful followers and admirers.
Despite this, the frockin was modest in manner and rarely took credit for their
acts of generosity. Because of this trait and the loss of the few, limited
first-hand accounts of those with close dealings with the frockin in a fire
shortly before they assumed the care and upkeep of a pair of fortles, little is
known of their childhood circumstances or early life. Enrolment records at an
vocational institution in Vay'Neddas confirmed that they studied for several
years in the city, and inherited their uncle's position of managing the
activities within the fortles sometime after their return. Other historical
biographers contend the frockin's name was in fact Nikolas Klaus, which later
became Claws in children's stories as to make them most palatable to
impressionable young readers.
Questions as to the nature of their appearance are generally of little import
save for lining the pockets of picture book publishers and mass producers of
wax figure collectibles. Those who have had the fortune to glimpse their person
described a wizened countenance of long hair, fulsome beard and whiskers
gleaming white and silver, amid which nestled a pair of warm amber eyes, a nose
slightly rosy from the cold and an affable smile. A genial face rested atop a
large stocky frame, as was common among those with the blood and strength of
noble mountain lions. As in the period of their ancestors, they wore a dark
---
126
brown cloak with a hood over their cassock to ward against the cold weather,
though this changed after one occasion when they narrowly avoided being run
over by a semi-autonomous cart. The abominable thing had zipped by in front of
Santa at a beard's distance away as they emerged on the roof of a house through
its chimney.
At this juncture it should be duly noted that the idea of Santa Claws typically
making their entrance into homes by clambering down chimneys, even preferring
it as a method of entry, is as preposterous as the worthless rags that
circulated such claims. No one of sound mind would shimmy through filthy,
narrow, often half-crumbling chutes — carrying a large sack, no less — if they
could safely enter through the front door. For the latter was exactly what
Santa and their predecessors did, and still do to this day in some villages, in
a time when people were less leery of their neighbours and either left their
doors unlocked, or placed a spare key under the doormat so the household next
door could tend to the plants or the children's pepper pigs while they visited
relatives farther away.
According to a later account by one of the crew on Santa's fleet, translated
and transcribed for the frockins' annals by a chronicler, what had actually
transpired was this: on that night while nearing the end of their rounds, Santa
found signs of flooding at one of the houses pointing to a burst pipe, the
water having seeped out under the front door and turned to ice in the frigid
temperatures. Tender of heart, Santa retrieved their fleet repair kit that was
kept for emergencies and ventured into the house to repair the broken pipe, in
lieu of simply leaving the presents outside on a stump where a tree once stood
and riding on. It was then that an obstacle presented itself. The house owners,
having gone away for the holidays, had a magical apparatus set on the door that
would raise an alarm and curse if opened by an intruder. No house key was found
under the mat after defrosting the ice over it enough to pull off the cover.
The windows were likewise sealed shut and latched. This ultimately necessitated
Santa entering and leaving through the chimney. Doubtless some fool stumbled
upon the moment Santa exited the chimney opening, nearly flattened by the
aerial hazard of a self-navigating cart, and got it into their head that Santa
Claws was one for chimney-climbing as sport.
When the good Mrs. Claws found out about the near mishap, they were so worried
about their partner venturing out on missions that as a precaution, they had
Santa promise to wear a bright red outfit for such occasions. The thick
overcoat had a white faux fur trim that reflected the moons' light, matching
hat and trousers and a shining gold belt buckle so that the carts' sensors can
sight him even on the darkest nights. Completing the outfit were gloves with
open seams at the base of each finger to reveal their claws without taking off
the gloves completely. The whole ensemble was made by Mrs. Claws themselves,
and it was said they had gotten the inspiration for the white trimmings from
their partner's flowing mane. Members of the fleet were also offered a similar
change in clothing and the flying multibeast was re-painted in accordance with
the new colours that are now festooned in the streets and shops all over
Basmentaria each year as the Day of Bountiful Blessings draws near.
A brief word on the aforementioned fleet: much remains unconfirmed about the
origins or evolution of the transport employed by Santa Claws to cover long
distances, and the arcana that powers the current fleet remains a subject of
heated speculation. Based on surviving annals that were once on public display,
before the twin fortles vanished one night were never seen again, it is
generally thought that the earliest fleets were small fortles guided by a crew
of twelve members excluding Santa Claws. In time the fortles were retired and
replaced with aerial multibeasts for lighter weight and potential for greater
velocity. Contrary to popular jingles, the multibeast is not pulled by
reindeer, which are neither known for speed nor stamina, but are headed by rain
horses specially raised for both as as well their ability to withstand much of
### Sunrise over Kelsun Peak
```
that night we ride up the mountain
deep within a Saldin Sea of mist
our way up becomes cloudy, uncertain
crying, heavy air turns to water
the cage starts to shudder and shake,
a venerable old man in a seizure
you clung to my arm as a bear cub
to its mother in the darkness,
the lone candle snuffed out in a huff
of a petulant wind throwing a tantrum
I grip the handle hard enough,
vowing to be strong for both of us
when we are called from fitful slumber
by twin rays of warming distant light
promising more, brother and sister
a cold breakfast or a hot chocolate
lastly and first, the sight of you
eyes open, hair tousled, immaculate
the rusty gondola creaks a little
under our combined weight, groaning
at our youthfully excessive flair
but we did not care, with our hearts
facing the sun, far lighter as one
than the corporeal sum of its parts
a new day breaks, yolk radiant orange
reveal the finest tempera brushed over
neat rows of tea plants at the grange
a gleaming dewdrop at the tip of a leaf,
we dangle on the cusp, an infinite moment
in the sky, we dare to hope, to believe
```
40
### How to Grow Fortified Pumpkins
How to Grow Fortified Pumpkins
by Oles Macdonald
So you wanna grow fortified pumpkins, huh? Well, first things first, you're
gonna need a fort. You got yer self one, right? An' I don't mean those blow-up
bouncing bollocks for kids, those take up room and don't do jack. No sirree,
you need to get yer self a rock fort. The real hard structure, not mouldy
cheese. Snow's not gonna cut it, fun for the young 'uns maybe but kills yer
plants with frostbite fast. Sand just gets washed away in a storm. An' don't
get me started on pillow forts, them things should be banned. Blocks sunlight,
flaps like the village gossips with a bit o' wind letting in rain every which
way, feathers inside them pillows take too long to dry when wet, I can go on
an' on about it all day but we're talking about growing the best fortified
pumpkins so let's stick with it.
Bottom line is if you ain't got one then build one from rocks, it's what it
says on the tin. Just make sure to choose large dry ones, flat-like, you
wouldn't wanna get sick from cave mold before you even get this sucker off the
ground, and flats will save you time cutting all them sides. Build your fort on
a sunny part of yer land away from trees. Pumpkins love to suntan, even shows
on their skins in some varieties. Stack up some rocks like yer building a brick
wall or grill. The fort wall should be about a hand's thickness fer insulation
an' at least twelve by four-an'-twenty by six feet on the inside. Spread
fisherfolk nets over the top to let in the sun, rain and bees to do their thing
for yer pumpkin plants but keep them birds out. You can throw cured tarp over
it an' anchor it to the fort wall if a big storm comes along. Don' forget to
leave an opening so you can fit a door later. Lets you get in an' out easy, but
not so easy that the rats an' other rodents get to yer pumpkins first.
Door-wise there's no need to be a fusspot about it, put in something sturdy
with a clever latch or a ward if you can get a hold of one so the raccoon cats
can't pick the lock with their claws.
Yer gonna need three feet of the height right off the bat for a raised bed,
specially if you don't know fer sure if the land below yer feet is cursed or
not, or can't tell horse sh—t apart from dark clay to check yer soil is good.
Line the inside of the fort with sheet metal where you'll load up with good
soil in a bit, an' make sure you can get to all sides. No sense growing a bed
full of pumpkins if you can't reach over to grab 'em later. You can also use
wood but they will rot something nasty if you don't find the right wood that
takes to water well an' have a habit of overwatering loads, then the whole
thing falls apart under the weight. Sheet metal like the stuff used fer roofs
will do the job, just bang a few together like a box with no lid no bottom an'
yer in business. If you'd rather be safe than sorry, you can make it even
sturdier on the inside with a steel bar or two across the width of the bed.
Fill a third of the bed with straw, ol' wood, alfalfa or stuff like that you
got laying around, then the rest of the way up to about the third knuckle's
length away from the top edge with good quality compost. Every farmer worth
their weight in potatoes knows good quality compost is the real gold. As I
always tell new folks lookin' to set up right, go big on compost or go home.
Once you've filled up the bed, dig a few rows of shallow trenches in the soil
about a half-an'-a-feet or two apart an' two knuckles deep at yer pinky finger.
Soak yer seeds overnight and plant 'em in a feet apart in the rows. Cover 'em
up and mulch that beauty of a bed. Give 'em a good thorough watering every
other day, or every day if it's like an oven hot out there, an' Bread's yer
butter. Halfway through the season if they're lookin' a little starved, fortify
'em by making some compost tea to freshen 'em up. You can use hemogoblin blood
too if you got that, it's just a pricier way to do the same thing with the same
results, an' who likes payin' more when you can throw a few fish bones
together, boil the whole lot, leave it to rot an' get free plant tea? Not me.
Now when they start flowering, nip off any extra flowers on the same vine so
the pumpkin gets more nourishment an' grows bigger. For a lot of newbs it's a
chore, but wait 'til you see the size of these pups. If you don't wanna mess
about staking up vines, let 'em run around a bit and that's hunky dory too.
Just be sure they aren't sittin' in a swimming pool, that's a one-way ride to
mushy pumpkins an' root rot. An' dangnabbit do I hate mushy pumpkins.
### An Overview of S.T.A.G Drones
This guide is meant to introduce the operate (you) to the functionality of
features of the S.T.A.G drone. For in depth usage and extensibility please
review the source code which can be found at your local GNU guild.
S.T.A.G - (S)py (T)ransmat (A)utonomous (G)izmo
As the name implies, the S.T.A.G drone is a capable and compact automous gizmo
capable of relaying video, audio, & gps information to its operator. Unlike
most convention drones it requires no input to operate, simply supplying it
with an object is sufficient. The on board (A)mber (I)mp handles the actual
control. It is important that you retrieve the A.I. from the drone in the event
you choose to discard, or risk the S.T.A.G. in any way, remember Imp's are
sentient beings.
Once an operator has deployed a S.T.A.G drone they'll recieve information back
from it in the format of a twtxt feed, and open source plain text format which
is easily parsed. GPS coordinates are reported as JSON strings inside of this
feed, audio is transliterated to text, and video is relayed as a series of
ascii characters. All an operate needs to do to view these feeds is to cat the
return text to a terminal and it should render. If the operater does not have
access to a terminal, or is not a practice sysorcerer, the video feed can be
consumed by retrieving the S.T.A.G drone and holding it close to your ear. The
A.I have been trained in number Basementarian languages and are happy to
dutifully describe the scenes they've seen.
Each of these feeds can be subscribed to separately
The aggregate feed can be accessed via:
```
@<stag_arn uri://stag/arn>
```
Simiarly these feeds provide filtered results by name:
```
@<stag_arn uri://stag/arn/gps>
@<stag_arn uri://stag/arn/audio>
@<stag_arn uri://stag/arn/video>
```
### Gremlin Sysorcer
The gremlin stretched in his padded ergonomic chair and stifled a yawn. He had
just finished beating the final Heroic Fantasy game for the twelfth time, when
a flood of identical alerts flashed across his second screen: `Outgoing
connection blocked on port 443 from 10.10.12.26` He reached into the machine,
looked up the process and found two unfamiliar entries bouncing in and out of
hottop's list for most computering units being consumed. The new intern had
probably downloaded some application with an auto-updater and left it installed
on the workstation. He zapped the processes.
```
killall -9 ysosirius
killall -9 yunoluvirus
```
That should do it. He watched hottop closely on the monitor. A beat passed.
Two, then the processes returned. Grr. These weren't regular rogue procs, but
forked demons. His stubby fingers sprinted over the mechanical keyboard,
clacking loudly in the dark office as he fired off a series of spells:
```
sudo systemctl stop ysosirius
sudo systemctl stop yunoluvirus
sudo systemctl disable ysosirius
Failed to execute operation: Access denied
```
G—ck. How is that possible? The gremlin scratched his head with his Mebekey for
a minute. Immutable flags?
```
sudo chattr -i /etc/systemd/system/ysosirius.service
/bin/bash chattr: not found
```
What. Did the intern somehow mistook it for a messaging client during the
initial audit phase and removed it from all the workstations? He really needed
to have a word with them when they turn up on Monday, but for now—
```
sudo apt -y install e2fsprogs
sudo chattr -i /etc/systemd/system/ysosirius.service
sudo rm -rf /etc/systemd/system/ysosirius*
sudo chattr -i /etc/systemd/system/yunoluvirus.service
sudo rm -rf /etc/systemd/system/yunoluvirus*
```
There, stupid demons terminated. Must have been one of his colleagues leaving
him a gaff holiday gift, but he started a malware scan anyway just in case.
Smiling to himself and pushing up his Googol glasses, the Tier Two support
wizard looked away from his screen to grab his mug, which was then he noticed
it was empty. Frowning, he pulled up the COFE dashboard on his terminal. His
expression fell at the "0%" next to a little icon of an empty fuel gauge in the
status field. That was the last pot — he was sure of it because he had brewed
it himself four hours ago after ransacking the kitchenette for more. He had
managed to scrape out a few stale tablespoons from what was left inside a large
can that had been shoved to the back of a cupboard. He had ran out of coffee.
After checking his secret stash, which was also empty save for more discarded
wrappers, he sighed and got to his feet. He gave the screen another glance and
hoverboarded to the vending machine down the hall, before catching sight of the
empty black racks from a distance and swerved back towards the lift doors.
After some elevator-cruising, he found another vending machine a few floors
down that still had drinks, a few tiny bags of corn chips and trail mix bars.
Someone had already emptied its shelves of Cherry and regular Koke, and Diet
Koke was never a viable alternative. Then he saw a single can of Red Kobit
sitting tantalisingly on the rack. He paid with a tap of his meal card,
figuring his luck wasn't too bad after all, but at the last moment the vending
machine changed its mind and held onto both his credits and the can with a
round, wiry claw. He yelled at the machine, threatened to summon maintenance,
shoved it back a centimeter where it was already standing against the wall,
pummelled its bulletproof glass chest with his fists and kicked its legs, to no
avail. The vending machine had likely seen through his bluff and knew no repair
person was coming on a Friday night graveyard shift. Taking the machine apart
will land him in Big Trouble again, and it wasn't worth the three-hour
CowardPoint presentation he would get about robot respect or the warning letter
for damage to corporeal property. The gremlin resentfully tapped his card again
to secure the last two cans of Red Horse, which rolled down into the flapped
receptacle with a *ba dum tss* like a bad joke.
When he returned to his desk and settled back in his rolling chair, open can of
raw energy in hand, he began to feel a prickly, crawling sensation on his skin.
A rising dread overcame him, as the apparition of his lifelong-sworn enemy rose
up from the deepest runlevels of init hell once again, and without a new season
of *White Mirror* dropping anytime soon, he knew he was in grave danger. He
gripped the edge of his keyboard, exhaled slowly and greeted his old nemesis,
Boredom.
### Pirate Gold Fondue
420
Pirate Gold Fondue
Ingredients
- 3 Pirate Gold potatoes
- 1/2 cup chickpea paste
- 1 cup coconut oil
- 1/3 macadamia milk
- 2 tbsp. cornflour
- 1 1/2 cups mulled apple wine
- 1/4 cup hemogoblin blood
- 1 garlic clove, flattened
- 2 tbsp. ground cocoa
- 1/2 tsp. paprika
- 2 tbsp. lemon dill
Method
1. Peel potatoes and boil until soft. Let cool, then add to a large mixing bowl
with chickpea paste.
2. Dissolve cornflour into the macadamia milk, then pour the milk gradually
into the bowl, mashing the mixture until no lumps remain. Add coconut oil,
1/4 cup at a time until folded completely into the mixture and set aside.
3. Toast the paprika in a saucepan. Add mulled apple wine, bemogoblin blood
and garlic clove. When the liquid is heated, add ground cocoa.
4. Pour the saucepan contents into a caquelon, or a double boiler with water
simmering below the bowl. Add the potato mixture slowly in small batches,
stirring continuously. Remove garlic after a 1/4 of the mixture has been
added, and resume stirring until all the potatoes have been added.
5. Garnish with lemon dill and serve.
### Lady Runesocesius
```
My Lady, I come to visit you
will you show your dainty face, gladly I
let you tease me as I ascend, step closer
so you can hide behind your cloudy veils?
My Lady, I kneel at your feet
will you embrace me in your fulsome bosom
let me breathe in your perfume, a heady wine
taste drops of your creamy white nectar?
My Lady, I bring you snow lilies
to tuck behind your ear as I whisper
sweet everythings into that tender shell
so you can extract a promise for my return?
My Lady, I long to see you
to kiss your fair golden tresses and take
my vow with Nullar as witness, an Elixir to
savour once more your everlasting beauty?
```

511
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@ -326,10 +326,33 @@ of the Were-Hare</a></li>
<li><a href="#cosmology" id="toc-cosmology">Cosmology</a></li> <li><a href="#cosmology" id="toc-cosmology">Cosmology</a></li>
<li><a href="#history" id="toc-history">History</a></li> <li><a href="#history" id="toc-history">History</a></li>
<li><a href="#afterword" id="toc-afterword">Afterword</a></li> <li><a href="#afterword" id="toc-afterword">Afterword</a></li>
<li><a href="#appendix-a-barefoot-quackery"
id="toc-appendix-a-barefoot-quackery">Appendix A: Barefoot Quackery</a>
<ul>
<li><a href="#cease-and-desist" id="toc-cease-and-desist">Cease and
Desist</a></li>
<li><a href="#on-the-origins-of-santa-claws"
id="toc-on-the-origins-of-santa-claws">On the Origins of Santa
Claws</a></li>
<li><a href="#sunrise-over-kelsun-peak"
id="toc-sunrise-over-kelsun-peak">Sunrise over Kelsun Peak</a></li>
<li><a href="#how-to-grow-fortified-pumpkins"
id="toc-how-to-grow-fortified-pumpkins">How to Grow Fortified
Pumpkins</a></li>
<li><a href="#an-overview-of-s.t.a.g-drones"
id="toc-an-overview-of-s.t.a.g-drones">An Overview of S.T.A.G
Drones</a></li>
<li><a href="#gremlin-sysorcer" id="toc-gremlin-sysorcer">Gremlin
Sysorcer</a></li>
<li><a href="#pirate-gold-fondue" id="toc-pirate-gold-fondue">Pirate
Gold Fondue</a></li>
<li><a href="#lady-runesocesius" id="toc-lady-runesocesius">Lady
Runesocesius</a></li>
</ul></li>
</ul> </ul>
</nav> </nav>
<h2 id="stats">Stats</h2> <h2 id="stats">Stats</h2>
<p>Total length: 47248 words / 201 minute read. (Mind you, that’s the <p>Total length: 51977 words / 222 minute read. (Mind you, that’s the
length of this entire page, including all the extra bits and bobs. Not length of this entire page, including all the extra bits and bobs. Not
just the story.)</p> just the story.)</p>
<p>There have been 171 messages posted over 169 days since the first <p>There have been 171 messages posted over 169 days since the first
@ -5824,5 +5847,491 @@ document to just abruptly end. So here you go: a kind farewell and a
more gentle conclusion.</p> more gentle conclusion.</p>
<p>Thanks for reading.</p> <p>Thanks for reading.</p>
<p>dozens@tilde.team</p> <p>dozens@tilde.team</p>
<h2 id="appendix-a-barefoot-quackery">Appendix A: Barefoot Quackery</h2>
<p>Being apocryphal and supplemental material posted to the <em>Barefoot
Quackery</em> thread on tildepals, including depictions of loose pages
torn from books of the Runesocesius Library, and original fictions and
other diversions, and more.</p>
<h3 id="cease-and-desist">Cease and Desist</h3>
<blockquote>
<p>To: durrendal<br />
From: LABATT<br />
Subject: Cease and Desist Order</p>
<p>To whom it may concern:</p>
<p>It has recently come to our attention that a personhood has withheld
important document(s) which affect the structural nature of a sensitive
publication, namely the [REDACTED] zine.</p>
<p>Please cease and desist immediately. You may comply with this order
by submitting the aforementioned document(s) to the designated drop-off
point as instructed on the imprint accompanying your submission form by
midnight Coordinated Basmentaric Time (BTC) of Day 22 of Member 12 in
the year 2202.</p>
<p>Continued infringement represents an escalation and will result in
sanctions, including but not withstanding a remote cursery execution
(RCE) on your monitoring and calendar infrastructure.</p>
<p>We reserve the right to pursue other corrective actions through
temporally-attuned means to protect the release timeline integrity of
key cultural assets.</p>
<p>Sincerely,</p>
<p>Luminati Association of Bears as Time Travellers (LABATT)</p>
</blockquote>
<hr />
<blockquote>
<p>Dear sir and/or madame and/or bear and/or time travel NSA agent,</p>
<p>We’ve read your cease and desist, and while we understand its intent,
we’re unable at this time to comply, not through any inability of our
own, but rather through our inability to stop writing run on sentence;
you see we never truly learned how to grammar goodly and now we just go
on and on, ad nauseum, so on and so forth; truly it is a depressing and
persistent problem, if we were ever to find the correct punctuation to
prevent these run ons from happening we might be able to cease,
potentially even desist, but probably both at the same time, or neither
all at once, we’re really uncertain at this point; all that is know is
that nothing is truly known once you’ve gone this far down the
grammartical, and metaphorical, rabbit hole; to speak metaphorically
that is on a subject that is somewhat subjectively objective while
simultaneously being an objective objection to your subjective summation
of our grevious misgivings, truly one must infer that the meaning of
these metaphoric subjectively objective objections are subjective in
their own right, potentially reaching the height of metaphysical
incanatation; one could say this run on sentence is one giant
invocation, a charm of warding against cease and desist notices, to
protect the poor photographer from his abject abandonment of his own
promises; though some may object to my absolute misuse of proper
punctuation and grammar to the point where said people stopped reading
long again and began readying pitchforks and torches, likely they’re on
their way to Maine now ready to burn my witchy incantating self for the
hum dinger of a grammatical curse I sit here writing, but to these
people I say NAY, nay sir I object to your cease and desist, and to
their objection to this abject horror of a sentence, and I abject my
throne as well, for you know I once was a king, not a very rich king,
but a king in my own right; why yes, indeed I was, king of stream of
concious ramblings without respect for grammar, punctuation, or any of
that high falootin nonsense that the yonder rich kings hold dear, and
which I hold to be a dreadful and dire curse upon us all, but with that
I really must bid you Good Day madame, though let this not be an ending,
but the begining of a wonderful and delightful sort of cease and desist
based relationship,</p>
</blockquote>
<hr />
<blockquote>
<p>To: durrendal<br />
From: LABATT<br />
Subject: Re: Cease and Desist Order [#20221221-1946]</p>
<p>To whom it may concern:</p>
<p>Please be advised that any evidence you provided in your response may
be used against you in the event an injunction is filed against your
personhood should you fail to comply with the order. This includes any
admission of culpability or liability stemming from failure to submit
the aforementioned document(s) in a timely manner.</p>
<p>LABATT is a renowned non-profit organisation dedicated to the
preservation of historical continuity of cultural works in the fabric of
space-time. We deplore the designation of “NSA agent” and invite you to
learn more about our mission and vision on our website and free seminars
one of our offices across Basmentaria.</p>
<p>Sincerely,</p>
<p>Luminati Association of Bears as Time Travellers (LABATT)</p>
</blockquote>
<h3 id="on-the-origins-of-santa-claws">On the Origins of Santa
Claws</h3>
<p>125</p>
<p>On the Origins of Santa Claws</p>
<p>Maximus N. Grinchescu</p>
<p>It should heretofore be common knowledge that the Santa Claws of
present day is the stuff of fantasy and make-believe, a story fabricated
on the spur of the moment by some exasperated mother who could not for
the life of her induce her children to behave. The very notion of reward
in the form of toys and presents, or punishment in the lack thereof of
aforementioned items, is no doubt appealing to many parents who are
themselves motivated similarly and thus can only appeal to their
offspring at the most superficial level. The lifelong goal in the
pursuit of consumption has been drummed into these unfortunate
children’s heads from a young age, with thinly-veiled threats of a
thorough mauling for those who dare to deviate from the well— and truly
down— trodden path. It is the means by which the cycle of ignorance and
conceit perpetuates among the unwashed masses — young mops bragging
about having the largest present under the tree, to become adults
boasting of receiving the most expensive gifts from a spouse or
ever-widening court of suitors. The myth of Santa Claws is a gross
distortion of facts disguised as a moralistic narrative that promotes
annually renewing contracts of obedience in exchange for short-term
material gains. Astonishingly, nary a word of doubt would be heard from
the parents on the merits of accepting gifts from an obsessive stranger
who prowls the streets at night watching their children sleep, in
addition to claiming knowledge of the children’s every move rivalling
their own.</p>
<p>It is regrettable that the image of Santa Claws in the eyes of many
has been reduced to that of a jolly dangerous delivery worker. Little do
they know that the real Santa Claws came from a long line of frockin —
wandering folk who don a cassock and dedicate their lives to aiding the
hungry, desperate and needy. On occasions for gifts, they gave to all
regardless of whether they were perceived by friend or foe of the
recipients to be good or evil, for such is the willingness of the
frockin to set aside their quarrels on the Day of Bountiful Blessings.
They travel across Basmentaria in fortles which house a multitude of
rooms and supplies required to sustain their livelihoods. Inside the
fortles were workshops in which carpenters, woodworkers, drafters,
tailors, various craftspeople as well as farmers and cooks plied their
skills.</p>
<p>One frockin in particular became known for rescuing ransomed young
maidens and poor indentured servants who faced torture by the oil vat at
the hands of cruel employers in the nick of time that they became known
as Nick, Blessed of Neddas, or Nick of Mairas as they gained grateful
followers and admirers. Despite this, the frockin was modest in manner
and rarely took credit for their acts of generosity. Because of this
trait and the loss of the few, limited first-hand accounts of those with
close dealings with the frockin in a fire shortly before they assumed
the care and upkeep of a pair of fortles, little is known of their
childhood circumstances or early life. Enrolment records at an
vocational institution in Vay’Neddas confirmed that they studied for
several years in the city, and inherited their uncle’s position of
managing the activities within the fortles sometime after their return.
Other historical biographers contend the frockin’s name was in fact
Nikolas Klaus, which later became Claws in children’s stories as to make
them most palatable to impressionable young readers.</p>
<p>Questions as to the nature of their appearance are generally of
little import save for lining the pockets of picture book publishers and
mass producers of wax figure collectibles. Those who have had the
fortune to glimpse their person described a wizened countenance of long
hair, fulsome beard and whiskers gleaming white and silver, amid which
nestled a pair of warm amber eyes, a nose slightly rosy from the cold
and an affable smile. A genial face rested atop a large stocky frame, as
was common among those with the blood and strength of noble mountain
lions. As in the period of their ancestors, they wore a dark</p>
<hr />
<p>126</p>
<p>brown cloak with a hood over their cassock to ward against the cold
weather, though this changed after one occasion when they narrowly
avoided being run over by a semi-autonomous cart. The abominable thing
had zipped by in front of Santa at a beard’s distance away as they
emerged on the roof of a house through its chimney.</p>
<p>At this juncture it should be duly noted that the idea of Santa Claws
typically making their entrance into homes by clambering down chimneys,
even preferring it as a method of entry, is as preposterous as the
worthless rags that circulated such claims. No one of sound mind would
shimmy through filthy, narrow, often half-crumbling chutes — carrying a
large sack, no less — if they could safely enter through the front door.
For the latter was exactly what Santa and their predecessors did, and
still do to this day in some villages, in a time when people were less
leery of their neighbours and either left their doors unlocked, or
placed a spare key under the doormat so the household next door could
tend to the plants or the children’s pepper pigs while they visited
relatives farther away.</p>
<p>According to a later account by one of the crew on Santa’s fleet,
translated and transcribed for the frockins’ annals by a chronicler,
what had actually transpired was this: on that night while nearing the
end of their rounds, Santa found signs of flooding at one of the houses
pointing to a burst pipe, the water having seeped out under the front
door and turned to ice in the frigid temperatures. Tender of heart,
Santa retrieved their fleet repair kit that was kept for emergencies and
ventured into the house to repair the broken pipe, in lieu of simply
leaving the presents outside on a stump where a tree once stood and
riding on. It was then that an obstacle presented itself. The house
owners, having gone away for the holidays, had a magical apparatus set
on the door that would raise an alarm and curse if opened by an
intruder. No house key was found under the mat after defrosting the ice
over it enough to pull off the cover. The windows were likewise sealed
shut and latched. This ultimately necessitated Santa entering and
leaving through the chimney. Doubtless some fool stumbled upon the
moment Santa exited the chimney opening, nearly flattened by the aerial
hazard of a self-navigating cart, and got it into their head that Santa
Claws was one for chimney-climbing as sport.</p>
<p>When the good Mrs. Claws found out about the near mishap, they were
so worried about their partner venturing out on missions that as a
precaution, they had Santa promise to wear a bright red outfit for such
occasions. The thick overcoat had a white faux fur trim that reflected
the moons’ light, matching hat and trousers and a shining gold belt
buckle so that the carts’ sensors can sight him even on the darkest
nights. Completing the outfit were gloves with open seams at the base of
each finger to reveal their claws without taking off the gloves
completely. The whole ensemble was made by Mrs. Claws themselves, and it
was said they had gotten the inspiration for the white trimmings from
their partner’s flowing mane. Members of the fleet were also offered a
similar change in clothing and the flying multibeast was re-painted in
accordance with the new colours that are now festooned in the streets
and shops all over Basmentaria each year as the Day of Bountiful
Blessings draws near.</p>
<p>A brief word on the aforementioned fleet: much remains unconfirmed
about the origins or evolution of the transport employed by Santa Claws
to cover long distances, and the arcana that powers the current fleet
remains a subject of heated speculation. Based on surviving annals that
were once on public display, before the twin fortles vanished one night
were never seen again, it is generally thought that the earliest fleets
were small fortles guided by a crew of twelve members excluding Santa
Claws. In time the fortles were retired and replaced with aerial
multibeasts for lighter weight and potential for greater velocity.
Contrary to popular jingles, the multibeast is not pulled by reindeer,
which are neither known for speed nor stamina, but are headed by rain
horses specially raised for both as as well their ability to withstand
much of</p>
<h3 id="sunrise-over-kelsun-peak">Sunrise over Kelsun Peak</h3>
<pre><code>that night we ride up the mountain
deep within a Saldin Sea of mist
our way up becomes cloudy, uncertain
crying, heavy air turns to water
the cage starts to shudder and shake,
a venerable old man in a seizure
you clung to my arm as a bear cub
to its mother in the darkness,
the lone candle snuffed out in a huff
of a petulant wind throwing a tantrum
I grip the handle hard enough,
vowing to be strong for both of us
when we are called from fitful slumber
by twin rays of warming distant light
promising more, brother and sister
a cold breakfast or a hot chocolate
lastly and first, the sight of you
eyes open, hair tousled, immaculate
the rusty gondola creaks a little
under our combined weight, groaning
at our youthfully excessive flair
but we did not care, with our hearts
facing the sun, far lighter as one
than the corporeal sum of its parts
a new day breaks, yolk radiant orange
reveal the finest tempera brushed over
neat rows of tea plants at the grange
a gleaming dewdrop at the tip of a leaf,
we dangle on the cusp, an infinite moment
in the sky, we dare to hope, to believe</code></pre>
<p>40</p>
<h3 id="how-to-grow-fortified-pumpkins">How to Grow Fortified
Pumpkins</h3>
<p>How to Grow Fortified Pumpkins</p>
<p>by Oles Macdonald</p>
<p>So you wanna grow fortified pumpkins, huh? Well, first things first,
you’re gonna need a fort. You got yer self one, right? An’ I don’t mean
those blow-up bouncing bollocks for kids, those take up room and don’t
do jack. No sirree, you need to get yer self a rock fort. The real hard
structure, not mouldy cheese. Snow’s not gonna cut it, fun for the young
‘uns maybe but kills yer plants with frostbite fast. Sand just gets
washed away in a storm. An’ don’t get me started on pillow forts, them
things should be banned. Blocks sunlight, flaps like the village gossips
with a bit o’ wind letting in rain every which way, feathers inside them
pillows take too long to dry when wet, I can go on an’ on about it all
day but we’re talking about growing the best fortified pumpkins so let’s
stick with it.</p>
<p>Bottom line is if you ain’t got one then build one from rocks, it’s
what it says on the tin. Just make sure to choose large dry ones,
flat-like, you wouldn’t wanna get sick from cave mold before you even
get this sucker off the ground, and flats will save you time cutting all
them sides. Build your fort on a sunny part of yer land away from trees.
Pumpkins love to suntan, even shows on their skins in some varieties.
Stack up some rocks like yer building a brick wall or grill. The fort
wall should be about a hand’s thickness fer insulation an’ at least
twelve by four-an’-twenty by six feet on the inside. Spread fisherfolk
nets over the top to let in the sun, rain and bees to do their thing for
yer pumpkin plants but keep them birds out. You can throw cured tarp
over it an’ anchor it to the fort wall if a big storm comes along. Don’
forget to leave an opening so you can fit a door later. Lets you get in
an’ out easy, but not so easy that the rats an’ other rodents get to yer
pumpkins first. Door-wise there’s no need to be a fusspot about it, put
in something sturdy with a clever latch or a ward if you can get a hold
of one so the raccoon cats can’t pick the lock with their claws.</p>
<p>Yer gonna need three feet of the height right off the bat for a
raised bed, specially if you don’t know fer sure if the land below yer
feet is cursed or not, or can’t tell horse sh—t apart from dark clay to
check yer soil is good. Line the inside of the fort with sheet metal
where you’ll load up with good soil in a bit, an’ make sure you can get
to all sides. No sense growing a bed full of pumpkins if you can’t reach
over to grab ‘em later. You can also use wood but they will rot
something nasty if you don’t find the right wood that takes to water
well an’ have a habit of overwatering loads, then the whole thing falls
apart under the weight. Sheet metal like the stuff used fer roofs will
do the job, just bang a few together like a box with no lid no bottom
an’ yer in business. If you’d rather be safe than sorry, you can make it
even sturdier on the inside with a steel bar or two across the width of
the bed. Fill a third of the bed with straw, ol’ wood, alfalfa or stuff
like that you got laying around, then the rest of the way up to about
the third knuckle’s length away from the top edge with good quality
compost. Every farmer worth their weight in potatoes knows good quality
compost is the real gold. As I always tell new folks lookin’ to set up
right, go big on compost or go home.</p>
<p>Once you’ve filled up the bed, dig a few rows of shallow trenches in
the soil about a half-an’-a-feet or two apart an’ two knuckles deep at
yer pinky finger. Soak yer seeds overnight and plant ‘em in a feet apart
in the rows. Cover ’em up and mulch that beauty of a bed. Give ’em a
good thorough watering every other day, or every day if it’s like an
oven hot out there, an’ Bread’s yer butter. Halfway through the season
if they’re lookin’ a little starved, fortify ‘em by making some compost
tea to freshen ’em up. You can use hemogoblin blood too if you got that,
it’s just a pricier way to do the same thing with the same results, an’
who likes payin’ more when you can throw a few fish bones together, boil
the whole lot, leave it to rot an’ get free plant tea? Not me. Now when
they start flowering, nip off any extra flowers on the same vine so the
pumpkin gets more nourishment an’ grows bigger. For a lot of newbs it’s
a chore, but wait ‘til you see the size of these pups. If you don’t
wanna mess about staking up vines, let ’em run around a bit and that’s
hunky dory too. Just be sure they aren’t sittin’ in a swimming pool,
that’s a one-way ride to mushy pumpkins an’ root rot. An’ dangnabbit do
I hate mushy pumpkins.</p>
<h3 id="an-overview-of-s.t.a.g-drones">An Overview of S.T.A.G
Drones</h3>
<p>This guide is meant to introduce the operate (you) to the
functionality of features of the S.T.A.G drone. For in depth usage and
extensibility please review the source code which can be found at your
local GNU guild.</p>
<p>S.T.A.G - (S)py (T)ransmat (A)utonomous (G)izmo</p>
<p>As the name implies, the S.T.A.G drone is a capable and compact
automous gizmo capable of relaying video, audio, &amp; gps information
to its operator. Unlike most convention drones it requires no input to
operate, simply supplying it with an object is sufficient. The on board
(A)mber (I)mp handles the actual control. It is important that you
retrieve the A.I. from the drone in the event you choose to discard, or
risk the S.T.A.G. in any way, remember Imp’s are sentient beings.</p>
<p>Once an operator has deployed a S.T.A.G drone they’ll recieve
information back from it in the format of a twtxt feed, and open source
plain text format which is easily parsed. GPS coordinates are reported
as JSON strings inside of this feed, audio is transliterated to text,
and video is relayed as a series of ascii characters. All an operate
needs to do to view these feeds is to cat the return text to a terminal
and it should render. If the operater does not have access to a
terminal, or is not a practice sysorcerer, the video feed can be
consumed by retrieving the S.T.A.G drone and holding it close to your
ear. The A.I have been trained in number Basementarian languages and are
happy to dutifully describe the scenes they’ve seen.</p>
<p>Each of these feeds can be subscribed to separately</p>
<p>The aggregate feed can be accessed via:</p>
<pre><code>@&lt;stag_arn uri://stag/arn&gt;</code></pre>
<p>Simiarly these feeds provide filtered results by name:</p>
<pre><code>@&lt;stag_arn uri://stag/arn/gps&gt;
@&lt;stag_arn uri://stag/arn/audio&gt;
@&lt;stag_arn uri://stag/arn/video&gt; </code></pre>
<h3 id="gremlin-sysorcer">Gremlin Sysorcer</h3>
<p>The gremlin stretched in his padded ergonomic chair and stifled a
yawn. He had just finished beating the final Heroic Fantasy game for the
twelfth time, when a flood of identical alerts flashed across his second
screen:
<code>Outgoing connection blocked on port 443 from 10.10.12.26</code> He
reached into the machine, looked up the process and found two unfamiliar
entries bouncing in and out of hottop’s list for most computering units
being consumed. The new intern had probably downloaded some application
with an auto-updater and left it installed on the workstation. He zapped
the processes.</p>
<pre><code>killall -9 ysosirius
killall -9 yunoluvirus</code></pre>
<p>That should do it. He watched hottop closely on the monitor. A beat
passed. Two, then the processes returned. Grr. These weren’t regular
rogue procs, but forked demons. His stubby fingers sprinted over the
mechanical keyboard, clacking loudly in the dark office as he fired off
a series of spells:</p>
<pre><code>sudo systemctl stop ysosirius
sudo systemctl stop yunoluvirus
sudo systemctl disable ysosirius
Failed to execute operation: Access denied</code></pre>
<p>G—ck. How is that possible? The gremlin scratched his head with his
Mebekey for a minute. Immutable flags?</p>
<pre><code>sudo chattr -i /etc/systemd/system/ysosirius.service
/bin/bash chattr: not found</code></pre>
<p>What. Did the intern somehow mistook it for a messaging client during
the initial audit phase and removed it from all the workstations? He
really needed to have a word with them when they turn up on Monday, but
for now—</p>
<pre><code>sudo apt -y install e2fsprogs
sudo chattr -i /etc/systemd/system/ysosirius.service
sudo rm -rf /etc/systemd/system/ysosirius*
sudo chattr -i /etc/systemd/system/yunoluvirus.service
sudo rm -rf /etc/systemd/system/yunoluvirus*</code></pre>
<p>There, stupid demons terminated. Must have been one of his colleagues
leaving him a gaff holiday gift, but he started a malware scan anyway
just in case. Smiling to himself and pushing up his Googol glasses, the
Tier Two support wizard looked away from his screen to grab his mug,
which was then he noticed it was empty. Frowning, he pulled up the COFE
dashboard on his terminal. His expression fell at the “0%” next to a
little icon of an empty fuel gauge in the status field. That was the
last pot — he was sure of it because he had brewed it himself four hours
ago after ransacking the kitchenette for more. He had managed to scrape
out a few stale tablespoons from what was left inside a large can that
had been shoved to the back of a cupboard. He had ran out of coffee.</p>
<p>After checking his secret stash, which was also empty save for more
discarded wrappers, he sighed and got to his feet. He gave the screen
another glance and hoverboarded to the vending machine down the hall,
before catching sight of the empty black racks from a distance and
swerved back towards the lift doors. After some elevator-cruising, he
found another vending machine a few floors down that still had drinks, a
few tiny bags of corn chips and trail mix bars. Someone had already
emptied its shelves of Cherry and regular Koke, and Diet Koke was never
a viable alternative. Then he saw a single can of Red Kobit sitting
tantalisingly on the rack. He paid with a tap of his meal card, figuring
his luck wasn’t too bad after all, but at the last moment the vending
machine changed its mind and held onto both his credits and the can with
a round, wiry claw. He yelled at the machine, threatened to summon
maintenance, shoved it back a centimeter where it was already standing
against the wall, pummelled its bulletproof glass chest with his fists
and kicked its legs, to no avail. The vending machine had likely seen
through his bluff and knew no repair person was coming on a Friday night
graveyard shift. Taking the machine apart will land him in Big Trouble
again, and it wasn’t worth the three-hour CowardPoint presentation he
would get about robot respect or the warning letter for damage to
corporeal property. The gremlin resentfully tapped his card again to
secure the last two cans of Red Horse, which rolled down into the
flapped receptacle with a <em>ba dum tss</em> like a bad joke.</p>
<p>When he returned to his desk and settled back in his rolling chair,
open can of raw energy in hand, he began to feel a prickly, crawling
sensation on his skin. A rising dread overcame him, as the apparition of
his lifelong-sworn enemy rose up from the deepest runlevels of init hell
once again, and without a new season of <em>White Mirror</em> dropping
anytime soon, he knew he was in grave danger. He gripped the edge of his
keyboard, exhaled slowly and greeted his old nemesis, Boredom.</p>
<h3 id="pirate-gold-fondue">Pirate Gold Fondue</h3>
<p>420</p>
<p>Pirate Gold Fondue</p>
<p>Ingredients</p>
<ul>
<li>3 Pirate Gold potatoes</li>
<li>1/2 cup chickpea paste</li>
<li>1 cup coconut oil</li>
<li>1/3 macadamia milk</li>
<li>2 tbsp. cornflour</li>
<li>1 1/2 cups mulled apple wine</li>
<li>1/4 cup hemogoblin blood</li>
<li>1 garlic clove, flattened</li>
<li>2 tbsp. ground cocoa</li>
<li>1/2 tsp. paprika</li>
<li>2 tbsp. lemon dill</li>
</ul>
<p>Method</p>
<ol type="1">
<li><p>Peel potatoes and boil until soft. Let cool, then add to a large
mixing bowl with chickpea paste.</p></li>
<li><p>Dissolve cornflour into the macadamia milk, then pour the milk
gradually into the bowl, mashing the mixture until no lumps remain. Add
coconut oil, 1/4 cup at a time until folded completely into the mixture
and set aside.</p></li>
<li><p>Toast the paprika in a saucepan. Add mulled apple wine,
bemogoblin blood and garlic clove. When the liquid is heated, add ground
cocoa.</p></li>
<li><p>Pour the saucepan contents into a caquelon, or a double boiler
with water simmering below the bowl. Add the potato mixture slowly in
small batches, stirring continuously. Remove garlic after a 1/4 of the
mixture has been added, and resume stirring until all the potatoes have
been added.</p></li>
<li><p>Garnish with lemon dill and serve.</p></li>
</ol>
<h3 id="lady-runesocesius">Lady Runesocesius</h3>
<pre><code>My Lady, I come to visit you
will you show your dainty face, gladly I
let you tease me as I ascend, step closer
so you can hide behind your cloudy veils?
My Lady, I kneel at your feet
will you embrace me in your fulsome bosom
let me breathe in your perfume, a heady wine
taste drops of your creamy white nectar?
My Lady, I bring you snow lilies
to tuck behind your ear as I whisper
sweet everythings into that tender shell
so you can extract a promise for my return?
My Lady, I long to see you
to kiss your fair golden tresses and take
my vow with Nullar as witness, an Elixir to
savour once more your everlasting beauty?</code></pre>
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@ -329,10 +329,33 @@ of the Were-Hare</a></li>
<li><a href="#acknowledgements" <li><a href="#acknowledgements"
id="toc-acknowledgements">Acknowledgements</a></li> id="toc-acknowledgements">Acknowledgements</a></li>
<li><a href="#afterword" id="toc-afterword">Afterword</a></li> <li><a href="#afterword" id="toc-afterword">Afterword</a></li>
<li><a href="#appendix-a-barefoot-quackery"
id="toc-appendix-a-barefoot-quackery">Appendix A: Barefoot Quackery</a>
<ul>
<li><a href="#cease-and-desist" id="toc-cease-and-desist">Cease and
Desist</a></li>
<li><a href="#on-the-origins-of-santa-claws"
id="toc-on-the-origins-of-santa-claws">On the Origins of Santa
Claws</a></li>
<li><a href="#sunrise-over-kelsun-peak"
id="toc-sunrise-over-kelsun-peak">Sunrise over Kelsun Peak</a></li>
<li><a href="#how-to-grow-fortified-pumpkins"
id="toc-how-to-grow-fortified-pumpkins">How to Grow Fortified
Pumpkins</a></li>
<li><a href="#an-overview-of-s.t.a.g-drones"
id="toc-an-overview-of-s.t.a.g-drones">An Overview of S.T.A.G
Drones</a></li>
<li><a href="#gremlin-sysorcer" id="toc-gremlin-sysorcer">Gremlin
Sysorcer</a></li>
<li><a href="#pirate-gold-fondue" id="toc-pirate-gold-fondue">Pirate
Gold Fondue</a></li>
<li><a href="#lady-runesocesius" id="toc-lady-runesocesius">Lady
Runesocesius</a></li>
</ul></li>
</ul> </ul>
</nav> </nav>
<h2 id="stats">Stats</h2> <h2 id="stats">Stats</h2>
<p>Total length: 47248 words / 201 minute read. (Mind you, that’s the <p>Total length: 51977 words / 222 minute read. (Mind you, that’s the
length of this entire page, including all the extra bits and bobs. Not length of this entire page, including all the extra bits and bobs. Not
just the story.)</p> just the story.)</p>
<p>There have been 171 messages posted over 169 days since the first <p>There have been 171 messages posted over 169 days since the first
@ -5975,5 +5998,491 @@ document to just abruptly end. So here you go: a kind farewell and a
more gentle conclusion.</p> more gentle conclusion.</p>
<p>Thanks for reading.</p> <p>Thanks for reading.</p>
<p>dozens@tilde.team</p> <p>dozens@tilde.team</p>
<h2 id="appendix-a-barefoot-quackery">Appendix A: Barefoot Quackery</h2>
<p>Being apocryphal and supplemental material posted to the <em>Barefoot
Quackery</em> thread on tildepals, including depictions of loose pages
torn from books of the Runesocesius Library, and original fictions and
other diversions, and more.</p>
<h3 id="cease-and-desist">Cease and Desist</h3>
<blockquote>
<p>To: durrendal<br />
From: LABATT<br />
Subject: Cease and Desist Order</p>
<p>To whom it may concern:</p>
<p>It has recently come to our attention that a personhood has withheld
important document(s) which affect the structural nature of a sensitive
publication, namely the [REDACTED] zine.</p>
<p>Please cease and desist immediately. You may comply with this order
by submitting the aforementioned document(s) to the designated drop-off
point as instructed on the imprint accompanying your submission form by
midnight Coordinated Basmentaric Time (BTC) of Day 22 of Member 12 in
the year 2202.</p>
<p>Continued infringement represents an escalation and will result in
sanctions, including but not withstanding a remote cursery execution
(RCE) on your monitoring and calendar infrastructure.</p>
<p>We reserve the right to pursue other corrective actions through
temporally-attuned means to protect the release timeline integrity of
key cultural assets.</p>
<p>Sincerely,</p>
<p>Luminati Association of Bears as Time Travellers (LABATT)</p>
</blockquote>
<hr />
<blockquote>
<p>Dear sir and/or madame and/or bear and/or time travel NSA agent,</p>
<p>We’ve read your cease and desist, and while we understand its intent,
we’re unable at this time to comply, not through any inability of our
own, but rather through our inability to stop writing run on sentence;
you see we never truly learned how to grammar goodly and now we just go
on and on, ad nauseum, so on and so forth; truly it is a depressing and
persistent problem, if we were ever to find the correct punctuation to
prevent these run ons from happening we might be able to cease,
potentially even desist, but probably both at the same time, or neither
all at once, we’re really uncertain at this point; all that is know is
that nothing is truly known once you’ve gone this far down the
grammartical, and metaphorical, rabbit hole; to speak metaphorically
that is on a subject that is somewhat subjectively objective while
simultaneously being an objective objection to your subjective summation
of our grevious misgivings, truly one must infer that the meaning of
these metaphoric subjectively objective objections are subjective in
their own right, potentially reaching the height of metaphysical
incanatation; one could say this run on sentence is one giant
invocation, a charm of warding against cease and desist notices, to
protect the poor photographer from his abject abandonment of his own
promises; though some may object to my absolute misuse of proper
punctuation and grammar to the point where said people stopped reading
long again and began readying pitchforks and torches, likely they’re on
their way to Maine now ready to burn my witchy incantating self for the
hum dinger of a grammatical curse I sit here writing, but to these
people I say NAY, nay sir I object to your cease and desist, and to
their objection to this abject horror of a sentence, and I abject my
throne as well, for you know I once was a king, not a very rich king,
but a king in my own right; why yes, indeed I was, king of stream of
concious ramblings without respect for grammar, punctuation, or any of
that high falootin nonsense that the yonder rich kings hold dear, and
which I hold to be a dreadful and dire curse upon us all, but with that
I really must bid you Good Day madame, though let this not be an ending,
but the begining of a wonderful and delightful sort of cease and desist
based relationship,</p>
</blockquote>
<hr />
<blockquote>
<p>To: durrendal<br />
From: LABATT<br />
Subject: Re: Cease and Desist Order [#20221221-1946]</p>
<p>To whom it may concern:</p>
<p>Please be advised that any evidence you provided in your response may
be used against you in the event an injunction is filed against your
personhood should you fail to comply with the order. This includes any
admission of culpability or liability stemming from failure to submit
the aforementioned document(s) in a timely manner.</p>
<p>LABATT is a renowned non-profit organisation dedicated to the
preservation of historical continuity of cultural works in the fabric of
space-time. We deplore the designation of “NSA agent” and invite you to
learn more about our mission and vision on our website and free seminars
one of our offices across Basmentaria.</p>
<p>Sincerely,</p>
<p>Luminati Association of Bears as Time Travellers (LABATT)</p>
</blockquote>
<h3 id="on-the-origins-of-santa-claws">On the Origins of Santa
Claws</h3>
<p>125</p>
<p>On the Origins of Santa Claws</p>
<p>Maximus N. Grinchescu</p>
<p>It should heretofore be common knowledge that the Santa Claws of
present day is the stuff of fantasy and make-believe, a story fabricated
on the spur of the moment by some exasperated mother who could not for
the life of her induce her children to behave. The very notion of reward
in the form of toys and presents, or punishment in the lack thereof of
aforementioned items, is no doubt appealing to many parents who are
themselves motivated similarly and thus can only appeal to their
offspring at the most superficial level. The lifelong goal in the
pursuit of consumption has been drummed into these unfortunate
children’s heads from a young age, with thinly-veiled threats of a
thorough mauling for those who dare to deviate from the well— and truly
down— trodden path. It is the means by which the cycle of ignorance and
conceit perpetuates among the unwashed masses — young mops bragging
about having the largest present under the tree, to become adults
boasting of receiving the most expensive gifts from a spouse or
ever-widening court of suitors. The myth of Santa Claws is a gross
distortion of facts disguised as a moralistic narrative that promotes
annually renewing contracts of obedience in exchange for short-term
material gains. Astonishingly, nary a word of doubt would be heard from
the parents on the merits of accepting gifts from an obsessive stranger
who prowls the streets at night watching their children sleep, in
addition to claiming knowledge of the children’s every move rivalling
their own.</p>
<p>It is regrettable that the image of Santa Claws in the eyes of many
has been reduced to that of a jolly dangerous delivery worker. Little do
they know that the real Santa Claws came from a long line of frockin —
wandering folk who don a cassock and dedicate their lives to aiding the
hungry, desperate and needy. On occasions for gifts, they gave to all
regardless of whether they were perceived by friend or foe of the
recipients to be good or evil, for such is the willingness of the
frockin to set aside their quarrels on the Day of Bountiful Blessings.
They travel across Basmentaria in fortles which house a multitude of
rooms and supplies required to sustain their livelihoods. Inside the
fortles were workshops in which carpenters, woodworkers, drafters,
tailors, various craftspeople as well as farmers and cooks plied their
skills.</p>
<p>One frockin in particular became known for rescuing ransomed young
maidens and poor indentured servants who faced torture by the oil vat at
the hands of cruel employers in the nick of time that they became known
as Nick, Blessed of Neddas, or Nick of Mairas as they gained grateful
followers and admirers. Despite this, the frockin was modest in manner
and rarely took credit for their acts of generosity. Because of this
trait and the loss of the few, limited first-hand accounts of those with
close dealings with the frockin in a fire shortly before they assumed
the care and upkeep of a pair of fortles, little is known of their
childhood circumstances or early life. Enrolment records at an
vocational institution in Vay’Neddas confirmed that they studied for
several years in the city, and inherited their uncle’s position of
managing the activities within the fortles sometime after their return.
Other historical biographers contend the frockin’s name was in fact
Nikolas Klaus, which later became Claws in children’s stories as to make
them most palatable to impressionable young readers.</p>
<p>Questions as to the nature of their appearance are generally of
little import save for lining the pockets of picture book publishers and
mass producers of wax figure collectibles. Those who have had the
fortune to glimpse their person described a wizened countenance of long
hair, fulsome beard and whiskers gleaming white and silver, amid which
nestled a pair of warm amber eyes, a nose slightly rosy from the cold
and an affable smile. A genial face rested atop a large stocky frame, as
was common among those with the blood and strength of noble mountain
lions. As in the period of their ancestors, they wore a dark</p>
<hr />
<p>126</p>
<p>brown cloak with a hood over their cassock to ward against the cold
weather, though this changed after one occasion when they narrowly
avoided being run over by a semi-autonomous cart. The abominable thing
had zipped by in front of Santa at a beard’s distance away as they
emerged on the roof of a house through its chimney.</p>
<p>At this juncture it should be duly noted that the idea of Santa Claws
typically making their entrance into homes by clambering down chimneys,
even preferring it as a method of entry, is as preposterous as the
worthless rags that circulated such claims. No one of sound mind would
shimmy through filthy, narrow, often half-crumbling chutes — carrying a
large sack, no less — if they could safely enter through the front door.
For the latter was exactly what Santa and their predecessors did, and
still do to this day in some villages, in a time when people were less
leery of their neighbours and either left their doors unlocked, or
placed a spare key under the doormat so the household next door could
tend to the plants or the children’s pepper pigs while they visited
relatives farther away.</p>
<p>According to a later account by one of the crew on Santa’s fleet,
translated and transcribed for the frockins’ annals by a chronicler,
what had actually transpired was this: on that night while nearing the
end of their rounds, Santa found signs of flooding at one of the houses
pointing to a burst pipe, the water having seeped out under the front
door and turned to ice in the frigid temperatures. Tender of heart,
Santa retrieved their fleet repair kit that was kept for emergencies and
ventured into the house to repair the broken pipe, in lieu of simply
leaving the presents outside on a stump where a tree once stood and
riding on. It was then that an obstacle presented itself. The house
owners, having gone away for the holidays, had a magical apparatus set
on the door that would raise an alarm and curse if opened by an
intruder. No house key was found under the mat after defrosting the ice
over it enough to pull off the cover. The windows were likewise sealed
shut and latched. This ultimately necessitated Santa entering and
leaving through the chimney. Doubtless some fool stumbled upon the
moment Santa exited the chimney opening, nearly flattened by the aerial
hazard of a self-navigating cart, and got it into their head that Santa
Claws was one for chimney-climbing as sport.</p>
<p>When the good Mrs. Claws found out about the near mishap, they were
so worried about their partner venturing out on missions that as a
precaution, they had Santa promise to wear a bright red outfit for such
occasions. The thick overcoat had a white faux fur trim that reflected
the moons’ light, matching hat and trousers and a shining gold belt
buckle so that the carts’ sensors can sight him even on the darkest
nights. Completing the outfit were gloves with open seams at the base of
each finger to reveal their claws without taking off the gloves
completely. The whole ensemble was made by Mrs. Claws themselves, and it
was said they had gotten the inspiration for the white trimmings from
their partner’s flowing mane. Members of the fleet were also offered a
similar change in clothing and the flying multibeast was re-painted in
accordance with the new colours that are now festooned in the streets
and shops all over Basmentaria each year as the Day of Bountiful
Blessings draws near.</p>
<p>A brief word on the aforementioned fleet: much remains unconfirmed
about the origins or evolution of the transport employed by Santa Claws
to cover long distances, and the arcana that powers the current fleet
remains a subject of heated speculation. Based on surviving annals that
were once on public display, before the twin fortles vanished one night
were never seen again, it is generally thought that the earliest fleets
were small fortles guided by a crew of twelve members excluding Santa
Claws. In time the fortles were retired and replaced with aerial
multibeasts for lighter weight and potential for greater velocity.
Contrary to popular jingles, the multibeast is not pulled by reindeer,
which are neither known for speed nor stamina, but are headed by rain
horses specially raised for both as as well their ability to withstand
much of</p>
<h3 id="sunrise-over-kelsun-peak">Sunrise over Kelsun Peak</h3>
<pre><code>that night we ride up the mountain
deep within a Saldin Sea of mist
our way up becomes cloudy, uncertain
crying, heavy air turns to water
the cage starts to shudder and shake,
a venerable old man in a seizure
you clung to my arm as a bear cub
to its mother in the darkness,
the lone candle snuffed out in a huff
of a petulant wind throwing a tantrum
I grip the handle hard enough,
vowing to be strong for both of us
when we are called from fitful slumber
by twin rays of warming distant light
promising more, brother and sister
a cold breakfast or a hot chocolate
lastly and first, the sight of you
eyes open, hair tousled, immaculate
the rusty gondola creaks a little
under our combined weight, groaning
at our youthfully excessive flair
but we did not care, with our hearts
facing the sun, far lighter as one
than the corporeal sum of its parts
a new day breaks, yolk radiant orange
reveal the finest tempera brushed over
neat rows of tea plants at the grange
a gleaming dewdrop at the tip of a leaf,
we dangle on the cusp, an infinite moment
in the sky, we dare to hope, to believe</code></pre>
<p>40</p>
<h3 id="how-to-grow-fortified-pumpkins">How to Grow Fortified
Pumpkins</h3>
<p>How to Grow Fortified Pumpkins</p>
<p>by Oles Macdonald</p>
<p>So you wanna grow fortified pumpkins, huh? Well, first things first,
you’re gonna need a fort. You got yer self one, right? An’ I don’t mean
those blow-up bouncing bollocks for kids, those take up room and don’t
do jack. No sirree, you need to get yer self a rock fort. The real hard
structure, not mouldy cheese. Snow’s not gonna cut it, fun for the young
‘uns maybe but kills yer plants with frostbite fast. Sand just gets
washed away in a storm. An’ don’t get me started on pillow forts, them
things should be banned. Blocks sunlight, flaps like the village gossips
with a bit o’ wind letting in rain every which way, feathers inside them
pillows take too long to dry when wet, I can go on an’ on about it all
day but we’re talking about growing the best fortified pumpkins so let’s
stick with it.</p>
<p>Bottom line is if you ain’t got one then build one from rocks, it’s
what it says on the tin. Just make sure to choose large dry ones,
flat-like, you wouldn’t wanna get sick from cave mold before you even
get this sucker off the ground, and flats will save you time cutting all
them sides. Build your fort on a sunny part of yer land away from trees.
Pumpkins love to suntan, even shows on their skins in some varieties.
Stack up some rocks like yer building a brick wall or grill. The fort
wall should be about a hand’s thickness fer insulation an’ at least
twelve by four-an’-twenty by six feet on the inside. Spread fisherfolk
nets over the top to let in the sun, rain and bees to do their thing for
yer pumpkin plants but keep them birds out. You can throw cured tarp
over it an’ anchor it to the fort wall if a big storm comes along. Don’
forget to leave an opening so you can fit a door later. Lets you get in
an’ out easy, but not so easy that the rats an’ other rodents get to yer
pumpkins first. Door-wise there’s no need to be a fusspot about it, put
in something sturdy with a clever latch or a ward if you can get a hold
of one so the raccoon cats can’t pick the lock with their claws.</p>
<p>Yer gonna need three feet of the height right off the bat for a
raised bed, specially if you don’t know fer sure if the land below yer
feet is cursed or not, or can’t tell horse sh—t apart from dark clay to
check yer soil is good. Line the inside of the fort with sheet metal
where you’ll load up with good soil in a bit, an’ make sure you can get
to all sides. No sense growing a bed full of pumpkins if you can’t reach
over to grab ‘em later. You can also use wood but they will rot
something nasty if you don’t find the right wood that takes to water
well an’ have a habit of overwatering loads, then the whole thing falls
apart under the weight. Sheet metal like the stuff used fer roofs will
do the job, just bang a few together like a box with no lid no bottom
an’ yer in business. If you’d rather be safe than sorry, you can make it
even sturdier on the inside with a steel bar or two across the width of
the bed. Fill a third of the bed with straw, ol’ wood, alfalfa or stuff
like that you got laying around, then the rest of the way up to about
the third knuckle’s length away from the top edge with good quality
compost. Every farmer worth their weight in potatoes knows good quality
compost is the real gold. As I always tell new folks lookin’ to set up
right, go big on compost or go home.</p>
<p>Once you’ve filled up the bed, dig a few rows of shallow trenches in
the soil about a half-an’-a-feet or two apart an’ two knuckles deep at
yer pinky finger. Soak yer seeds overnight and plant ‘em in a feet apart
in the rows. Cover ’em up and mulch that beauty of a bed. Give ’em a
good thorough watering every other day, or every day if it’s like an
oven hot out there, an’ Bread’s yer butter. Halfway through the season
if they’re lookin’ a little starved, fortify ‘em by making some compost
tea to freshen ’em up. You can use hemogoblin blood too if you got that,
it’s just a pricier way to do the same thing with the same results, an’
who likes payin’ more when you can throw a few fish bones together, boil
the whole lot, leave it to rot an’ get free plant tea? Not me. Now when
they start flowering, nip off any extra flowers on the same vine so the
pumpkin gets more nourishment an’ grows bigger. For a lot of newbs it’s
a chore, but wait ‘til you see the size of these pups. If you don’t
wanna mess about staking up vines, let ’em run around a bit and that’s
hunky dory too. Just be sure they aren’t sittin’ in a swimming pool,
that’s a one-way ride to mushy pumpkins an’ root rot. An’ dangnabbit do
I hate mushy pumpkins.</p>
<h3 id="an-overview-of-s.t.a.g-drones">An Overview of S.T.A.G
Drones</h3>
<p>This guide is meant to introduce the operate (you) to the
functionality of features of the S.T.A.G drone. For in depth usage and
extensibility please review the source code which can be found at your
local GNU guild.</p>
<p>S.T.A.G - (S)py (T)ransmat (A)utonomous (G)izmo</p>
<p>As the name implies, the S.T.A.G drone is a capable and compact
automous gizmo capable of relaying video, audio, &amp; gps information
to its operator. Unlike most convention drones it requires no input to
operate, simply supplying it with an object is sufficient. The on board
(A)mber (I)mp handles the actual control. It is important that you
retrieve the A.I. from the drone in the event you choose to discard, or
risk the S.T.A.G. in any way, remember Imp’s are sentient beings.</p>
<p>Once an operator has deployed a S.T.A.G drone they’ll recieve
information back from it in the format of a twtxt feed, and open source
plain text format which is easily parsed. GPS coordinates are reported
as JSON strings inside of this feed, audio is transliterated to text,
and video is relayed as a series of ascii characters. All an operate
needs to do to view these feeds is to cat the return text to a terminal
and it should render. If the operater does not have access to a
terminal, or is not a practice sysorcerer, the video feed can be
consumed by retrieving the S.T.A.G drone and holding it close to your
ear. The A.I have been trained in number Basementarian languages and are
happy to dutifully describe the scenes they’ve seen.</p>
<p>Each of these feeds can be subscribed to separately</p>
<p>The aggregate feed can be accessed via:</p>
<pre><code>@&lt;stag_arn uri://stag/arn&gt;</code></pre>
<p>Simiarly these feeds provide filtered results by name:</p>
<pre><code>@&lt;stag_arn uri://stag/arn/gps&gt;
@&lt;stag_arn uri://stag/arn/audio&gt;
@&lt;stag_arn uri://stag/arn/video&gt; </code></pre>
<h3 id="gremlin-sysorcer">Gremlin Sysorcer</h3>
<p>The gremlin stretched in his padded ergonomic chair and stifled a
yawn. He had just finished beating the final Heroic Fantasy game for the
twelfth time, when a flood of identical alerts flashed across his second
screen:
<code>Outgoing connection blocked on port 443 from 10.10.12.26</code> He
reached into the machine, looked up the process and found two unfamiliar
entries bouncing in and out of hottop’s list for most computering units
being consumed. The new intern had probably downloaded some application
with an auto-updater and left it installed on the workstation. He zapped
the processes.</p>
<pre><code>killall -9 ysosirius
killall -9 yunoluvirus</code></pre>
<p>That should do it. He watched hottop closely on the monitor. A beat
passed. Two, then the processes returned. Grr. These weren’t regular
rogue procs, but forked demons. His stubby fingers sprinted over the
mechanical keyboard, clacking loudly in the dark office as he fired off
a series of spells:</p>
<pre><code>sudo systemctl stop ysosirius
sudo systemctl stop yunoluvirus
sudo systemctl disable ysosirius
Failed to execute operation: Access denied</code></pre>
<p>G—ck. How is that possible? The gremlin scratched his head with his
Mebekey for a minute. Immutable flags?</p>
<pre><code>sudo chattr -i /etc/systemd/system/ysosirius.service
/bin/bash chattr: not found</code></pre>
<p>What. Did the intern somehow mistook it for a messaging client during
the initial audit phase and removed it from all the workstations? He
really needed to have a word with them when they turn up on Monday, but
for now—</p>
<pre><code>sudo apt -y install e2fsprogs
sudo chattr -i /etc/systemd/system/ysosirius.service
sudo rm -rf /etc/systemd/system/ysosirius*
sudo chattr -i /etc/systemd/system/yunoluvirus.service
sudo rm -rf /etc/systemd/system/yunoluvirus*</code></pre>
<p>There, stupid demons terminated. Must have been one of his colleagues
leaving him a gaff holiday gift, but he started a malware scan anyway
just in case. Smiling to himself and pushing up his Googol glasses, the
Tier Two support wizard looked away from his screen to grab his mug,
which was then he noticed it was empty. Frowning, he pulled up the COFE
dashboard on his terminal. His expression fell at the “0%” next to a
little icon of an empty fuel gauge in the status field. That was the
last pot — he was sure of it because he had brewed it himself four hours
ago after ransacking the kitchenette for more. He had managed to scrape
out a few stale tablespoons from what was left inside a large can that
had been shoved to the back of a cupboard. He had ran out of coffee.</p>
<p>After checking his secret stash, which was also empty save for more
discarded wrappers, he sighed and got to his feet. He gave the screen
another glance and hoverboarded to the vending machine down the hall,
before catching sight of the empty black racks from a distance and
swerved back towards the lift doors. After some elevator-cruising, he
found another vending machine a few floors down that still had drinks, a
few tiny bags of corn chips and trail mix bars. Someone had already
emptied its shelves of Cherry and regular Koke, and Diet Koke was never
a viable alternative. Then he saw a single can of Red Kobit sitting
tantalisingly on the rack. He paid with a tap of his meal card, figuring
his luck wasn’t too bad after all, but at the last moment the vending
machine changed its mind and held onto both his credits and the can with
a round, wiry claw. He yelled at the machine, threatened to summon
maintenance, shoved it back a centimeter where it was already standing
against the wall, pummelled its bulletproof glass chest with his fists
and kicked its legs, to no avail. The vending machine had likely seen
through his bluff and knew no repair person was coming on a Friday night
graveyard shift. Taking the machine apart will land him in Big Trouble
again, and it wasn’t worth the three-hour CowardPoint presentation he
would get about robot respect or the warning letter for damage to
corporeal property. The gremlin resentfully tapped his card again to
secure the last two cans of Red Horse, which rolled down into the
flapped receptacle with a <em>ba dum tss</em> like a bad joke.</p>
<p>When he returned to his desk and settled back in his rolling chair,
open can of raw energy in hand, he began to feel a prickly, crawling
sensation on his skin. A rising dread overcame him, as the apparition of
his lifelong-sworn enemy rose up from the deepest runlevels of init hell
once again, and without a new season of <em>White Mirror</em> dropping
anytime soon, he knew he was in grave danger. He gripped the edge of his
keyboard, exhaled slowly and greeted his old nemesis, Boredom.</p>
<h3 id="pirate-gold-fondue">Pirate Gold Fondue</h3>
<p>420</p>
<p>Pirate Gold Fondue</p>
<p>Ingredients</p>
<ul>
<li>3 Pirate Gold potatoes</li>
<li>1/2 cup chickpea paste</li>
<li>1 cup coconut oil</li>
<li>1/3 macadamia milk</li>
<li>2 tbsp. cornflour</li>
<li>1 1/2 cups mulled apple wine</li>
<li>1/4 cup hemogoblin blood</li>
<li>1 garlic clove, flattened</li>
<li>2 tbsp. ground cocoa</li>
<li>1/2 tsp. paprika</li>
<li>2 tbsp. lemon dill</li>
</ul>
<p>Method</p>
<ol type="1">
<li><p>Peel potatoes and boil until soft. Let cool, then add to a large
mixing bowl with chickpea paste.</p></li>
<li><p>Dissolve cornflour into the macadamia milk, then pour the milk
gradually into the bowl, mashing the mixture until no lumps remain. Add
coconut oil, 1/4 cup at a time until folded completely into the mixture
and set aside.</p></li>
<li><p>Toast the paprika in a saucepan. Add mulled apple wine,
bemogoblin blood and garlic clove. When the liquid is heated, add ground
cocoa.</p></li>
<li><p>Pour the saucepan contents into a caquelon, or a double boiler
with water simmering below the bowl. Add the potato mixture slowly in
small batches, stirring continuously. Remove garlic after a 1/4 of the
mixture has been added, and resume stirring until all the potatoes have
been added.</p></li>
<li><p>Garnish with lemon dill and serve.</p></li>
</ol>
<h3 id="lady-runesocesius">Lady Runesocesius</h3>
<pre><code>My Lady, I come to visit you
will you show your dainty face, gladly I
let you tease me as I ascend, step closer
so you can hide behind your cloudy veils?
My Lady, I kneel at your feet
will you embrace me in your fulsome bosom
let me breathe in your perfume, a heady wine
taste drops of your creamy white nectar?
My Lady, I bring you snow lilies
to tuck behind your ear as I whisper
sweet everythings into that tender shell
so you can extract a promise for my return?
My Lady, I long to see you
to kiss your fair golden tresses and take
my vow with Nullar as witness, an Elixir to
savour once more your everlasting beauty?</code></pre>
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