The agitation Alex feels bubbles just beneath the surface. Patterns where patterns shouldn’t be, strange orders from HQ, indifference where once was ample aide as well. It was maddening. Combine it all with the haunting suspicion that there was constantly someone just around the next corner, and it was enough to truly drive Alex mad.

That uneasiness takes its toll on a long enough time line, but Alex wasn’t about to let it get to him. Or so he thought to himself as he cast a furtive look at his monitoring equipment. This paranoia had served him well in the past, very well in fact. It’s a sort of sixth sense in a way, always kept Alex off the edge of the cliff, especially when someone stepped close enough to push him off. Those were the types of skills HQ sought after in the first place.

Alex closes the iron door on his bunker, leaving his monitoring equipment running, dead man’s trigger set to blow the place shoul anyone enter it. Can’t be too careful these days..

Emerging from the sewer grate, sticking to the shadows, Alex makes his way down an alley, then another, and yet another, finally emerging a few blocks from the Milk Market. Across the street, as he had expected, was Marvelo’s Marvelous MurderSticks, a quaint place should one needed something, well you get the picture, they don’t really sell anything but weaponry here.

Alex ducked into the entrance of the shop and strode towards the back rack, where a collection of knives was on display. A rough looking fellow, ruddy red beard, thinning hair, moved from the counter as he saw Alex approach. “Fine sampling of knives we have, could I interest you in one?” Marvelo says. Alex reaches for a thin stilleto style dagger, and hands it to Marvelo “This one seems about right, but I’d like an extra sharp edge put on it, if you don’t mind”. Marvelo takes the stilleto from Alex say “Not a problem at all sir”, and he heads into the back.

He sets to work honing the edge, and once complete he places it on his work bench. Grabbing a velvet lined case from a stack, he deftly removes the bottom and places a rolled piece of paper into the bottom, alongside an m1911 style pistol, and a couple of clips of ammo. He then places the velvet bottom back over the equipment, and places the stilleto on top, bringing the entire package back to the front. “An extra fine edge on this one sir, that’ll be 15 gold, plus another 5 to cover the service.

Alex pays, and nips out the shop and heads back to the back alley. Paranoia begets what it requets, Alex mutters to himself as he disassembles the box holstering the pistol and ammo, and sheathing the dagger. Can’t keep going unarmed like I’m some kind of beat cop, not anymore.. Alex discards the case and unfurls the message, quickly deciphering the encryption set on it by Marvelo.

The hunt is still on, no word on Blavin nor the Iris group, yet.
Agent 7 heard rumor of a couple of persons inquiring about the "Milk Market" these past few days.
Agent 3 heard similar rumors, was able to bribe a melon vendor to acertain the figure wore a red sash, and was looking for friends.
Agent 6 has kept watch on the Market, nothing strange yet, coming and goings as usual, no strange visitors
Agent 4 monitoring feeds still present glitches, something abnormal
Agent 5 found the melon vendor dead in a back alley, strangled to death, not immediate signs of blunt force trauma, caution advised

Alex burned the note, striding rapidly away from the alley, taking a meandering route away from the Milk Market, looping back around, and heading back towards it by yet another. Nobody appeared to be following him, yet he paused at each corner and turn, waiting for the footsteps of a pursuant.

Noting nothing, he made his way through the back entrance of Enrique’s Empanadas greeting the cook quietly, but jovial. “Enrique, where’s Inky? We’ve got a problem.”

~

Inky skims the page. They thank the witch, pay for the items and exit the shop, promptly discarding all notions of meeting Bother at the place stipulated on the note.

(Half and one hour later)

One-sixths into a caramel cantaloupe cream cornet, Inky runs into Confidence outside the Wandering Bazaar and obtains some of their new pamphlets, minted with luminescent ink for the convenience of late-night tourists. These are subsequently hare-mailed to every editor at the Niuewstijl office, which is almost certain to earn another chiding remark from Tess about etiquette and the handling of unsolicited bulk mail to parent editorial teams.

(Half and two hours later)

The installation on display at the Milk Market was grotesque — that is to say, a work of beauty. Inky steps carefully through the rooms to not disturb the piece. Afterwards, they sign the guestbook set up on an upturned milk crate by the door, delightedly pasting rows of horse head and thumbs-up emo Gs on a page thoughtfully titled “you can’t ed the unedible”.

(Half and three hours earlier)

Thanking Agate for her time, Inky passes her a sheet of paper on which were written a few questions about the prescribed ritual, with some space after each question should the witch prefer to scribble a response:

• What do guides in the Sea of Dreams and the Ravenfolk typically seek in return for directing travellers to the correct pocket dimension?

• An establishment inside the Bazaar is only open in the evenings whenever it appears in the city. How long does travel to a pocket dimension typically take, allowing for time to seek out a guide? Is there a way travellers can estimate the time to set out on their journey, in order to arrive at the establishment while it is open?

• Who are the Red Spider and “Dude 215R” mentioned in the ritual? How can travellers avoid summoning them?

• Would anything happen to the travellers if any of the sigils were removed during the ritual before they wake up?

(Half and four hours later)

Two sets of eyes peer down at the contents of an open tin. One accompanied by a focused look and a little trepidation, following the pinkish, flesh-like chunks speckled with white pockets of fat as they tumble into a hot pan and almost immediately begin to move of their own accord. The moving mounds resemble small round mouths opening, each with a rim of sharp teeth. The other pair of eyes belongs to a grinning face that beams when the mounds bloom into bright red flat caps, the edges beneath about to soften in the olive oil.

Minutes after, The slices are ready. Inky accepts the plate of tostada with spicy pickled artichoke mushrooms and tomatoes with a murmur of thanks. Reassembling the recipe for the tinned spicy artichoke mushrooms had been a tedious process — someone had ripped out the pages from an old pickling book that had long ceased publication. Eventually Inky found a former nomad who had eaten them for two years in their youth and could recall or somewhat describe the taste. Flowery and savoury, they said. Many taste tests later, it turned out to be closer to partially decomposed cheese in ponderosa lemon juice. Canning was fortuitously easier with the increasing portability of sealers. Rather than telling the empanada chef any of this, Inky watches satisfaction slowly spread across his face. The tale that follows is far more entertaining.

(Half and five hours later)

While measuring out ingredients for the forty-second tea infusion since the start of the missions, not that Inky was keeping a close count, they hear a familiar voice a short distance outside the door asking for their whereabouts. Without pausing in their whisking, Inky simply informs the owner of the voice they’re not here, obviously, before emerging from the storage pantry with a fresh pot and bowls on a wooden tray, and greets the returning sysorcerer.

Agate writes back quickly:

What do guides in the Sea of Dreams and the Ravenfolk typically seek in return for directing travellers to the correct pocket dimension?

Intangibles. Usually memories, hopes, or dreams.

An establishment inside the Bazaar is only open in the evenings whenever it appears in the city. How long does travel to a pocket dimension typically take, allowing for time to seek out a guide? Is there a way travellers can estimate the time to set out on their journey, in order to arrive at the establishment while it is open?

You’ll find that time is rather malleable on the Otherside. You’ll likely arrive exactly when you’re meant to. No need to worry too much about it.

Who are the Red Spider and “Dude 215R” mentioned in the ritual? How can travellers avoid summoning them?

Godforms manifested by the Linking Sigil and the Dream Sigil, respectively. It’s not terrible if they show up. But it’s definitely not ideal. You shouldn’t register on their radar as long as you don’t pump too much energy into, or siphon to much energy out of, the sigils. If they do show up, just know that you’re in the presence of a godlike power, and behave accordingly.

Would anything happen to the travellers if any of the sigils were removed during the ritual before they wake up?

If the sigils are removed or if the circle is broken, you’ll likely just wake up before you wanted to. Same goes for if your dreamform is destroyed while in the Dreaming. The only real danger you may encounter is the Scissormen and their ilk. They will attempt to permanently sever your dreamform from your waking body. Which would leave your body a soulless husk, and leave your consciousness adrift in the Sea of Dreams. But that probably won’t happen! Okay good luck, have fun!

WHAT DO YOU DO

Alex lifts his teacup and sips the fragrantly tea, “perfumed of rosehips, and cardamum? An interesting choice. I appreciate it Inky, these past few days have been terribly rough, and I’m rather tired of field rations.” Alex takes a sip, and then continues hurridly. “I’ve been monitoring the Bazar, we are in grave danger. It started with just me, but I fear it’s bled over to everyone here at the Milk Market. I can’t be entirely certain.”

Alex looks worriedly at Inky. “There’s a lot going on here. As soon as we got back from Kelsun I was sent on an assignment, normally not an issue, but they wanted me to level 3 of the busiest coffee shops in the bazar. I planted those bombs, alongside listening devices, and then I bugged out. My team appears to have been assigned equally bizarre assignments, all rather violent messy things. A lot of innocent lives are on the line here.”

“We dropped off the grid, I’ve got an isolated listening post in the sewers here, it’s heavily reinforced and that’s where I’ve been hiding out, but I’m not certain it’s safe. Agent 5 found a melon vendor dead in the market, and this vendor was specifically seeking out the Milk Market, looking for us. I believe it may be an assassin, could be from HQ, could be from Blavin. It’s entirely opaque to me.”

“As far as I can tell, my agents are all loyal to me, there’s 5 of them in total, 6 if you count me. We could man the ship and get the hell out of here in a few hours, and it may be our best chance. But there’s the iris letter we need to attend to, and I cannot for the life of me find anything, not a damn trace, of Blavin. And I think all of this bodes very poorly for us.”

Alex looks worriedly at Inky, and you’re telling me we have a ritual we have to perform, to find the iris group’s meeting place.. I’m leery Ink, I have to be you see. But my uncle trusted you, and I do as well. If you think this is our best shot, we can hole up in the sewers and try to perform this dream walk of your witch friend’s. But if this iris business turns out to be a trap, well, how well can you handle a gun?

~

“Your courage and concern are admirable, Master Alex. Caution is likewise advisable.” Inky nods seriously.

The next moment, they gave the sysorcerer a slightly deranged grin. “I’m sure you have already seen many grave dangers. What’s another one for the bucket list? What’s life if not violent and messy? So many melons dismembered and laid waste daily—”

As if suddenly recalling a detail, Inky pauses and blinks. “Melon vendor? Oh, poor Pepo. He has been complaining about his neighbour’s boa constrictors for years. The serpents were drawn to the rodents his fruits typically attracted, which might not have been a problem were it not for them hanging out at his stall and scaring off his customers. Maybe he finally took matters into his own hands, with tragic results.” They look at an empty mixing bowl across the table glumly. “He had offered to bring over a few of the new variety as soon as they arrived, as he was already delivering to a household the next district over.”

They send Master Alex a sidelong glance. “Someone is after you? You didn’t do something horrid like help an old grandmother cross the street on sockless skates, for instance?” Refilling the sysorcerer’s cup, Inky continues, “As for Blavin, only 3 of the crystals have been recovered. Blavin knows Team 43 is his best chance of obtaining the others. Until he has all the crystals, he will stay his hand. If he doesn’t know that, then he is hardly a threat.”

Setting down the teapot, Inky shrugs. “They seem eager to get our attention. I suppose I could spare them their twelve minutes of fame, for the right price. Enlightenment would probably be too much to ask of a nightmare. If you’d rather take your team and make a run for it instead, that’s fine too. If they come knocking I’ll just tell them you missed the hotel fondue at Kelsun Peak.”

Their gaze skips to one of the cups before they shake their head. “No gun.” They turn around and take down a bamboo walking stick hanging from a hook on a wall next to a worn coat. Inky grasps the handle and pulls. It slides out quietly to reveal a long, thin, tapered surgical steel tube which, if someone were to lean in for a closer inspection, is sparsely covered in tiny, needle-like protrusions along the surface. On the underside, a transparent sliver ran the length of the tube to end about a forefinger’s length from the handle. Visible through the narrow window is a colourless liquid, most likely a sedative or toxin, fills the reinforced steel interior.

They smile mirthlessly at Master Alex. “I don’t know that Master Corraidhín trusted me, because if he did, it would have been the most foolhardy thing the wise man has ever done. You would do well to not make that mistake.”

~

“It doesn’t sound like we have all too much of an option”, Alex says, as a little Scarab beetle in his pocket chimes, “that’ll be the dead man’s trigger going off in my hideout.”

Alex frowns, shame to lose all of that data, those systems, that hideout.. but I hope whoever broke in enjoys thermite, assuming they don’t asphyxiate quickly enough to miss the fun..

Inky, you’re right, life is a bit violent and messy, so lets bring the violent mess to these bastards. If you’ve got a lead on this with this dream ritual, then fuck it, lets take the risk. I won’t run from this fight, my uncle sure as hell wouldn’t. And at worst, he’d go out with a magnificient bang. Lets give it back tenfold, for poor Pepo.

Nodding his own approval Alex continues, I have another hideout in the eastern quandrant, near the sysorcerer’s guild. It’s a little risky to head out that way, but none of my Zabbix alerts indicate it was compromised. It has automated IDS and IPS systems, so we should be safe enough in there once we whole up. At very least we’ll know if someone comes for us, and we’ll have a little bit of time to react on it. We should bring the Toques with us, and little blod clot, and the duck.

Looking sorrowfully at Enrique, “I think it might be best if you got the hell out of dodge too friend, it isn’t safe, and I don’t want to see you become collateral here. Head down to the wharf, I’ll have agent 5 meet you there, he’ll help you and your family lay low until all of this blows over.”

~

At Enrique’s deep frown, Inky sighs and adds, “Might as well do as Master Alex says. He can spot danger twelve blocks away, and turtle soup is really out of fashion these days.”

Then they excuse themselves to pack a few items, returning about fifteen minutes later with a knapsack and a cross-strap carrier draped in a black cloth cover. Inky says, “I hope you don’t mind if I bring along a guest as well.”

The cover is pulled back to expose a dome-shaped birdhouse, with transparent circular rings at the top partially obscured by sliding shutters of the same shape. A wooden hoop with a woven, web-like pattern and adorned with a string of feathers hangs from one side. On the opposite side is a double door with a miniature knob over each door. Inky lightly taps on one of the doors, and at a low click coming from within in response, swings the doors wide enough for the kitchen lamps to illuminate the great horned owl resting on a pillow inside. The bird opens one amber eye for a moment, gaze sweeping idly across the occupants in the room before dozing off again.

“This is Fuko. She and her twin brother Futa have certain shared connections. What one sees, the other will also know. I asked their caretaker if I could borrow them for a while. Fuko will accompany me for the ritual. Her brother is at another location and can send a message if a need arises.” Inky explains with a wry expression. “Think of it as a minor indulgence of sorts. I was told their kind, along with eagle owls, are very good at negotiating with those of the ravens.”

They give the owl a small smile. “She may be a little temperamental, but she is well-trained.” Closing the birdhouse doors, Inky turns back to Master Alex. “I suppose you’d rather not reveal the location of your hideout to any more people than necessary. Her carrier will remain covered on the way in and out.”

Gliftwirp stands under the branches of a tree, pooled in shadow, far from the small gathering. He has been to plenty of funerals. Often under these very circumstances, in fact. And he always keeps his distance out of respect.

For one, he owns no clothes but his vest, sash, and trousers. And his bright red colors would be a sign of disrespect among the mourners. Secondly and most importantly, he himself is the one who put the man in the ground.

Sadly, he had little choice. He had underestimated the sysorcer. Didn’t realize he had his own agents working for him. When he realized that one of the agents had been in contact with the melon vendor, he knew that Popplewick could and would identify the warpwefter if pressured.

Gliftwirp had grown to enjoy his daily chats with the melon vendor. Popplewick was a kind, determined man. A refugee from the Cinderlands, his family came to Vay’Nullar following the Artifice Wars when he was just a boy. He grew up poor, and often relied on the generosity of others. But eventually he was able to support himself and his small family. He was proud of the life he had built.

So Gliftwirp took no pleasure in what came next. Late one night when Popplewick was on his way home from the market, the assassin slipped a bag over his head and dragged him into a dark alley. He cinched the bag tight, cutting off his air. There was a brief struggle before Popplewick passed out and Gliftwirp lowered him down to the ground. He held him there, unconscious and not breathing, until he was gone. In only took but a moment. And then Gliftwirp stood up and left.

Now at the funeral, the mourners leave one by one. Until only the widow is left, cradling a small sleeping child to her chest. “Oh, Pepo,” she whispers to the headstone. “What can I do now?”

When she leaves, she does not return to the main path. She meanders slowly as though in a daze toward the back of the graveyard and down the hill. She steps into the wood. A flash of red follows her at a distance.

She kneels on the banks of the forest river and sets the child down on wide flat rock. It is awake now and looks up at her with solemn eyes. “I am sorry, made-of-me,” she says to the child. And that is all the explanation it gets.

She stands and turns and walks away. The child watches her go.

When she has been gone for some minutes, Gliftwirp steps out of the shadows and crouches down beside the child. It looks up and reaches for him. “Look at you,” he says to the child as he scoops it up. “Who would throw you away? A perfectly good baby!” He stands and bounces the child. “A sweet little melon rind is what you are. Ha! Very well. Come, Rind, we have work to do.”

The assassin, child in his arms, walks back toward the city.

~

In the aftermath, Agent 5 is found down by the docks. They clearly struggled in death. The assassin blamed him for Popplewick’s death and the widow’s weakness.

Down in the sewers, two tiny mittened hands reach up and awkwardly turn the doorknob to Alex’s hideout. The bolt clears the latch with a faint click. Two tiny cloth hands struggle against the heavy iron door, pushing it slowly open, inch by inch. A mechanism clicks inside and there is a whoosh of air and then a boom as the bunker violently ignites. The tiny figure is incinerated, and blown back into the sewer tunnel.

Gliftwirp steps forward into the light of the blaze and crouches down by the tiny figure. He picks it up, a tattered and burned bundle of cloth. “Look, Rind,” he says to the small child standing at his elbow. “You must always acknowledge and be grateful for those who sacrifice for you.” He starts to untie and unfold the cloth puppet as he speaks. It unfurls and smooths out and stitches itself back together under his touch. Even the burn marks fade, and soon Gliftwirp is once again holding his red sash.

“Now, Rind,” he says standing up and taking the child’s hand, squinting into the fire. “Let’s see what we can salvage here.”

WHAT DO YOU DO

• The time of the ritual is at hand.
• What final preparations do you make before entering Dreamspace?

(A week prior)

The secretary collected the stack of papers that had accumulated at one corner of the desk. “This might help,” she said, setting down a bundle of herbs with white and pink flowers in place of the papers.

Inky stared at the blooms, hands stilled over the owl’s plumage. “Oh! Thanks. Good thinking, really. It’ll help make the stench more bearable when they find the remains.”

The grey elf was confused for a moment, then mortified as the words sank in. “That’s not what I meant! It’s for the circle,” she clarified.

Seeing the imp’s preoccupied nod, she coughed lightly to regain their attention, then spoke in a hushed voice. “Beaker’s associates have picked up the empanada shop proprietor and transported him to an undisclosed location. There will be a retinue with him at all times.”

Inky seemed to visibly pull themselves back to the room before responding, “Thank you, Salvia. One more thing — if I do not return by the indicated time, please activate the hitsuzen protocol. As precaution.”

The secretary looked at Inky in concern. “Is everything all right? If you’re still troubled by the hotelier, accidents happen. A single incident—”

“Third. An unidentified man was attacked at the docks. He was probably sent to investigate the melon vendor. One of the other stall owners heard him asking questions shortly after the melon vendor disappeared.”

Salvia’s violet eyes narrowed. “What, the fruit vendor? Didn’t the tabloids say it was an accident? He tried to get rid of a neighbor’s nest of snakes.”

Inky only raised an eyebrow at her.

The secretary let out a low curse. “You didn’t tell her. You didn’t want her to worry,” she said aloud in realization. She sighed. “She’s going to be pretty angry with you when she finds out, you know.”

Inky offered her a sardonic smile. “Making people angry is my job. You of all people know this well. In the event of my timely demise I’m sure the others would find it cause for a grand celebration.” They replied matter-of-factly before returning to smoothing the feathers of one bird wing.

Salvia shook her head vehemently. “That’s not true. You’ll make it back, Ink. What then—”

“Then our fair Lady’s ire would be the least of the problems.”

~

Alex stared morosely into his cup of coffee. He’d received word of agent 5’s demise that morning, and had been the only thing on his mind since. 5, no Be’tram knew the risks, we all knew the risks defying HQ brought, but to happen so suddenly? He’d snuck down to the wharf once he’d heard, making sure to cover his tracks and dodge any potential witnesses. He even managed to slip past the police cordon they’d setup around the body. What he’d found wasn’t pretty, it looked like Be’Tram had suffered in his final moments. The bruising around his neck pointed to strangulation, with some sort of cloth, perhaps a rope. The bruising was deep, and there wasn’t a cut, burn, shot or something of the likes on his otherwise.

The kill had been intimate.

Alex had worked quickly that night, popping Be’Tram’s eye had been hard, but he’d of wanted Alex to have it. Behind his right eye was a recording device, it could only catch the last 15m or so of what he had seen, but it would give him a clear look at what had happened. And potentially lead Alex to the killer. Miserable business, but Be’Tram knew it could make a difference.

Alex had planted a bomb on the body after he had extracted the eye, and made his way well away from the area before it went off obliterating the remains. A regrettable end for an old friend, but it was too dangerous to leave.

And then there was the matter of the zabbix alert, a little purple red critical for the sewer hideout. He’d had time to send out a drone beetle. The smoldering slag that was left was reassuring. Most of the equipment was utterly destroyed, racks upon racks of servers reduced to twisted melted metal. The effectively of the destruction was delightful, in a sick sort of desperate way. Alex felt assured that most if not all of the equipment was useless, but this spelled the end of a valuable listening outpost. And whoever had done it wasn’t part of the slag pile.

Alex stood up, his coffee untouched. The cafe around his burbled in quiet excitement. The city had lit up since the Melon vendor’s death. A thousand rumors abounded about it, but none of them held true; some said the city had become dangerous, a crime syndicate had arisen in the neighboring city block another thought, and did you hear about the explosion at the wharf the other night, the city was electric, yet somehow ever so slightly off the pulse of the issue.

As Alex stepped away a woman with horn rimmed glasses strode past the table he had just abandoned, deftly pulling the note from beneath the coffee cup, left for her.

4 -> 3
Daylight breaks on the morrow
The suns rays make chase
casting soft cloth
across the nap of nature's neck

So, night relents and gives way
biding time until
it can rule
in its own domain

For the passerby, it was but a bit of poetry, scribbled carelessly on the back of a napkin in a coffee near the wharf. But for Agent 3 it was a warning, one part notes on Agent 5s demise recovered from his eyecam, one part orders; stay low and we’ll strike these bastards from the shadows, on our terms, on our ground. Similar missives were delivered to Agents 6 & 7. The numbers were dwindling rapidly, even just one agent lost was hard to stomach.

Alex hand gripped the pistol in his coat pocket with a white knuckled grip as he stepped from the coffee shop into the city. Whatever was after him, whatever had gotten to Be’Tram, it had better know he was coming, and he’d happily send it straight to hell. HQ be damned, the rules be damned, this little game of cat and mouse had just gotten personal.

~

Alex, Inky, Confidence, Bread, and Agent 7 find themselves in a dark backroom in a secluded corner of an old fish processing plant on the wharf. The accommodations are rough, and the stench is abhorrent, but it’s the best that could be procured in a pinch. And it should provide enough seclusion.

The backroom is like that of many factories, high up near the ceiling, a single rusty rickety staircase winds its way along the side of the building for what seems to be 3 flights, before it reaches a metal room with dusty grimy windows, and a single steel door. The windows on the interior overlook the fish processing plant, where rows of belts and machinery stand still, covered in dust and long forgotten blood. You’re glad to know that the factory stopped operating years ago, hygiene is lacking in every sense.

Alex stares forlornly out the exterior windows, the sky is a grey overcast, it matches his mood perfectly. He didn’t like what him and Inky were about to do, but they didn’t have much they could do about it. They would be vulnerable for the duration of the ritual. But Agent 7 and Confidence were there to help mitigate that risk. Alex and Agent 7 had taken every precaution they could think of.

The plant floor was scattered with booby traps, trip wires, and alarms. The other agents were laying low, but kept drones around the wharf feeding in a network of twtxt data back to Agent 7 for recon. And that was on top of the double barred steel doors, and reinforced glass box they’d chosen as their hide out. Meticulously planned, Alex expected no less from Agent 7.

See Marvelo had been at this as long as Alex had, and then some. He was sharp as a tack, with an animal-like third sense that came from years of close calls. He was, simply put, the right man for the job, when that job was keeping your unconscious ass alive.

Alex turns away from the window and addresses Inky. “Apologies for the smell, it turns out there’s a strong correlation between disgust and seclusion, but I believe we should at least be safe here. Safer than we would have been back home. I’m ready if you are, as ready as I’ll ever be that is.”

The Golden Iris have summoned you to appear at the Harpoon Club this evening. But the Harpoon Club is nowhere to be found on this plane of existence. It won’t appear until a week and a half from now, on the last day of the month.

Confidence the Guide has predicted exactly where the Wandering Bazaar will be on that day. With a small bucket of red paint and a large brush, he has drawn a Linking Sigil on the ground at the location. He sits nearby, making sure careless passersby and mischievous kids don’t disturb it, but otherwise letting the sigil absorb the energies of the bustle of shopping and commerce.

At the fish market, Marvelo is posted outside. He keeps vigilant watch, alert to every movement and disturbance.

And inside, Bread, Inky, Fuko, and Alex are huddled up in the office in the back near the ceiling. They all sit inside a dark circle that has been smudged on the floor with a paste made of ash and salt. Painted on the ground is a second Linking Sigil, connecting this spot to Confidence’s, allowing the energies of the two locations to co-mingle. There is also the Dream Sigil, which will connect this place to the Dreaming.

Bread the Host is propped up on some pillows and cushions in the center of the circle, next to the Nyxmaer. The candle is alleged to be made of the flesh and fat of a certain nightmare. Its hand and eye bound in the wax. The Dream Sigil is the door, but the Nyxmaer is the key. The catalyst that will cause all of the otherwise inert metaphysical particles to become volatile and reactive. It is what will allow you to actually pass over and arrive on the shores of the Sea of Dreams.

Per the shop witch’s instructions, the Nyxmaer has been placed on a thin, hard tin plate. As the candle burns, the wax will soften and eventually allow the large metal nail in its side to fall. When it strikes the plate, you will awaken, exiting the Dreaming. You expect hours may pass in the realm of sleep. But only about thirty minutes will pass here.

Inky and Alex sit inside the circle, near the perimeter, facing Bread in the center. Fuko the owl sits at Inky’s side.

It is dim. You are illuminated by mundane, non-magical candles set around the edges of the circle. Outside, a steady rain beats on the roof and the windows of the building. The smell of fish is faint but ever-present. A constant reminder of the small creatures that have left their bodies in a fashion far more permanent and irreversible than the separation of spirit and body you are about to experience. You hope.

WHAT DO YOU DO

• How do you induce a deep and powerful slumber in Bread?

• What shape or form will you take when you arrive in the Dreaming?

• What are you secretly worried or hopeful about being exposed in the dreamland, the realm of metaphor?

Once back in the Milk Bar, with the airship safely anchored to the roof of the building, Alex finds himself amongst the old belongings of his former uncle.

sigh “Best get a request to HQ for this airship, maybe they’ll let us operate it for a bit, if not I suppose we have to impound it..”

<- OP 2817 * LOC MB-A
-> OP 25120 * LOC ESPER

CLEARANCE: INFORMATIONAL
REQUEST ENCLOSED.

REQUESTING PERMISSION TO IMPOUND OR OPERATE.
ONE CYBERPLASM AIRSHIP "The Rusty Maiden"

“There’s also the matter of this little hemogoblin..” Alex mutters to himself while said hemogoblin happily dances around the room, dripping little pools of blood hither and tither.

<- OP 2817 * LOC MB-A
-> OP 41154 * LOC ESPER

CLEARANCE: TOP SECRET
REQUEST ENCLOSED
PACKET ENCLOSED

REQUESTING ANALYSIS
ONE GDB @gdb-readout.dat
TWO BLOOD @blood-soaked-handkerchief
NOTE GDB INDICATES SOME ANOMALY

“Hey little guy, lets go get an empanade. Inky says they’re divine.” Alex says as he scoops up the little goblin and gently carries him downstairs.”

Striding into Enriques kitchen, and availing himself to the empanadas, ignoring an indignant Enrique’s protests that these were for paying customers until a small bag of coins is tossed careless over one shoulder. Alex stride through the kitchen and then out and away into the garden to enjoy their pilfered treats.

“I suppose this is more interesting than being on the force at times”

~

Inky stepped into the toques’ cabin below deck with a tray of turmeric ginger tea and lavender biscuits. After checking on Bread’s bandages and offering the toque reclined on the berth the last bag of mango croutons — or at least the last one for the next two hours — Inky perched on a wooden barrel across from where Confidence sat on a creaking old chair next to the bunk and spoke. “We’ll be landing in about an hour and getting Bread to a medical facility. You can stay with him while he heals and rest up.”

They paused to take a long sip from their cup, as if the liquid was being used to summon their next words. “On behalf of myself and the party, I apologise for the … disruption, and for what had befallen the hotelier. As you may have already noticed, we’re a fair distance away from the Peak and will be arriving in Vay’Nullar soon. This airship was taken over from the cyberplasms in the course of getting the crystal out and the injured to a safe location, and her new captain could hardly fly it back straight into the pirates’ hands now.

What we propose is this: you and Bread may take as long as you need to recover. We can arrange for lodgings and new posts in the city. One of our party runs a Milk Market that could certainly use some hired help, and a garden in the back that would benefit from more attention. Pay will be double your current salary at the hotel. Master Alex may also recruit you for other tasks. You don’t need to have an answer just yet — think on it for a bit while you rest and let us know. Afterwards, if you find that you still wish to return to Kelsun Peak, we will pay for travel.”

Inky winked at Bread conspiratorially. “You may be interested to know there is a bakery on the Milk Market’s first floor. If you like the look of the place, perhaps we can convince the chef to take on an assistant.”

~

Tess watched her adviser from her position on one end of the plush chaise lounge in her office, who returned her stare impassively as they sat in the adjoining armchair to her right. The ornate coffee table before them had been laid out for tea, but the other cup remained untouched, which was in itself unusual. Ink rarely turned down tea when it was offered, which likely meant they were preoccupied with something they were unwilling to discuss. This had been happening more frequently since their plans to intercept the Ginnarak Crystals, which was a little concerning, but she knew it would be no use to question them directly. The missive she had received this time through Piskin’s people was brief, almost annoyingly so, but they had returned earlier than expected with the articles that production had requested, which had fortunately made up for lost time from the previous delays.

With this in mind, she settled on a lighter note as she picked up her own teacup. “Salvia passed on the items to the production team. Thank you for picking them up from the Runesocesius. I would send my regular couriers but they are tied up with another event. One of them had to care for their sick child and couldn’t leave the city. As usual, time and discretion are of the essence.”

When her adviser only nodded, she continued. “How is he? He probably insisted on bringing the manuscripts out for you himself. The man is cautious with valuables.”

“Quite dead but managing, or so I heard.” Ink intoned drily.

Tess caught on immediately. “Didn’t you meet with him? The message only mentioned the items had been obtained. Did something happen?”

The imp shrugged. “We met, I delivered the letter and collected the items. We didn’t get a chance to talk.”

The hotel was slowly but steadily attracting visitors again, especially after their last play had prominently featured the Runesocesius Library as a research partner in the programme credits, but Tess didn’t think the hotelier was so busy as to entrust this task to one of his underlings. The man was proud of the first editions the library had amassed, and the notebooks of Lucidieau that the playwright sought as a reference were no doubt counted among the treasures, even if only an expensive commissioned facsimile was permitted out of the library. Something had happened, she was sure, but decided not to press further for the moment.

“And the other matter?” she asked.

“Someone already knew the crystal was at the hotel and retained a crew of cyberplasmic pirates to storm the place.” Ink replied flatly. “And yes, your acquaintance is very much dead, shot by the crew leader in the scuffle. As the rumour rags have it, his ghost is now overseeing the building repairs.”

Tess was about to admonish the imp gently for the tasteless jest when there was a knock at the door. At her response, the door opened and her secretary entered with a box of pastries and two sets of tableware, which she placed on the coffee table before leaving and closing the door behind her.

Noticing Ink’s look of recognition, Tess smiled and ventured, “This is the second time is as many months you awarded that empanada place a glowing review in The Tiny Toaster. I can count the ratings higher than a 10 you’ve ever given on one hand — of course I had to try it. Why don’t you have some as well?”

Ink blinked. “I didn’t write the latest review.”

Tess shot them an accusing mock-glare as she lifted a puffy golden brown pastry onto a plate. “It has your inkprints all over it.”

“I don’t know what you mean. Surely I’m allowed to treat a colleague to lunch, and they are free to express their satisfaction with a meal openly if they wish,” Ink replied smoothly.

Tess rolled her eyes. “There’s a name for that. It’s called bribery.”

Ink smiled faintly. “Just so. However, the selection speaks for itself.”

“Oh, absolutely! These mini ambrose apple empanadas are wonderful. In fact,” Tess prodded the open end of the pastry with her fork, where a light yellow filling was visible, “they remind me a little of the very crispy tortelli someone made several years ago just for the opening reception of The Two Genteelkin of Virdantha.”

“Any resemblance is coincidental. The chef is very capable.” Ink said evenly.

Tess sighed and returned her plate to the table. “We’ve talked about this before, Ink. You don’t have to hole up in some poor scrub’s excuse for a kitchen in a closet. If you need more room downstairs then expand it. Just tell Salvia and she’ll take care of it.”

Ink lowered their gaze to the teacups. “I appreciate the offer, but the answer is the same. There will be no rest until the crystals are secured.”

Some time passes.

The hemogoblin turns out to be a fine housemate and less of a problem than you thought it would be. Be it because its not in the excitement of battle onboard a pirate ship, or be it because it is maturing slightly, it seems in better control of its blood sacs. Barring a few small accidents, it doesn’t make much of a mess. It has found and claimed as its own a few unused blankets, and has made a little burrow nest in an out of the way corner behind the furniture.

Bread makes a full recovery and in fact is doing better than ever before. The blood goblin stays by their side during the first hours and days and keeps them pumped full of clean, synthetic blood. Afterwards the toque is flushed a healthy pink and has new vigor. Enrique takes them under his tutelage. And Bread ends up making a fine baker’s apprentice. Dough seems to rise more and quicker after he kneads it. “The lad has solar hands,” Enrique boasts of his new protegee.

Confidence becomes enthralled with the semi-sentient Wandering Bazaar. The thirteen story building moves with glacial speed up and down the streets, vendors and stalls and shoppers following in its wake. But then also it will disappear in the blink of an eye only to reappear in a totally different part of the area known as the Wandering Bazaar District. Each floor of the tall, narrow tower is occupied entirely by a single shop. But which shop it is seems to vary from day to day. One day the seventh level will be occupied by Fedik’s Butcher shop. And the next, Lario’s Bakery. It might be days or weeks before one can once again buy hotlinks from Fedik’s. Where the shops go when they’re not here is one of Basmentaria’s great mysteries.

The toque studies the Bazaar’s movements and are able to predict its route with more and more accuracy. They become a highly sought out guide. Tourists and visitors trust them to take them to the very spot the Bazaar will appear that day. Residents appreciate the heads up and not getting trapped in their houses when the Bazaar wedges its way into their narrow residential streets, blocking their front doors. And owners of traditional, less ambulatory shops are able to plan ahead for the crowds that will appear on “Bazaar Day”.

~

Members of the Retrieval Team who sleep in Milk Market HQ start having dreams of the same mysterious figure. Of course at first nobody knows their dreams are shared by the others. Not until they become more frequent, more regular. By the time the figure has visited you every night for nearly a week, somebody speaks up and you realize the coincidence.

The figure is clad in voluminous robes of deep purple. Long, straight, blonde hair falls around their shoulders. Their soft features are boyish and womanly. They wear a golden circlet on their head and a golden eye in the middle of their forehead. Their passive, neutral face betrays no emotion the entire time.

The dream is always the same. They reach out to you with one hand and turn their palm up. And because of dream logic, in the palm of their hand you can hear the jingling of coins, mirthful laughter, and hushed stories told around a campfire. They curl their fingers into a loose first and the sounds stop. They spread their arms wide and in the folds of their robes you can see three siblings fighting, squabbling over a broken loom.

Then you’re standing next to them, and the two of you watch three friends, Snake, Owl, and Dolphin. Owl tells Snake that he is tired of flying and hooting, and doesn’t want to be an owl any more, he wants to be flowers. And Snake laughs and tells him that he is Owl, and an owl he must remain. And she leaves him to go eat rodents and bake in the sun. So Owl tells Dolphin that he is tired of flying and hooting, and doesn’t want to be an owl any more, he wants to be flowers. Dolphin doesn’t want to help Owl, because if he is flowers, they won’t be able to be together any longer. But Dolphin finally agrees to help even though they don’t want to, because Dolphin loves Owl. With all their strength, they create a great waterspout that will turn Owl into flowers. But the waterspout is too strong, and Dolphin is too weak to control it. It sprays Owl but does not turn him into flowers. Owl’s wing is broken and he falls to the ground in a heap of feathers. The waterspout shakes a great boulder from the earth and traps Snake under it. And Dolphin sinks to the bottom of the sea.

And then you wake up.

~

Later you find a letter in the common area of Milk Market HQ. It is not addressed to anybody. When you open it up, it reads:

Time is running out, Retrieval Team 43. Things are starting to draw to a close. We cannot delay our meeting any longer if we both are to achieve our goals. We have information that you are looking for. Meet us at the Harpoon Club next Selday. We will wear the sign.

The letter is signed with a white iris and golden apple.

Anyone in Vay’Nullar would be able to tell you that the Harpoon Club is a game room and fine dining club, and one of the rotating tenants of the Wandering Bazaar. But Confidence would tell you, were you to ask them, that the club won’t be there next Selday. (When the Bazaar will appear at East and Lowland.) It is in fact not scheduled to appear until a week and a half after next Selday, on Third Tensday. (When the Bazaar will appear at Cathedral and Pine.)

WHAT DO YOU DO

The nibs had disappeared.

Inky had spotted the small ceramic and wicker teapot among a long row of boxes and bowls at the antique shop on the thirteenth floor of the Wandering Bazaar while looking for a Near-weightless Verifying Matter enclosure (NVMe) to their Handy Duffer Discette as a primary storage. The witch shopkeeper, Agate, had helpfully mentioned the teapot could be used to steep very acidic or alkaline solutions, as well as distil solubles. The box it was subsequently packed in did not include instructions on activating the precipitation feature. With the shop not returning for another week by Confidence’s reckoning, Inky had used the teapot in the meantime to rinse off any impurities from an old set of nibs — the very first functional set they had made as an apprentice inkling — except the nibs were nowhere to be found when they poured out the citronella solution and removed the lid. Inky supposed it was to be expected — some witches liked to go on about equal payment for wishes, as if it were as easy as reading off a price tag, and it was difficult to stay irritated at a cute teapot for long. Inky wrote it off as a gift for what would hopefully thereafter be a cutely functional teapot. The shop had a no-refunds policy.

Then came the dream. At first Inky had attributed them to reading the book on the mythology of The Trine that they had slipped out of the Runesocesius Library, along with an obscure cactus leather-bound manuscript containing first-hand accounts of the Artifice Wars. When the dream repeated itself on the third night, Inky suspected it had something to do with the crystals under the Milk Market’s roof. While not horrifically bloody in the way Master Corraidhín’s description of the vision he had from the first crystal had been, it was haplessly boring when lucid intervention didn’t seem to have any effect. It ran on like a low-budget B-Grade play that had only three scenes with a few props each. By the fourth night, the dream had become worse than a nib-nibbling teapot that they stayed up entire nights for the rest of that week while they were camping at the Milk Market.

It was mostly an excuse to drop into the kitchens downstairs — which they could now enter on the pretext of visiting Bread to observe the apprentice’s progress — in the early morning hours and push new tea blends onto its unfortunate occupants. Most of the three dozen or so infusions had been full of fruits and spices, six of which would go well with items on the empanada shop’s current menu. A handful were medicinal after procuring a herb illustrated on one moth-bitten page snatched on the hotel steps back on the Peak. A few others were teas in the loosest sense of the word. These were as tasteless and colourless as tap water, only the scent offering a faint clue as to their ingredients. They had other applications, least of which was in a prank on one empanada chef. (Inky left him a box of zephyl tea — another Kelsun Peak speciality besides mulled wine — before he could too riled up, though.)

The note left at the Milk Market was the black cherry atop the hassle cake. Confidence was fairly sure that the fine establishment mentioned in the note wouldn’t appear on the day indicated. Couldn’t “Mother” have chosen to meet somewhere a little more convenient? So it was that despite the shop having a no-refunds policy, or because of it, Inky found themselves returning to the antique shop inside the Wandering Bazaar a week later looking for another item. “Do you sell flight vessels that could transport people to and from specific places … such as the Harpoon Club?” they asked the witch.

You and the witch go back and forth a few times before she realizes that you want to visit a place where it is when it isn’t there.

“Transdimensional extratemporal colocation?” Agate claps her hands in delight. “This is going to be fun! A witchy problem wants a witchy solution. That’s what my Auntie Tenfingers always said!”

“Why bother with flying contraptions when you yourself are a perfectly adequate vessel? I’m going to prescribe you a dream ritual,” she says, scribbling in a notebook. “It’s complex. But only because it’s a lot of steps. And the timing is kind of particular in a couple places. But if you follow the directions, you shouldn’t have any trouble.” She rips the page out of the notebook and hands it you.

“Basically, you’ll enter a host’s dreams, and then delve into the Collective Unconsciousness. From there you should be able to find the Wandering Bazaar’s pocket dimension. Of course you’ll need to find a guide to take you there. You’ll have to find one in the Sea of Dreams.”

“And you’ll need this!” She ducks behind the counter and reappears with a smoke-gray box bound with thick black ribbon. It’s about as long as her forearm. She unwraps the box and opens it and pulls out a thick, round candle. It is an unhealthy, sickening translucent yellow. In the base of the candle is a large, blackened, withered, and shriveled hand. It is within and without the candle. As though it is grasping the base of the candle, but also like it has been molded into the candle on purpose. As though the hand is imprisoned in the wax. You can just make out a hazy small round object in the center of the candle through the wax. A large nut or marble. The hand looks like it is reaching for it. The candle has been burned down a fair bit. The wick is low and trimmed, and the edges are black and warped where the fatty wax has melted and hardened. You guess there’s only about two-thirds left of the candle.

The witch measures down from the top of the candle with a length of string and bores a small hole in its side. She wedges a large nail into the hole, leaving half of it jutting out. “A crude clock,” she winks at you. “Place the candle on a hard metal plate. When it burns down enough for the wax here to soften, the nail will fall out and strike the plate and wake you up.”

She pushes it across the counter toward you and frowns. “Eh, should be okay,” she shrugs. “But if at any point it looks like the base gets soft enough that the hand might be able to grasp the eye,” she cautions pointing toward the round object in the center of the candle, “smash the thing. As hard as you can. Destroy the hand, and run.”

“The rest of the instructions should be pretty self explanatory!” she exclaims, perking up. “Let me know if you have any questions!”

Ritual Details

Ritual Steps In Brief:

1. Find a volunteer to be the Dream Host.

2. Link your sanctum to the place where the Bazaar will be on the appointed date. (You can’t just do your ceremony out in the open in the middle of the street! Find somewhere you can safely leave your bodies for a few hours.)

3. Draw a circle of salt.

4. At the appointed time, put the Dream Host in the circle. Also the Travelers (you), the Dream Sigil, and the Nyxmaer Candle.

5. Once the Host is asleep (Sleep spell not included), light the candle and enter the Host’s dream.

6. Turn “away” from the dream, cross the Sea of Dreams to the Collective Unconsciousness.

7. Find the Bazaar’s pocket dimension.

The day the letter arrived Alex was nowhere to be found. It was a bit strange, somewhat chilling even, that he’d disappear like that. Ever since they had arrived back at the Milk Maid he’d been seen skulking about his uncle’s study, or pacing the garden out back somewhat agitatedly. Unbeknownst to the party, Alex had anticipated the arrival of the letter, HQ had been following every lead they could pull in since he began with the Ginnarak recovery team. Not that they really had much to go off of, but the courier who left the letter wasn’t hard to track. That was, until he slipped inside one of the ever changing shops right as it was moving along.

The trail went cold after that. Which meant Alex had to get it moving again, or at least the crumpled communique he’d received said as much. Things were moving too quickly to think too hard on the how, all that was needed was action, something drastic to flush things out.

That’s why Alex finds himself on the east side of the market, skulk about the back alley behind The Temporal Cup.

“Gotta get this shit ready, there’s no other options here” Alex thought to himself. He loathed this type of work, it was messy, abhorrently vile in his mind, but what choice did he have? His hands worked deftly at the wires in the small package hidden inside the recess of a loose brick. Once finished, the little packet came to life, muted lights blicking away happily as the brick slid back over it.

This was the 3rd and final eavesdropping device, all placed at the busiest cafes in market, all rigged with self destruct mechanisms large enough to level the building if they’re found.. The eavesdropping Alex could abide by, but the wanton destruction for the sake of security was painful to swallow.

But once again, it wasn’t much like Alex had a say in the matter. The first sign of objection, an inclination that he’d refuse orders, and they’d have an assassin on him before he could leave the alley. And if he took it out, they’d send double, there’d be no rest.

— Later that day

Alex watched twtxt feeds scroll through from his monitoring devices. Most of it unimportant gossip. So and so haves an affair, what’s for lunch, where to find good empanadas in the market, so on and so forth. An endless stream on the pulse of the market.

It was errant curiosity to watch these, the Magic Lichen in the monitoring system was trained to hunt for any hint of what the courier was up to, any twinge from Blavin and his ilk. It’d send alerts straight to him as soon as something came up, but it was interesting to see the pulse of the city trail by. And what else could he do? It was too dangerous to go back to the Milk Maid, any hint he was there could blow his cover. Best to lay low for the time being, let the scrapers scrape and the agents comb the streets until they get a bead on their target.

Milk Market HQ ought to be quiet. Alex has been conspicuously absent. Missing in action. Inky seems to be out making rounds delivering tea, or spending more time than usual at the empenadaria. So Milk Market HQ ought to be quiet.

Instead, a certain young hemogoblin and a certain yellow duck (both of whom have yet to be named, by the way) are squealing as they rampage through the rooms on the top floor of the building, upsetting the furniture in their wake and in general making a huge mess.

It took some coaxing on the hemogoblin’s part. The duck was determinedly uninterested in anything besides a soak in its tub and a nap on its cushion. And it did a good job of ignoring the persistent, pestering goblin for most of the afternoon. But jumping into a wooden tub full of blood cracked the foul’s disinterested facade. It gave furious chase to the goblin until the heat of the moment cooled down. At which point the two of them simply enjoyed the thrill of chasing each other through the apartments.

Confidence is actually the first one to stumble across the carnage. They were just popping by to drop off some new pamphlets, but froze in the doorway when they saw the suite in disarray and the walls plastered with blood and feathers. “What the toque…” And then they quietly closed the door and left without going in after all.

~

Gliftwirp browses the stalls trailing behind the Wandering Bazaar. He is bare chested save for a sleeveless vest. He wears long, baggy, striped trousers bunched at the ankle, and a bright red sash tied loosely around his waist. He grins a wide, gap-toothed grin as he thumps a melon.

“Look at the size of this melon! And perfectly ripe!” he beams at the stall vendor. “You’ll be here next week? With more like this?”

Very few people would be able to tell Gliftwirp’s profession from his attire. For those who can, one look at his red sash would immediately cause them to give him a wide berth. Because Gliftwirp is a warpwefter. A master assassin trained in the ancient art of sarong-fu. That is, the deadly application of soft and flexible weapons. Whips, chains, garrotes, nunchucks. And most famously—and most effectively—sashes, sarongs, scarves, and the like. The saying goes that a clothed warpwefter is never unarmed. Nor even is a nude one if they can get their hands on your clothes. And a warpwefter can sneak their weapons into the most secure of locations.

“I am a visitor here, and don’t know my way around,” he keeps up the small-talk with the vendor, having paid for the melon. “Do you know if there is a building around here called ‘Milk Market?’ I’m supposed to meet someone there. No, they’re not expecting me. It’s going to be a surprise!”

He grins his wide toothy grin.

~

The twtxt feed from the listening devices is dull and quiet. The monitoring software is designed to only deliver messages containing certain buzzwords. And those messages are few and far between.

You decide to tap into the unfiltered stream and let the endless waves of blather wash over you. It’s inane. Idle gossip and mindless chitter-chatter.

After a day or two of this, you notice yourself getting uncharacteristically agitated. You squint at the lines of messages coming in and notice a few transposed characters in some of them, forming new nonsensical words. A couple messages are missing some whitespace, squishing words together in maddening run-ons. Glitchy. There’s no reason the listening devices should be returning errors like this.

Later still, the feeds have gotten worse. Some words seem to be written backwards. Entire messages are garbled word soup, devoid of any meaning or sense whatsoever. Some of the timestamps are invalid datetimes. But you prefer them to the ones that are valid, but which are stamped years ago. And you far prefer them to the ones that are stamped far in the future.

The anomalies are overall infrequent. On their own, they don’t amount to much. And when you show them, nobody at HQ gives you with much more than a slightly patronizing, indulgent shrug. But the glitches shouldn’t be happening at all, is the thing. And when you compile them all together, you start to notice things. Patterns insinuating themselves, maddeningly just short of reason or meaning. Like a song stuck in your head when you can’t remember the lyrics or the melody. But there’s something there nonetheless. The promise of something, at least. Something bigger. A wide tapestry of links and connections, wanting to be known.

There are names. Ellis, the lady in red who sits at the center of a tangled web. Ousia, a sea of endless knowledge. A sea of magic. The 215R Dude, a denizen of the other side who can deliver you to its shores. Other strange beings who lurk just out of sight, just beyond the veil of perception. The veil that you are now beginning to pierce with the snippets and snatches of information you pluck from your feeds.

You start to see signs of the veil elsewhere. Of the conspiracy. Whatever. You can’t decide what to call it. Street graffiti outside of a red spider spinning a red web. Phrases like “215R” show up in random articles in the paper. As though the secret world is trying to cross over. Or to draw you into it.

WHAT DO YOU DO