Alex silently observes the party and this foolish hobbit, before him three untouched drinks have accumulated. He’s a little less enthusiatic about taking drink from strangers, too much risk in that. As Blavin describes this crystal, whatever it may be, he catches a glimpse of the pinkish purplish armband on the party across from them. They don’t look out of place given the patrons at the tavern, but he’s certain they were listening in on the animated conversation of the hobbit. It could be nothing, or it coule be connected to Corraidhin, best to put a bug on them Alex thinks.

Silently beneath the table and out of site Alex prepares a bug and sets it off to follow the person with the armband. Once the bug catches up to the part it’s programmed to perform a tcpdump and capture information streaming around it, and then report back to Alex once full. By no means a perfect method of spying, but it’s low energy and can be maintained from great distances without taxing Alex’s energy.

As Blavin comes back to the group from his grandoise space commentary Alex begins to question him.

Enough of your theatrics hobbit. Tell me about the mark, you’ve obviously tipped off the entire tavern as to the whereabouts of whatever it is you’re looking for, so give us an edge, something those evesdroppers a table over don’t have. And cut this tripe about your benefactor, who is he, and what does he want with this magical baubbles.

As Alex finishes his questions he sits quietly for a moment staring down Blavin.

During this outburts, as all eyes turn to Blavin for his response, Alex casts yet another bug. This one sneaks onto the personage of Blavin himself. Programmed the same way.

We’ll get information from someone, subtle, or not if needed.

~

Inky watches with faint amusement as a magical device, likely a probe, found its way onto their mission handler.

Inky might have missed the slight movement under the table if they weren’t waiting for it, having received word of the younger wizard’s penchant for pre-emptive offence magic. As it were, the offices and surrounding premises were routinely swept for similar devices, a more recent example of which had been placed in plain sight by an overzealous tabloid writer hoping to pick up an exclusive reveal. The quality of the contraption, which had immediately fallen apart when detached from its gum adhesive on the back of a glass vase, had been almost insulting.

It seems Blackfoot hadn’t learned his lesson after all, and if Alex was keen to give him a reminder, Inky had no objection. As Blavin takes another swig from his sixth drink of the evening, the waitress smiling at him with a wink as she set down their glasses before skating away to take another order (Inky made sure tip her liberally for the attentive service), Inky let their line of sight flicker to a fuchsia-coloured band on a departing customer’s arm.

Inky smiles internally at the sight — they can almost hear Beaker’s crow of dismay. The poor kingfisher had been under increased pressure of late from other scientific associations and prominent speakers to exclude BAND from presenting at one of the largest annual ornithology conferences of the year on accusations of spreading misinformation and junk science in addition to attempting to erase the history of native bird tribes. There had been a huge row, which ended with the BANDits storming off, yelling about “the proof being crystal clear” and that they will bring “ancient arcane evidence”. The Alcedinian researcher had lamented the halcyon days when conferences were avenues for scientific exchange, not twittering soapboxes. Not that anyone who had ever tried to arrange any gathering of birds of a feather really thought things simply glided along smoothly before. However, the advent of dedicated carrier pigeon networks had made it easier to relay research to and from smaller communities, opening the pathways for their participation, including a few somewhat Controversial fringe groups like BAND.

Alex attempts to shake down the hobbit, who titters merrily at his demands.

“You know nearly everything I do, dear! Your mark as you put it,” Blaven theatrically drops his voice as he looks around for eavesdroppers, “would be the zephynos of Kelsun Peak should you choose to go that route.

“If you choose to go to the moon, you’ll have a harder go of it,” he frowns. He flips the map over and draws four circles in a straight line. They have the proportions of a grapefruit, an orange, a tangerine, and an orange. He jabs a finger at the grapefruit. “This is us, here, earth.” He points at the two oranges and the tangerine. “And these are our planet’s moons.” He points to them in order. “Selene, the Green Lady. Moonmoon. And Lua, the Red Lady. Recently, as you well know, we had a super eclipse in which these four bodies and the sun all lined up in perfect alignment. The combined magnetic pull of the spheres allowed a rare commingling of the ionic spheres, and our instruments were able to detect the crystal somewhere out there in space. If I were to bet on it, I would put my money on Lua.” He points to the farthest moon, the Red Lady, with its own tiny satellite, Moonmoon. He looks up at you and explains, “She’s far enough away that her ionosphere would never make contact with ours except for in this particular, rare circumstance. That’s why the crystal has escaped our detection for so long.”

“As for the Benefactor!” He brightens up. “He’s a magnificent fellow as you well know! A renowned collector. His wishes are to preserve the crystals and protect them (and us!) from their misuse or mishandling! He has a hot tub!” he winks at you. “Speaking of crystals,” he adds as an afterthought, taking another sip of his drink, “why don’t you hand that crystal over to me and I’ll deliver it to the Benefactor. That is what he’s paying you for after all!”

The Ornithologer’s Trio leaves Lucy’s Basement quite oblivious to their bug. The Ornithologer turns out to be the orator of their little group, ranting about the conspiracy, the attempted cover up, about how Big Science wants to convince you that birds are dinosaurs but they’re just pulling the wool over your eyes. The truth is right there in the fossil record for crying out loud! All you have to do is look for yourself. Nobody these days wants to think is the problem. They just get their information from the authorities and take it as gospel, but they don’t see that the authorities have adopted a narrative that suits their own ends.

At which point the groll interjects and asks what is the end goal of Big Science, and how exactly does convincing the proletariat that birds are dinosaurs help achieve it?

The BANDit scowls and answers, Look, you just don’t get it, okay!

The three split up and go their separate ways and disappear into the night.

You learn the following, one of which is true, one of which is false, and one of which is meaningless.

1. BAND plans to intercept the CRYSTAL of VOID and use it to petition the Insatiable Wyrm for definitive proof that Birds Are Not Dinosaurs. In this way they shall shame their fellow paleornithologists and earn their rightful place at the table of Big Science, which they have spent decades undermining.

2. The Gnu Zealots intend to reverse engineer the power of the crystals, create a newborn godling, and then release their findings, thus laying the foundation of the world’s first truly open source religion

3. The trio seeks the crystals not at all, but in fact search for Sitopotnia, creator and progenitor of the entire amaizeon race—including corbits, aurs, centaurs, and others—and the only mortal in the history of Basmentaria to successfully take the mantle of creation from the overgods.

Meanwhile, Blaven slips out into the early, early morning carrying his own bug. He whistles tunelessly to himself as he sails down the street with a wide and veering but surprisingly steady gait.

Once he gets a few blocks away, his gait narrows and his step becomes more lively, a bit jaunty. He stands upright and ceases whistling. All signs of drunkenness disappear as he tugs on his sleeves and straightens his vest, and runs a hand through his hair.

He meets a goblin catcher in the street going the other way, wearily making his way home after a long night’s work. He wears a tiny goblin in a glass jar around his neck, as is the signifier of his trade. And he carries over his shoulder a large cloth sack, the contents of which writhe and kick. Looks like it was a productive night for our goblin catcher! Blaven gives him a little bow and a salute, laughs, and pats him on the back in passing, deftly transferring the bug. “Good night for it then ey?” he calls cheerily. The goblin catcher smiles politely, mumbles a nicety, and carries on.

Later, hidden safely away from spying eyes and listening ears, Blaven sits at his desk, putting the final flourishes on a missive. He sits back and re-reads it to himself, lips moving silently. He nods and smiles, satisfied, and reaches for a stamp to sign the letter. He presses it into a dark red ink pad and then onto the parchment, leaving the image of an apple and iris. He sands the paper, carefully folds it, and places it in an envelope.

WHAT DO YOU DO

Note: Feel free to back up and play out some more conversation at Lucy’s before Blavin leaves if you want to.

Options on the table:

• To the mountains!
• To the moon!
• Something else!

www

Alex grips the encoded message he received in reply to his last request firmly in his coat pocket. It was simple, curt, impactful. “Trust no one”. Which begged the question, could even it be trusted? Was HQ compromised? His informants in danger? His allies and leads awash in the dark grey mist of uncertainity. Or had his message been intercepted, cracked, and a farsical response been sent in its place. Alex wasn’t certain which, but the strange format and unusually speedy response had him on edge.

This anxiety didn’t boil up to the surface, not a line of worry or hint of the inner turbulence broke his cold blue eyes. Outwardly he was just as composed as ever, but between these uncertainties, the loss of his uncle, and now this utterly strange dagger he’d found amongst his uncle’s belongings, he wasn’t certain how long that composure would last. It didn’t held that he felt this gnawing at the back of his mind, as though something was probing, attempting to communicate with him, somewhere between telepathy and utter magic, and not in any sense that Alex understood.

And here he stood, a stranger amongst amidst his uncle’s allies, and very little intention to change that situation at the moment.

As the gondola touched down and the Toques rushed to greet them Alex jumped blithely off the ship and onto firm, but fluffy, ground. He cast a look around him at what appeared to be an ordinary port of entry, noting the crowds of people passing by. As the Toques arrived Alex spoke curtly to them, “Who sends you to greet us, and where do you wish to take us, and by what means do we travel?”. Short, cut, information only. There’s too much unnerving in an unknown situation like this.

~

Inky greets the toques in turn politely, then turns to the second toque and says, “A little bit of bread and no cheese.”

“Cheese?” Bread cocks their head looks at Inky with a touch of embarrassment. They start patting at their pockets, presumably looking for a morsel of cheese to share with the travelers, but finding none. They groan miserably. Confidence butts in apologetically, “There will be plenty of food at the hotel if you want some! Some delicious fondue perhaps? Kelsun Peak’s famous liquid gold!”

“Blavin Blandfoot arranged for us to meet you,” Bread answers Alex. Confidence nods enthusiastically in agreement. “But I suppose technically the hotelier sent us.” Bread points up at the sky, in the general direction of the summit of Kelsun Peak. “We are to escort you to Palace Runesocesius.” They thumb over their shoulder in the general direction of the stairs. “By way of the cloud steps. On foot.”

Confidence leans in close and lowers their voice. “A Ginnarak Crystal! I can’t hardly believe it! Thought they had all been lost to the ages. I hear it’s complete dumb random luck that this one turned up. Story is, an aetherwael beached itself on some wide zephynos boulevard. Happens sometimes. Poor things can’t distinguish between clouds and cloudstuff. I don’t blame ’em! At a distance, you and me can’t either! Anyway, this aetherwael has got a harpoon stuck in its side. Dratted poachers. May they all fall out of the sky and be dashed to a thousand pieces on the rocks below. But it had a harpoon in its side and was trailing behind it a float bag tethered to the harpoon. And you probably already guessed what was inside of it!” By the time Confidence finishes their brief story, they are trembling and nearly breathless with excitement.

“Anyway,” Bread interrupts their excited companion in an attempt to restore decorum. Both of the toques have been gently herding you toward the base of the stairs this whole time. “You know how the zephynos are. You could give them all the coin in Basmentaria, or something priceless like a Ginnarak Crystal, and they’d just as quickly misplace it out of carelessness. If it’s not a cloud they can sculpt into the shape of seussomorph or the likeness of some fantasy creature, they just don’t give a fig. Luckily the hotelier caught wind of the aetherwael and found out about the crystal before they managed to lose it, or bury it inside of a sculpture or something silly! He has it safe and sound in the library up at Runesocesius now.” Bread climbs the first step, his foot sinking barely a centimeter into wispy cloud before striking the solid cloudstuff. “Come! The hotelier will be very excited to greet you!”

WHAT DO YOU DO

www

As Blavin finished his afterthought about handing over the crystal, a yelp was the only warning they heard before a young waiter was suddenly half-sprawled over the hobbit, a tray of ginger beers toppled from his hand and the mugs’ contents splashed onto the hobbit’s front, though fortunately some of it ended up in a large puddle on the ground rather than on Blavin’s person. The waiter had tripped over a bag on the floor on his way to the table two over from theirs and was scrambling to his feet.

“By Nullar’s nuts, I— OH SH——!! S-s-sorry, sir! Hold on, l-lemme get— uh—” the waiter looked around frantically. The waitress who had brought their drinks rushed over with some clean dry towels, a few of which she handed to the other waiter, and they both proceeded to wipe and dab at Blavin’s damp clothes amid the hapless waiter’s babbled apologies. Under the cover of the towels, the waitress patted down the hobbit’s vest and replaced the sheaf of papers she had covertly lifted from one of the vest pockets earlier with a beguiling smile and wink. Once the beer on the floor had been cleaned up (the despondent young waiter had offered to pay for Blavin’s next two rounds of drinks) and the waiters had moved on to serve other customers, Inky spoke.

“You don’t mind that we prefer to deliver it to the Benefactor personally, of course,” Inky piped cheerily, referring to the crystal. “The late wizard thought it was prudent to cover our bases since you’re a new, untested case manager after all. Besides, a little delayed gratification never hurt anybody, did it?” Inky smiled and raised their drink. “Another toast in tribute to Master Corraidhín! May his courage and buoyant spirit guide us on our next mission!”

~

When Inky stepped out of the tavern and was a few paces away, someone clattered through the door and called out, “Hey! You forgot your takeout!”

Inky turned in the direction of the voice. It was the waitress who had served their table earlier. She waved a brown paper bag in one hand. Inky gave her an embarrassed smile and said, “Thanks.” As the bag changed hands, the waitress mouthed soundlessly, We’ll report any more. She went back inside, and Inky strolled off into the cool night air with the bag securely tucked away next to a tea pouch and a more pressing question: what blend would go best with fried tofurkey balls?

~

(Meanwhile)

“The BANDit and his associates had gone to the tavern.” His assistant looked up from the scrap of paper held under a claw.

Beaker heaved a sigh and rubbed the tips of one wing against his forehead. Surely he had better things to do than play Eye Spy over a bunch of crackpots, such as peer reviewing the latest draft of a paper on the development of Cerylidian hunting techniques for an upcoming issue of The Ichnition. But Cio seemed to think something may come of it and unfortunately, she was usually right about troublemakers.

“Tell them to continue tailing from a distance,” he replied with a distracted wave, and his assistant left the room.

Anyway, if he had the spare time, he could look at more interesting things, like the data he had collected surrounding the disappearance of the time anomaly that had popped up a few weeks ago. It had happened gradually, and he still wasn’t entirely sure what had caused this particular incident, but the signals picked up by his instruments had later faded, just like other ones before it. Still, it was comparatively larger than previous ones, and seemed to have taken slightly longer to dissipate, which meant more data points.

He stole another glance at his Dat repositories before sighing again, swivelling his chair and attention back to the manuscript before him. Work first … then more work.

~

The party dispersed after the discussion with Blavin. Nobody had wanted to relinquish the crystal to him, personally Alex felt that was prudent, though he still wasn’t sure what the point of it all was. The foolish hobbit had blathered on and on about their “mark” tactfully ignoring the real questions. And then the bug, damn it, the bug that chittered on about absolutely nothing for hours. It didn’t take Alex too long to figure out why, but he clung to the transmission until it died out hoping he’d be mistaken.

So there he sat, in the attic of his once Uncle, staring bleakly into a cup of dark black coffee. The desk strewn with hastily scratched notes pulled from the bugs feeds. At least the one that had tracked that nosey group had proved somewhat helpful. Turns out this little group has less friends than a drunk who’s run up their tab.

Still, there’s no point to share any of this information. It’s too loose, not definitive enough to action with the group.

Alex begins to pen a message to an fellow operative, in hopes that HQ will pick it up and assign someone to the task.

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

CLEARANCE: SECRET
PACKET ENCLOSED. YOUR EYES ONLY.

REQUESTING DETAIL ON BLAVIN
EMPLOY OF "THE BENEFACTOR"
PERCEPTIVE, AWARE OF BUGS.
DO NOT CONTACT, DO NOT DISRUPT
EXTREME CAUTION IMPERATIVE.

Once penned Alex encrypts it with GPG and sends it along. These channels have worked well for him in the past. If Blavin wants to play games, then games we shall have.

“I hate to do this” Alex mumbles to himself. “Normally I’d trail him myself, but I don’t think I have much say in the matter.” As it stands the group is dead set on gathering more of these cyrstals, regardless of what the danger may be, and if Alex wants to find his Uncle, they’re his best bet in doing so. Blavin doesn’t even matter outside of that. But if he can help the group reach their end faster, or force the information out of Blavin, perhaps it can come sooner..

Alex lets out another sigh and glances wistfully around the gloomy attic room. It looked just like he remembered his Uncle’s office looking like at the College of Sysorcerery when he had taught there. He always was so particular. Pushing his chair away and grabbing his coffee he wanders to the bookshelf where a large steamer chest sits beside it. The bookshelf is covered in manuscripts, “Practical Common Lisp”, “The C Programming Language Vol 2”, “RHEL 5 Systems Administration”, each one arcane and well worn. And the amount of volumes, sometimes it’s a wonder Corraidhin had time to do anything other than read.

“Maybe if I had been a little more studious I’d know how to help you..” as he pulls “A Guide to Backups and All Things Necessary” off of the shelf a knife falls out of the book, and clatters onto the floor glaring malevolently up at Alex.

Your gondola lift finally rises above the thick layer of clouds. The sudden flash of clear blue sky is a revelation after ascending for nearly 60 minutes through clouds so thick you couldn’t see through the foggy windows more than three feet. Above you towers rocky, imposing Kelsun Peak. You can just see a tiny portion of the hotel roof through a cleft in the rocks. Below you, a frozen turbulent ocean of clouds dotted with twisting leaning spires and spiraling branching towers, all made out of solid cloudstuff. Handiwork of the whimsical and industrious zephynos.

You spot two or three of them now, leaping and diving playfully through the clouds like dolphins, spinning the clouds like yarn, and packing them into solid constructs. Their current project resembles a garden of outlandish, distorted tubas, french horns, and trombones.

The small cloud dragons are about 6 - 8 feet long including their thick tails. They have wide faces with round lidless eyes, and always seem to be smiling. Their heads are topped with multiple pairs of filamented stalks. They have six short, stubby arms with long thin fingers that they use to knead and pull clouds into solid shapes.

They build ceaselessly and mostly for the sake of building: they have no apparent need for the structures themselves, living as they do floating among the clouds. On occasion they have been entreated to build on behalf of others. And the rare floating palace or city can still be found drifting around Basmentaria as a result. The great city of Vay’Neddas—tethered to the ground by great chains to Primora in the north and Agendell in the south—is one of their greatest enduring works.

You approach the gondola station at the base of Kelsun Peak, and exit your cable car as it slowly rounds the bullwheel. There are two toques—presumably meant to be operating the lifts—standing off to the side, ignoring their responsibilities, complaining loudly to nobody and everybody about being forced to work long hours and being unfairly compensated. The tips of their soft, conical heads slump forward, calling to mind revolutionaries, or smurfs.

It is wicked cold as you step out onto the platform and the wind nips and bites at you relentlessly.

At the edge of the platform, foggy white steps made of firm cloudstuff climb up around the side of the mountain peak to the Palace Runesocesius. Once the conspicuously extravagant residence of one of Basmentaria’s most powerful politicians, it has since—after its owner fell from public favor and was routed out—been gutted and transformed into a luxury hotel of equally conspicuous extravagance. It continues to be one of the highest inhabitable places on Basmentaria.

Two small toques at the base of the steps rush forward to meet you—the floppy tips of their coneheads waggling side to side in their exuberance—and introduce themselves as Confidence and Bread, your guides. They have been instructed to guide you up to Runesocesius where you will take posession of the Ginnarak Crystal.

WHAT DO YOU DO

www

The mission, party-wise, had been an abject failure.

They had found the crystal, and Master Corraidhín had vanished. Inky wasn’t sure which was worse — the appalling lack of water-resistant fireworks surrounding the disappearance, or the bears’ ceaseless waterworks in grief over their ghostly counterparts. Said bears plus a giant manta ray were eventually left with the remains of Inky’s two snack stashes. (The third was back on the Diamond Howler.) The crystal was currently securely hidden away inside the Milk Market, which was for the best. Inky was not about to drag around an inedible melon that could potentially level entire cities, if the wizard’s hints about its power were true. The crystal-retrieval missions were a cover anyway — Inky had gotten what they were looking for. The equipment and provisions sponsored by the Benefactor were a handy bonus though.

Inside the tent, Inky adds the finishing flourishes to a package and places it to one side, next to two others of a similar size and a thin envelope already piled inside a padded sack on the ground. The client should be pleased. It had taken longer, but the result had been worth the additional hassle. The envelope, on the other hand … who knew what had become of the previous one, sent in an impulsive fit of post-dive haze once the ship had docked at the port town. Donning a grey fedora, a worn light brown jacket, a flask kettle and a wooden box with carrying straps, Inky the “Tiny” tea seller leisurely sets off for the post office, sack in hand.

It was still a bit strange — if less shocking than the first time it happened — to speak in rabbiton with the postmistress at the counter, although Inky couldn’t actually detect any significant differences from the common tongue besides occasionally being reminded they shouldn’t be able to understand the sounds at all. Rabbiton or rabbitoff, hare mail couriers are among the fastest across Basmentaria and will ensure any parcels and letters arrive at their recipients in a timely manner. Due to their broad network and high delivery confidence, letters without return addresses were no issue; they can deliver with a valid recipient address, which they are able to verify from an extensive series of registries and course codes before taking the item. So it was that one such envelope containing yet another somewhat unusual recipe was promptly delivered to the Milk Market’s ground floor on a blustery Boltday afternoon.

Postage done, Inky wanders through one of the city’s seedier districts, peddling cups of hot tea along the way. This had become a daily routine for a little over a month since the Sugrin Sea mission (longer and more sporadically before that whenever the imp was in the city), including a spontaneous fifteen-minute “Tiny Teatime” held in open areas such as small parks, or occasionally in a back alley between several crowded residences. The tea happening had initially been a whimsical response to Teatime with Tanokuma and still regularly attracted children when iced drinks were served during the summertime.

Rows of slightly crooked houses sandwiched among acacia trees line a narrow, winding lane. Inky passes the elderly playing tabula surrounded by a small group of onlookers, people chewing on sweet lemongrass or peeling vegetables, hanging up laundry on colourful lines made of scrap rags, children laughing and chasing soapy bubbles with wands dripping from laundry water, and all sorts of activity that made houses into homes. Many of them were frank about not having any spare coins for extras like speciality teas brewed “just like them shops”, but gladly accepted a steaming bamboo cup upon realising they needn’t pay, if sometimes a little suspiciously at first. Instead of coin, they held a rich font of stories, local legends, folk remedies, cooking methods, insider tip-offs and rumours, which they were often eager to impart to an attentive audience.

Some of the passer-by were always in a hurry, downing the tea as though it were a shot of hard liquor before retrieving a handful of loose coins from a pocket or sock. When Inky smiled and told them there was no charge, most would return a puzzled look or uncertain smile, or roll their eyes, and drop a copper coin into a slot on the lid of the box anyway. A few had promptly walked off wordlessly with snickering faces, as though they had gotten away with something clever. Regardless, it was one of the best ways to see and observe a bustling metropolis. No one took any particular notice of young urchins and vendors selling refreshments, flowers and various trinkets on the streets.

Likewise no one witnessed a tea seller pause near one of the windows at the back of Enrique’s Empanada Emporium late in the day. For a while they watch the chef within in action, clearly in his element, before reluctantly pulling away and retreating quietly up the stairs to the second floor. They should wash up and see if their marketing manager is in the mood for some takeout and Terrapin Ale this evening.

~

Background: Alex isn’t young, but in comparison to his whizzened uncle Corraidhin he’s the depiction of youth. He has jet black hair and alert blue eyes, and a quiet serenity about him that gives one pause, as though he’s constantly calculating. He gives into his passions quickly however, and becomes rather animated when his emotions break loose. He’ll be the first to curse his uncle for his foolish endeavors, never quite understanding the sysorcerer’s way. Early in life, after the death of his parents, Corraidhin took him under his wing and tried in vain to teach him the ways of magical systems administration. Much to Corraidhin, it only resulted in damaged systems, and a rift with his nephew.

It took years to recover from that, but eventually the two grew close again, though distant nonetheless. That closeness reflects itself in the situation Alex finds himself in now, a mysterious alert from some overly contrived magical system, ruining his perfectly good winning streak. It’s not that he was necessary bad at all of that stuff, it just, wasn’t as much fun as gambling. And it certainly wasn’t as exhillerating as writing malware.

Breaking into a system, smashing it to bites and pieces, watching the carefully wrought design burn in amber and green, now THAT was magic.

META: Alex is like Corraidhin in some aspects, he’s younger, more brash, more given to whim and fancy. He’s somewhat greedy and craven, attracted to riches far too easily. He’s a passionate gambler, not due to his skill, but by virtue of his ability to distract and confuse, which gives him a delightful edge. Some would call it lucky, but he calls it subterfuge. He has some sysorcerer skills, nothing quite as flexible as Corraidhin, but he delightfully wreaks havoc with worms, scrapers, ransom & spyware. If he can’t bypass something, he’ll delightfully destroy it. If he can’t break in, he’ll distract someone or something so he can slip by.

(Think rogue + illusion magic, where Corraidhin is straight Wizard)

Introduction: Kev, just give it to me straight, the hell does this Deadman’s trigger mean. You can’t have a service like that flap, it’s a boolean, you’re either dead or your not. And don’t try to lie to me, I’m not some project managing schmuck, you know full and well Uncle Corraidhin taught me. I know enough to tell when you’re lying.

(Kevin) Ah, well, umm. Yes I suppose that’s true. You can’t be dead and not. It’s just not an option. But Zabbix doesn’t lie! It’s what monitors your Uncle’s life force, the state of his infrastructure so to speak. Look check your own, there’s nothing to indicate any issue with you, but your uncle’s fluxuates consistently. None of his other state checks are failing though! So it could just be a problem with his Deadman’s trigger code.

Absolutely not. Corraidhin might be a flighty fool, but he’s not someone who would deploy faulty code to production. There’s no way in hell it would get past his linter, let alone all of the QA he does before it even gets that far. Look, what the hell did you drag him into, you know exactly what he gets up to, just point me in his direction so I can get this shit over with.

(Kevin) Hmm, he didn’t really want me to talk about it, but last I saw him, he was babbling on and on about some magical Json sword or something. I couldn’t quite keep up with it.

You were trying to get him to buy into KDL again weren’t you?

(Kevin) It’s a good language I swear, and if your uncle had just.. (Alex cuts him off)

Hush it. What did the sword look like, where was he headed?

(Kevin) sigh it was large, with a ruby hilt, and a magical eye of some sort. I’m certain if you just ask around you’ll find it. Just ask about the sysorcerer who mutters to his sword, that’s how the poor bastard is remembered around here these days.

With this information Alex departed the Sysorcerer’s guild in search of his Uncle. As he asked around town, people shied away. Nasty business talking about that one, they’d tell him. A few mentioned something about an attack, and a dagger and bloodlust the likes of which they’d only heard from the bard at their local tavern. None of this sounded like the Uncle he remembered, but he followed the trail until it lead him to the Milk Maid.

As Alex checked around for someone, anyone who seemed to be in the know, he spotted Inky, serving tea as she watched the ongoings at the Empanada shop near the Milk Maid.

Excuse me, miss? You wouldn’t have happened to seen my Uncle, he’s an old whizened fellow. Constantly harrumphs and goes on and on endlessly about some magical script, or how much he hates the School of Powershell. I haven’t been able to find him, and I’ve been looking all over the city for the better part of 3 days. Note even his best friend Kevin at the Sysorcer’s guild knew where he was, and I’m just, I’m at a bit of a loss..

sigh I’m sorry to just unload on your like that. If you don’t know him that’s okay, I’d be happy to pay for a cup of tea for your time.

~

(Two days prior)

An office, barely illuminated by the glow of a moonstone lamp.

An elf attired in red silk dress robes with a shimmering pattern of butterflies, a red floral picture hat and matching high heel boots lounged in the visitor’s chair in front of a heavy wooden desk. The charms dangling from her wrist circlets tinkled as she reached for a teacup. A silver tray was placed to one side of the desk with a pot of maghrebi francus, two porcelain cups and a bowl of sugar cubes. The remaining surface was mostly covered by a map of Basmentaria, the moonstone lamp and a short stack of books. Behind the desk sat an imp in a midnight blue suit, a dart pen balanced on the edge of two fingers of one hand, while the other tapped a silent rhythm on the pineapple leather armrest.

The lady in dress robes spoke first. “I made some inquiries. That sysorcerer acquaintance of yours seems to be stuck in some sort of spatial-temporal loop. The anomalies are usually salvageable given time and expert attention. His nephew is out looking for him now.” She hands the imp a sheet with a drawing of a pensive but bright-eyed young man with dark hair, and several lines of notes below. “How are things at your end?”

“The situation is tenable for the moment. One checked, another disengaged. Between the wizard and bard, Blackfoot will think twice before making any more untoward moves. One of the waiters at the club said the bard gave him a little dressing-down after the stabbing. He was practically shaking in his boots by the end of it.”

The elf laughed. “I read your earlier missive. Slipping a catalyst into a milk pudding to stir up a bloodthirsty sword? I guess you were pretty sure the thirst wouldn’t get out of hand and kill the hobbit outright.”

“Not entirely, but the good wizard would fight it with considerable strength of will. That guild of his may be full of white hats too busy with their petty squabbling over semantics to see trouble looming until it smacked them in their faces, but they have their principles and will not give in easily when challenged.” The imp grimaced. “An unpleasant matter but arguably a necessity. It was only a matter of time before the cursed sword would find itself a target. May as well put evil to good use.”

“You did what you had to do, Ink. And that sailor with the gold eye?”

“Met with an unfortunate … accident. Securing the crystal would have been sufficient, but the horkosgrampus weren’t terribly impressed with him. The Benefactor should be relieved. Men of their ilk would sooner sell to the highest bidder.” The pen twirled in their hand once, twice, before pausing with the nib pointing downward at a spot on the map. The imp continued, “All the more reason to move as soon as the young man finds his uncle. Kelsun Peak, most likely.”

“Right. I’ll let the others know if anything happens.” She rose to her heels in a whisper of brocade silks. “Do you want an antidote for … ?” She gestured with a slim, graceful hand framed in delicate strands of the gold bracelets towards her companion.

The imp inclined their head slightly in grateful acknowledgement. “No need. The condition is relatively harmless and reversing the effects now might raise suspicion. The postmistress at the Hutcheon Lane branch of Leplus Post was very tickled by it.”

“I see. So that’s how it is.” she replied with undisguised mirth. The imp ignored her smirk. “Please see to it the preparations are carried out. The fate of your beloved operetta house may well depend upon it.”

“You would never!” The elven lady exclaimed in mock affront. “No, I wouldn’t, even though it is the bane of all fine glassware. However, if the crystals came to less discerning hands …” They shared a solemn look before the elf nodded and swept out of the room, leaving the cloying scent of violets in her path.

~

Inky gestures wordlessly for the young wizard to follow them upstairs to the second floor of the Milk Market, heading straight for the room at one end of a long hallway.

As Inky enters, their small and fluffy marketing manager pops its head out of the wooden tub of water standing to one side of the room. “We have a visitor!” Inky cheerfully tells the duck. Their marketing manager looks back at them both and says, “QUACK!”

Inky turns back to the young man with a smile. “Please have a seat. How may we address you? Tea? No charge for Master Corraidhín’s nephew, of course.”

Once seated on some cushions thrown over a slightly ratty tartan rug and having poured out a steaming cup of mandarin pekoe for each of them, Inky begins, “So, about your uncle. The good news is, we know him. The bad news is, we knew him.” They then proceed to recount the events of their latest mission at the site of a shipwreck out in the Sugrin Sea, and the elder sysorcerer’s disappearance.

Prelude:

A fringe movement of lunatic paleornithologists and crackpots of various other professions has slowly been gaining traction over the last few decades. The movement was born when the enterprising Modern Fuchsia, at the time a budding young scientist on a dig yearning to make a name for himself, found the fossil of a modern feathered bird—probably some kind of swallow—alongside a theropod, that variety of dinosaur widely accepted to be the ancestor of modern birds. Faced with what he believed to be irrefutable evidence of a modern descendant coexisting alongside its own ancient ancestor, Fuchsia arrived at the only conclusion he was capable of making: Birds Are Not Dinosaurs. And thus BAND came into being.

Ever since, Fuschia and his BANDits have spent considerable amounts of time and energy attending conferences and publishing papers, pouting and demanding to be taken seriously by the wider scientific community. A community which, if it pays them any attention at all, merely mocks and ridicules their crackpot theories.

Modern Fuschia is of course wrong. But neither he nor his BANDits know how dangerously close he came to the actual truth.

For much, much deeper in the shadowy fringes of paleornithology, there is a clandestine operation called BATT. And only BATT knows the actual explanation for how a modern descendant might coexist alongside its own ancestor. Birds Are Time Travelers.

In the far future when birds are the dominant intelligent life on Basmentaria, they do indeed invent time travel. The end result was catastrophic and is the real reason that the dinosaurs went extinct.

It is a common misconception that barn swallows are the most common and widespread species of swallow. That distinction in fact belongs to the time swallow. Although—if you’re lucky—you’ll never actually see one. Since the Incident, the secret agents of BATT have vowed never again to interfere with or try to alter the time stream. Nor to allow anyone else to. The time swallows are special bred, special trained, appearing wherever and whenever an anomaly appears to remove it and restore the proper timeline. The tiny birds quite literally swallow, consume, and destroy anything that meddles with time.

At their headquarters, in the present day, BATT Director Purple Martin is delivering a report to his superior. Martin has a throaty and rich voice of which he is self-conscious in the presence of his superior’s persistent silence.

“We have successfully extracted the sysorcerer and have repaired the anomaly. The subject is currently under the care of Felixe and is expected to make a full recovery. In his possession were a couple of interesting artifacts. One Class C sentient object, a sword. And a piece of exotica of unknown origin. Our researchers so far suspect that it is a sort of reliquary containing both elemental and divine arcana. The xot’s physical manifestation—a crystalline ore—thus far prevents us from determining the precise identity of the arcana.”

Director Purple Martin is delivering this report to a lanky, thin man folded into an armchair. He wears thin, wire spectacles with round lenses, and dangles a walking stick over the arm of the chair as he sits. He interrupts Martin with a rare utterance. “The reliquary. I shall like to see it.”

Now then:

Retrieval Team 43 welcomes Alex into their ranks even as they mourn the loss of Corraidhín the Wizened.

It starts off as a somber affair at Lucy’s as you all sit around your regular table, ensconced and wedged into a corner surrounded on two sides by the red velvet curtains that line the walls.

But then the hobbit joins you.

Blavin Blandfoot orders a round of drinks in tribute to Corraidhín. And then another round of drinks to welcome his nephew Alex. “A family affair, is it not!” And then another round of drinks because he is thirsty.

The hobbit is in high spirits, brimming with flair and good cheer. His arm is fully healed from the attack over a month ago at this very table. His fond memories and frequent toasts to the sysorcerer make no reference to the incident.

“The Benefactor is immensely pleased with your performance so far!” He punches a new hole in your Frequent Retrieval cards. “You are one step closer to winning a FABULOUS PRIZE! I don’t mind telling you I’m a little jealous. Assuming you go the distance, of course. I mean who doesn’t love hot dogs and hot tubs!” He winks conspiratorially at you. “To say nothing of actually getting to meet the Benefactor! Just imagine!”

After a few more drinks he eventually clears a space on the table and rolls out a map of Basmentaria. “We once again have two reports of a crystal spotting!” He jabs a finger at the mountain range in northern Primora. “The first, as you know, has been reported by the zephynos high atop Kelsun Peak.”

“The second,” his voice quivers with excitement. He looks up at you wide-eyed and gestures away from the map into open space. “Is on the moon!”

Seated a couple tables away from you is the same trio who were present the last time you all met here: a dusty groll, a matted gnu, and a curious Ornithologer. The observant among you, if you happened to look, would notice that the Ornithologer wears a pinkish purplish red armband with the word BAND on it. They listen to your proceedings with great interest while trying really hard to look like they’re not listening. After Blavin’s final proclamation, the trio finishes their drinks, stands, and starts to leave the dining room.

WHAT DO YOU DO

• Do you give the second crystal to Blavin?
• Do you choose to go to Kelsun Peak, or to the moon?
• Who is the Lady in Red and what does she want?
• Will Corraidhín recover in the care of Felixe?
• Who does the Director of BATT report to and what do they want with the 1st Crystal?
• What’s the deal with the Ornithologer’s Trio?
• Who left you the note signed with an iris and apple?

Find out next time on BASEMENT QUEST

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