Inky slowly approaches Master Corraidhín and taps lightly on the sleeve of his robes to get his attention. Between Inky’s tugging and Jarrod’s strong, steady hand, they manage to hoist the wizard to his feet.

With a brief glance at the hobbit on the floor then a nod to Jarrod, Inky leaves the nightclub with the wizard. The duck, having emptied the plate of corn chips in record time, follows them shortly after.

The trek back to the Milk Market is mostly silent aside from the occasional mutter and stumbling curse, the mage seemingly having fallen asleep as soon as he landed on the cot in the loft. Inky retreats downstairs after leaving a jug of water, a mug and a small packet of kuding leaves beside the bed.

Exiting through the back door into the night, Inky finds a dark corner in a dusty abandoned house, and cries.

~

” … and then the Orc Maiden said: ‘That’s not my club!’”

The room roars with laughter, and Jarrod moves to the bar and puts a bag of coin down. “Serve drinks until this runs out!” Leaning over the bar to the bartender, Jarrod adds in a whisper: “I owe a favour to Lucy’s Basement for the trouble. Call it in when needed.”

Jarrod saunters over to Blavin, on the floor in pain. From his pack, Jarrod retrieves a med kit and begins to bandage the wound.

As Blavin opens his mouth, likely intending to raise all kinds of hell, Jarrod pulls tight on the bandage he is currently applying, drawing a curse from the hobbit. “Shut it! Let’s be clear. You’ve hired us for a dangerous set of jobs, with the understanding that we’re dangerous people. There may be ‘accidents’ on occasion. You’ve learned something today, and what’s more, you lived to absorb your new wisdom.”

Jarrod grins as he finishes with the bandage. “We will finish what we have started. We’re probably the team with the best chances, I’m sure you’ll agree. Are you going to back the winning play here? Either way, your decision won’t change our plans. I’m sure you know how to take the win.”

Jarrod pats the hobbit’s good shoulder in a friendly, but dismissive, way, then turns and saunters out the door, trading small quips with his new (and now very drunk) tavern friends.

You are at a small port town on the northern tip of Agendell, just past the Rana’For Valley. The sun is bright and the wind blowing in from the Sugrin Sea to the east is cool and salty. The floating island-city of Vay’Neddas, bridging Agendell and Primora, can be seen very faintly in the distance hanging in the northern sky.

Your faithful multibeast is carrying all of your supplies and gear, which were generously provided to you by the indefatigable Blavin Blandfoot. His arm in a sling, he kept up a constant nervous chatter as he saw you off on your journey to recover the second Ginnarak Crystal.

From here, you can easily provision a boat to take you out to the site of the shipwreck just off the coast.

Or, optionally, you are very close to the Hartlands. It would be quite easy to make a quick visit to hemogoblins and pick up some synthetic blood for your experiments with the Sword of Yam’L.

The sword, incidentally, after finally tasting the blood of “evil”, has remained sated and entirely inert and unresponsive this whole time.

WHAT DO YOU DO:

1. TO THE SHIPWRECK
2. BLOODQUEST

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Corraidhin
Well I’ll be! You can turn yourself into a dagger. And I did say we could stab blavin if you could do that, it’s much more stealthy this way. But let me posit this, is the act of stabbing a hobbit unprovoked not itself evil? Or perhaps more convincingly, would it not be better to use the hobbit for whatever information he has so as to lead to this mysterious benefactor, who most assuredly must be evil.

Someone who would send out myriads of teams to pillage and plunder cultural artifacts is truly evil, that must be our target.

Now this isn’t to say that we won’t stab him. I’m convinced that’s probably a good idea in the long run, but we know nothing of the true evil that motivates him! We would kill him just to lose track of the true evil we must smite!

Y’aml
But YOU said if I could turn into a dagger we could STAB him. HE’S EVIL. YOU said so! Not keeping your promises IS one step away from PURE evil! Make a choice Hardy Bear! Stab the evil hobbit, or stab the inkling, or stab SOMETHING evil this minute!

Corraidhin
I most certainly cannot abide with stabbing Inky, it’s entirely off the table. And in a city like this there aren’t any evil things that just jump out for the stabbing.

(Corraidhin tries to silently control Y’aml during the discussion. However in so doing the party has fallen silent, aghast even)

Corraidhin stands, Y’aml held in hand, red gem eye gleaming a wicked joyful grin as it’s raised high, poised to strike. The party around him is silent, and Blavin stares up in shock. The tavern around them has died down and you can hear the bustle of the proprietor calling for his strong men to deal with this ruckus.

The table—and all of Lucy’s Basement within earshot—sits in tense, uneasy quiet at Corraidhin’s one-sided conversation with the Sword of Yam’L. Blavin giggles nervously and sips his martini, willfully forcing himself right up to the very last moment to believe that it is all some sort of jest.

But then the sysorcerer stands and raises the blood crazed dagger over his shoulder, and Blavin squeals and writhes in his chair. Lucy’s bouncers scramble forward from the corners of the room to intercept.

Y’aml
We STAB Hardy Bear! We STAB NOW!!

Against Corraidhin’s control, as though he’s in a trance, the dagger comes down. A swift stabbing motion strqight to the neck, as he lunges across the table at Blavin knocking the map and his martini to the side.

Corraidhin once again feels the same peculiar quality of the blade, that sensation of a hollow core with a heavy liquid sloshing inside. Held aloft, the weight of it feels concentrated at the grip, the blade light as a feather.

He stabs down—Yam’L cries out in wordless glee—and the weight flows into the tip of the blade, the blade itself now drawing Corraidhin’s hand downward in a rising crescendo of stabbitude.

Blavin flinches at the last second, and instead of burying itself in his throat, the blade plunges into his shoulder and pins him to the back of the chair. A red mist fills the eye and threatens to cloud it over entirely. It rolls back in ecstasy as it drinks deeply. It sings out, “MORE! MORE! MORE!” and Corraidhin feels the tides of madness rising inside of him, threatening to wash over him wholly, to pull him under and carry him away on thundering waves of bloodlust.

Corraidhin struggles to pull the blade from the chair back. Blavin whimpers and mewls as he yanks on it, and clutches his wound and, incredibly, takes a large gulp of his drink.

The sysorcerer still has the wherewithal and the presence of mind to be aware of his surroundings. He is not yet so overcome by the bloodlust. He sees his companions, his fellow residents of the Milk Market, seated around the table. And he sees the musclebound bouncers now nearly within reach.

Finally he draws the dagger. Blavin sinks in his seat and slides to the floor with his drink, blabbering incoherently, and starts to slither away.

WHAT DO YOU DO

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Corraidhin Shit, shit shit shit shit shit. This is NOT good. Damn it Y’aml what was that? It wasn’t even slightly stealthy

Y’aml STAB, delightful blood. Stab the flesh, tear the skin, pierce the fruit that gives us strength. Drink the blood, consume their soul. More more more more more more more more more

Corraidhin (internal thought) Ugh my head, it’s heavy, hurts. Misty and red? I can’t see straight, it’s hard to think straight. That blasted sword, I thought for a moment it, no, not think, it definitely did move on its own. It became lighter and heavier. Pulling against it and it just weighs itself down. This little magical bauble is definitely cursed..

Y’aml CURSED?! Rude Hardy Bear. All we did was stab that evil hobbit. And it’s getting away! Stab him again, taste his blood! The tavern gaurds are closing in, they look like they’re trying to get rid of us, EVIL. Them trying to stop us from getting that evil hobbit is EVIL, STAB THEM.

Corraidhin raises his free hand to his head as though holding a wound and he groans in dismay as the dagger rises again. It travels swiftly down towards Blavin, missing as he slithers of the booth. And again, digging deep into the wooden seat.

Y’aml Disgusting wood, stab the flesh! Stab the Hobbit Hardy Bear!

But Blavin was inching further out of reach towards the gaurds. In desperation the dagger begins swinging side to side, making furtive slashing moves in the direction of the guards. The party is safely behind Corraidhin, but innocent patrons and the guards are directly in their sights.

Corraidhin grabs his other hand and pulls hard, steadying the swinging. STOP! I command you you blasted toothpick, STOP. You’ve had your fun, now STOP. These people are innocent, this man has done us no harm despite his potential “evils”, this is entirely uncalled for!

Y’aml NO!!! EVIL. STAB. EVIL. STAB. EVIL. STAB.

The dull voice of the magical dagger rises, angry, insistent. It consumes the last of Corraidhin’s mental strength. All he hears is EVIL. STAB. EVIL. STAB. Yet he clings to his spare arm trying desparately to resist. At this point the party and the tavern has cleared a wide path around the sysorceor as he struggles with himself, mumbling, sometimes yelling. EVIL. STAB. EVIL. STAB. NO WE WILL NOT. EVIL. INNOCENT. STAB BLOOD DRINK. EVIL. EVIL EVIL EVIL STAB IT. MAKE IT BLEED. I WILL NO.. STAB IT. STAB HIM.

The voice seems to change, it dies down. Not yelling, but commanding. Firm, calm, sane.

Stab them, stab them, make them bleed. Drink the blood, consume the soul, free them from their evil being. Stab them, stab them… over and over and over, as the sysorceor approaches Blavin and the guards with a malevolent look in his ruby red eyes.

~

Inky moves to stand next to Blavin and the nightclub bouncers. Tossing a tiny “see-eye” container they had borrowed from Master Corraidhín at him, Inky looks the sysorceor in the eye and says, “You are not your sword.”

Watching the wizard’s expression, Inky continues, more quietly, “If Master Corraidhín truly wishes to end the hobbit, a mere imp would not stop him, but likewise, whatever he sets his mind to do, a dagger cannot stop him either.”

~

Jarrod steps gently into the fray and activates his FASCINATING CHARM, attempting to draw all eyes to him. He carefully avoids the wild swinging of the once-sword-now-dagger.

“I think,” he rumbles gently, “we could all use a drink over the other end of the room. I’m buying, and I’ll spin you all a tale of wonder! A tale of a wanderer, and of a war hammer, and the first of their wild battles together!”

Leaning over to whisper urgently in Corraidhín’s ear: “Friend, I do not know what occurs here, but pull yourself together. We can later sate our blood lust in more appropriate places!” Jarrod lends a sly wink in the sysorcerer’s direction, one that promises adventure later.

The tavern guards tense, but pause their advance, as the crazed mage’s friends position themselves protectively around him and try to placate him. They wouldn’t want to engage a master sysorcerer on the best of days, much less one with some kind of malevolent blood dagger in the middle of a psychotic break. If his compatriots can handle him without them having to interfere, all the better.

The duck waddles up next to Inky and quacks softly, pleadingly at Corraidhin. Only the Ornithologer in the corner can understand its words when it says, “As your marketing manager I must strongly advise against this course of action!”

Seated in the corner next to the Ornithologer is a shaggy groll dressed in a dusty, faded poncho and a wide brimmed hat; and a greasy, matted gnu, dressed in black ceremonial robes.

The groll discreetly draws its poncho back revealing a bandoleer of wands and draws a cracklestick and points it at the sysorcer. The wand starts to hum and glow as it charges up for a blast.

The gnu slaps the groll’s wrist, and immediately launches into a tirade against the cracklestick’s manufacturer’s proprietary spell slotting algorithm, and honestly how can you possibly justify your choices when there are open source alternatives available?

The groll rolls its eyes, obviously having been on the receiving end of this particular lecture before, and tries to slap away the gnu’s grasping hands. The ensuing scuffle threatens to turn this powder keg of a situation into a full blown conflagration until Jarrod actives his FASCINATING CHARM, commanding the attention of the entire room.

The gnu freezes with its hands around the groll’s throat. The groll halts with fists full of the gnu’s beard. A grub smoking a hookah pauses with the mouthpiece raised to its pursed lips. A distracted waitress on roller skates crashes right into the bar.

As though in a trance Corraidhin continues to yell STAB. THEM. STAB. IT. cutting wildly at the air before him. As Inky whispers to him his expression changes, first a grimace, then a whimper. As Jarrod leads the patrons away from the sysorceor he begins to tremble and cower away from himself, away from everyone. His ruby red eyes dart back and forth between his friends and the patrons, like a frightened animal searching for an escape. He pulls the dagger into himself, as though sheilding it from his surroundings.

What.. what’s going on, he mutters feebly to himself. Everything is a blurr. Uncertain of where he is or what’s going on, Corraidhin thumbs the dagger, caressing the large ruby embedded in the hilt. Y’aml, you’re still here, good good, the syscoreor croons.

Standing up straight his eyes lock with Jarrod as the Bard glances over his shoulder, momentarily distracted from his oration, worried about his companion.

I.. ugh, Corraidhin grabs his head as though in pain, and collapses to the floor.

Corraidhin hits the floor and the dagger, now bereft of the well of emotion it had been drawing from, grows still. The eye closes and it seems to sigh happily. “Good job, Hardy Bear. You have spilled the blood of evil.” And it sleeps, inert, lifeless.

Corraidhin is on the ground cradling the dagger.

Most of the patrons are still fascinated by Jarrod.

Blavin is squirming around on the floor gibbering about reassigning your case.

The duck has found a toppled plate of corn chips and is happily snacking away.

You feel like your welcome at Lucy’s Basement has been, for the moment, overstayed.

WHAT DO YOU DO

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INTERLUDE

A glorious victory!

In the interim time Corraidhin studies the sword of Y’aml, and correctly deduces that he needs to remove the sticky bit to be able to sheath the thing.

sudo chmod -t sword_of_y'aml

The rest of the interim is spent studying arcane lore surrounding the Ginnarak Crystals and their purpose. He also strongly urges the party that we should consider very carefuly how we need to proceed with the crystal. It’s obvious people don’t want these things getting out, so we should ensure that Blavin has good intentions, or at least leaves us out of whatever potential evil could occur.

Corraidhin prepares the incantation and, after removing the sticky bit, is able pry his stiff fingers from the grip.

You sheathe the blade, but its voice continues to ring clearly in your head as it prattles on, seeing evil and villainy everywhere and encouraging you to stab, stab, stab.

Your sysorcerous studies, confirmed by the eager and forthright sword, suggest that the blade will be able to rest for a while once it tastes blood.

Your former mentor and rival sysorceror Eccentric Kevin calls on you one day under the pretense of showing you the latest draft of KDL (pronounced “cuddle”), their own “Kevin’s Document Language”, an alternative syntax for incantations and personal pet project of theirs that has thus far failed, much to their perpetual consternation, to gain any traction or adoption in the wider magic community. They are insufferably polite and sinisterly supportive. They complain about how the obstinant gnus keep standing in the middle of the road trying to block traffic, and they demand to know all about your recent exploits and adventures.

Once back in town, Inky had the small glass shard in their palm removed by a harried-looking healer, who merely shrugged at Inky’s account of the disappearing ink and advised them to return if they experienced adverse effects before hurrying off to the next patient. A visit to the local stationery shop did not yield any answers; the stocky human at the counter shook their head apologetically when shown the broken ink bottle. However, they did suggest asking at one of the larger shops in the city.

To celebrate their first successful quest, Inky made torties[1] for their party with flour ground from some of the large corn kernels at the dig site, topped with a sweet nutty squash spread. Babbleberry tea was served from their newly acquired jade tea set, now patched with what Inky had been assured was an unbreakable seal[2] by a merchant with a toothy grin in one of Vay’Nullar’s notorious back alleys.

Master Corraidhín’s cautionary words of wisdom still echo in Inky’s head, though they were secretly tickled by the idea of the crystal being actually a rare and previously unknown species of melon with very potent magical properties. The very thought of melons was making Inky a bit thirsty. Let the warrior and wizard worry about all the potential evils of the world — it’s time for a dash to the market for some beatfruit juice!

---

[1] Also known as torte-teas, as in “Torte-tea, yas?”, which was how their previous ink maestro used to greet customers entering the brewery. Flat little tea cakes with sugar or spice (or both, which vary by region) and sometimes eaten in a loose wrap. Some humans called them “crabs” for some reason which baffled Inky, since the torties had no pincers … at least none that they could see anyway.

[2] The seal attached to the bottom of the teapot and each cup had a glyph of an unknown object between two hands.

The healer removes a small glass bead from Inky’s palm. It is worn smooth and round like a marble. If you look closely, you can see a small blemish in the center that somewhat resembles either a duck or a rabbit depending on how you orient it.

It is captivating to look at and comforting to hold in your hand. You fidget with it often. Now and then you suddenly notice you have been gazing at it for some minutes without realizing it.

You make your party a delightful meal of torties, serving tea from the magically reinforced jade set.

Cleaning up afterwards, you can’t help but notice the patterns of the tea leaves in the bottoms of the jade cups.

YOU FORESEE AN OMEN FOR THE PARTY. WHAT IS IT?

You dash to the market for beatfruit juice, which you easily find. And you find yourself irrationally drawn to the produce. The kale, dandelion greens, and beans all look especially scrumptious and … plump and juicy?

An old toothy market attendant sits on a stool by the vegetable stand reading the Farmers Almanac. Unsolicited, they mention to you that it is only three days until the next full moon.

Jarrod has two things in particular he wants to do when back in town, with whatever his cut of the gold is. First, he wants to go looking for a cheap, run-down building somewhere in town and buy the property if he has enough money (perhaps negotiating a bit where necessary).

Second, he wishes to seek arcane counsel from Corraidhín, perhaps getting a small invocation applied to one of the charms on his arm band. Something in the realm of a fascination spell (with an activation word) that can be used on occasion to draw attention.

Jarrod agrees that we should not invite trouble. We shall tread cautiously with regards to the crystals.

Yum, torties!

After successfully negotiating the price down a little bit, you are able to purchase a run-down building. You are now the proud owner and proprietor of the Milk Market building in the Wandering Bazzar district of downtown Vay’Nullar.

The ground level is occupied by longtime district staple Enrique’s Empanada Emporium, famous for its signature stuffed pastries and its Terrapin Ale, brewed on site by Enrique himself, who happens to be a very large humanoid turtle.

It’s a little seedy and a little divey, but still draws a fair amount of foot traffic from shoppers waiting for the eponymous, ambulatory bazaar of debatable sentience to wander by. Reliably, a small gang of breadpunks can be found loitering here and espousing the virtues of social anarchy. Enrique allows their presence and on occasion even buys them a round of ale.

The top two levels are unoccupied. Years upon years ago, this space once held large vats for storing and preserving multibeast milk prior to being distributed. Some enterprising individual converted and updated the space some time ago, but was never able to find a tenant. In any case, the space is yours now to do with what you will.

With Corraidhin’s assistance, you are able to enchant your armband by inscribing it with a cross-like glyph with a teardrop-shaped loop in place of the vertical upper bar. You now have a FASCINATING BANGLE that can, upon activation, compel attention and even potentially inspire people to dance about.

WHAT DO YOU DO

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Inky stares down at the package, weighing it on one hand.

It was lighter than it should be given the density of the contents within, wrapped in straw and thick brown weight-absorbent parcel paper for dry goods. Most of the clientele were merchants and cultists from other parts of the continent who ordered pallets to be shipped back from the port town and sold to select boutique grocers or spilled on altars. Inside was a block of congealed synthetic blood shaped like a mud brick, the dark crimson almost black under the shop’s dim light.

It was sheer happenstance that Inky had found this particular supplier. Having been informed heir boat to the shipwreck would not arrive for several hours, the members of their merry tea party had wandered off to enjoy the local sights while they waited. Inky had inquired about the hemogoblins and learned in passing that there was a district at the western edge of the town where a smaller group had set up warehouses, which would save them a two-day trip deep into the Hartlands. The hemogoblins in the district were primarily wholesalers, and it had taken some convincing before one of the proprietors agreed to sell a block of it, along with assurances Inky would purchase exclusively from him next time and in larger quantities.

Thin fingers fiddle with the string before the package was set to one side.

What were they doing?

If quenching the thirst were so simple, wouldn’t any student of magic have already thought of it, let alone an experienced sysorceror? In all likelihood he had already known the inevitable, but was too polite to refuse Inky’s funny concoctions. Maybe deep down, Inky already knew too, but didn’t want to say it out loud. That the long feather they thought they had seen among the tea leaves was actually a dagger. That they hadn’t wanted to admit some problems could not be whisked away with some tincture or another. That they had failed, again.

They hadn’t searched enough for better ingredients to go into the pudding, hadn’t reacted fast enough after noticing the sword had abruptly disappeared, hadn’t thrown the large platter of mouldy meat the terrified waitress next to them had been holding at Blavin’s head, or something. The sword had gotten what it demanded, and Inky couldn’t be angry with it — it had never been subtle about what it wanted. Had the blood pudding worsened the effects? Potions had never been on Inky’s menu. Brewing inks and teas with certain mild effects was straightforward enough, but curing chronic ailments was firmly in healers’ territory and just as bewildering. While it may be true nobody could be held to account for the actions of another not in full control of themselves, and hardly those of a rogue weapon with a mind of its own, sticking their nose in other people’s affairs was the surest way to get into trouble, a fact Inky still has difficulty learning after decades of wandering the continent.

Would this substrate even work? Maybe it acted differently for cursed objects than coffin sleepers. Having brought it back and now aboard the ship, how would they even give it to the wizard? Should they wait and made sure Master Corraidhín was truly rested and recovered, despite his insistence he was more than fine? Would it be an insulting reminder of weakness, despite the wizard having proven unusual mental fortitude in staving off the screams for blood as long as he had? Was this more of the same, adding to what they had (not) done?

After a long moment, Inky rolls the package with the producers’ leaflet haphazardly in an old sailor’s rags still reeking of cheap alcohol, and passing by the wizard’s empty cabin on the way to the deck, places the messy bundle on the floorboards two steps from the door. Let the fates decide this one, because Inky’s magic 0 ball sure doesn’t make the best life choices.

Blavin has arranged transportation to the shipwreck ahead of time. All you have to do is head down to the docks and meet your contact, Three-Fingered Gerald, at a seedy dive bar named Inquire Within Upon Everything.

Inquire Within is as eclectic and gaudy as the name would imply. The bar serves as an extensive and impressive piece of living documentation, drawing heavily on the port town’s cosmopolitan mixture of culture. Every kind of style, cuisine, decor, and beverage can be found here mishmashed together irregardless of good taste. Its contents are encyclopedic and claustrophobic. And yet it is not without its own peculiar brand of overwhelming, garish charm.

You find Mister Three-Fingered at the bar entertaining his fellow patrons with a grotesque sleight of hand routine that involves passing his gold-plated false eye from its socket, to either hand, inside his mouth, and back with lots of flourish, fanfare, and misdirection along the way.

He is a merry, boisterous sailor short one eye, half an ear, several fingers, and—he confesses to you—the heel of his left foot. “It’s why I walk so slow, you see.” The other barflies call him “Lucky” Three-Fingered Gerald. Because a certain kind of man—and Gerald is one of them—can never have enough nicknames. After you buy him a drink or three, he escorts you out of Inquire Within and to the slip where the sloop Diamond Howler is docked. Its captain, Enid Barlow, welcomes you aboard.

Before long, Diamond Howler pulls out under the command of Captain Barlow and First Mate “Lucky” Three-Fingered Gerald. The site isn’t too far off the coast, and you arrive fairly quickly.

“Aye, here she is. The SS RSS.” says Captain Barlow mournfully. “You can’t see her from up here. But you rest assured, she’s down there, resting on the seabed. She was the best cargo runner on the Sugrin back in her day! Distributing goods up and down the coast. Until the day she disappeared. Nobody knew what happened to her, not for sure. Still don’t. But at least we know where she wound up!”

While the captain reminisces, Three-Fingered Gerald drags a large water tank across the deck, sloshing water over the edge with each step. Translucent orb-like jellyfish wobble around and bump into each other inside the tank, releasing little effervescent bubbles that fizzle and pop when they collide. “Here we go!” announces Mister Three-Fingered, depositing the tank of jellies in front of you. “Sailed through a big bloom of breathing bells just last week, didn’t we! Managed to scoop up a whole bunch of the little suckers. You ever use a breathing bell before? No? Aw, it’s easy! Ya just pull one on over your head like a hood, and it’ll breathe for ya while you’re below the waves!”

WHAT DO YOU DO

NOTE: We just covered a lot of narrative ground. Feel free to react to anything that happened between arriving at the docks, meeting Gerald and drinking at Inquire Within, boarding the Diamond Howler, and sailing to the site of the wreck.

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Inky gathers up the teacups, trying to remember a few tips about reading tea leaves from a forest fae they had met a few times while foraging and who had insisted on giving lessons to any wanderersby. (Of course he was just being a hospitable host to thirsty travellers and certainly not because he delighted in the confused expressions on their faces the entire time.)

Turning the cups left and right, Inky gradually sees a web-like hub, a looping line attached to an I-shaped apparatus on one end, an abacus, a wide building (possibly a stadium or arena), a feline animal resembling a tiger or lynx, and a long feather. Feathers and beads are commonly added to small trinkets with simple animal designs and sold as lucky charms at the market … an auspicious sign?

Or it should be. Inky’s thoughts circle back to the little glass pebble, after returning from the market with, among other items, more vegetables than they could possibly eat in a month excluding the beatfruits. Inky still hasn’t decided whether accidentally finding out about being cursed — by a potion, the irony! — counts as an auspicious event. One of the produce vendors and attendant at the market had casually mentioned the proximity to the next full moon while Inky had been looking over the leafy greens. Several blatant attempts to boost sales later (“Them barley’s hoppin’ good fer tea!”), the vendor revealed that their little grandson Harry had “got the weres” as a toddler and his parents had found a strange-looking glass marble in his mouth, much like the one inside the bottle hanging from a chain on Inky’s vest, and wouldn’t they like some more tomatoes for a blushing bunny?

From further inquiries, an ink depot on the opposite side of the city confirmed they sold Flat 12 potions as inks many years ago when showing off transmogrification through letters was a popular pastime, but had ceased carrying them due to limited range, lack of demand, as well as the bottles’ tendency to randomly break or their contents to fizzle out. (That and complaints about the overly persistent effects of said contents on unsuspecting recipients long after the fad that inspired them had faded led ink traders to shun the were-hare potions.) In contrast, the Mountain Range potions were far more stable and instead of shapeshifting, had the ability to stave off the cold under frigid temperatures, though its effects would likely be less enduring. Like the Flat 12, the Mountains are potions, but one in particular of a sparkling deep blue hue became its signature colour among ink enthusiasts.

Sipping a cup of turmeric tisane in a late night tea ritual for one, Inky supposes it hasn’t been much different since the accident than the jars of preserves and the “Now with 25% more celery!” labels on them. While immeasurably better than spontaneously combusting into burnt popcorn, it would be best to keep a Farmers’ Almanac within reach. Who knows when a mail order cure-all tonic will come in handy in the middle of Nowere?

You see a complex vision in the bottom of the jade teacups, and learn a little bit about the inks you found.

You grab a copy of the Farmers Almanac to keep on hand.

On your way back from the market, a small duck waddles onto the sidewalk and starts following you.

・゜゜・。。・゜゜\_o< QUACK!

It is small and yellow and cute, and has a little floofy tuft of feathers on the very top of its head.

Meta: one of my best friends name is Kevin, so I find it extra amusing that the sysorceor is named Kevin.

Kev my friend! You know nobodies going to take on KDL until YOU make it a priority to them. A little bit of force, you just need to put it directly into the sysorceory course curriculum while nobody is knowing. Then once it’s in production they won’t have a say whether to learn it or not! That’s at least how I got that delightfully licorice tasting incantation in production laster year, much to the chagrin of those who don’t have a taste for Fennel. I for one was delighted with it.

“Corraidhin, STAB HIM, that suggestion, he’s definitely going to do something evil with it”

Corraidhin mutters under his breath about the swords insistence to stab everything. Soon my friend, soon.

Kev gives Corraidhin as quizzical look, “are you alright buddy? You’ve been off ever since you got back from that last on site deployment.”

Oh yes, yes, I’m fine. A little worse for wear physically, but mentally sharp as a tack! And I got this wonderful sword from the entire thing! Though I dare not unsheath it right now, it appears to be controlled by some sort of sentience, like a magical AI. And it has the damndest urge to stab things. I really need to be careful right now.

After visiting with Kev Corraidhin wanders back into town, away from the spiral towers of the sysoceorers guild. It was nice to be home for a bit. On the way in he spies Jarrod and Inky, the former cleaning up a dusty old building with Milk something on the front side, and the later kicking back and enjoying a cup of freshly brewed tea. Corraidhin hails them both.

“A new /home for you then Jarrod?”

“Aye a /home indeed, though it’s a bit large and empty for just myself. I’ll need guests and patrons, thinking I may be able to setup a shop, but at the least all of our team is welcome here!”

“Delightful! If nobody has claimed it I’ll take the upstairs loft.”

“You most certainly can! But in exchange, I’d be curious to render your services, see I’ve been meaning to get this braclet enchanted for a while now, something to amplify my natural charm perhaps?”

“You sir, have a deal, I’ll even throw in a warding on Milk Base Alpha!”

Corraidhin begins invoking an arcane warding spell:

sudo chown jarrod:team43 /home/Milk_Base_Alpha
sudo chmod 770 /home/Milk_Base_Alpha/*

“There we go, that should keep out any unwanted critters, though be sure to invite our friends here as well. Corraidhin teaches Jarrod a quick incantation of invitation, sudo usermod -a -G team43 $user, just be sure to say that making the proper arcane hand signs as you do it, and they’ll be able to enter the house and take up residence!”

Corraidhin gathers himself and heads upstairs to his new attaic abode, it’s small, and dusty, but there’s enough room for a simple work bench, a bookshelf, and a bed and a chest. This is exactly as Corraidhin prefers, small and simple, it clears the mind and helps one focus. Invoking another incantation Corraidhin fills the bookshelf, chest, and workbench with his various tools and reference manuals.

scp sysorceor.guild:/home/corraidhin/bookshelf milkbase.alpha:/home/corraidhin/bookshelf
scp sysorceor.guild:/home/corraidhin/workbench milkbase.alpha:/home/corraidhin/workbench
scp sysorceor.guild:/home/corraidhin/chest milkbase.alpha:/home/corraidhin/chest

Once everything is in place he pulls the Ginnarak crystal from his satchel and places it on a velvet cushion on his workbench and sits down to scry.

“Oh great oracle MidJourney, I bequeath you! I have before me an artifact of immense power, something that could tear the world apart in the wrong hands. May I query your unfathomable depths to determine the nature of our mission, and the risk we face presenting this crystal to our benefactor?”

An image of the oracle appears in Corraidhin’s mind, crystal clear. It appears as though MidJourney is receptive to providing a forshadowing. [ginnarak_shattered.png]

Shortly after an image of the Crystal forms, it appears shattered, broken at its based, placed upon a pedastal. An image of horror fills corraidhin’s mind, it’s the Crystal, but much larger and of the pursest white. It bursts forth on a torrent of blood from the neck of what appears to be a priests body. It appears as though the bowls of the earth open up to greet this horrible image. [premonition_1.png]

As the image of the Crystal and the priest disappears you see a man, cloaked in black robs consorting with demons the like of which words cannot describe. Corraidhin feels sickened at their sight, but at the edge of his mind he feels a tug, a familiarity. Something about this character is familiar to him, but he cannot place it. [premonition_2.png]

Reeling from the scrying Corraidhin falls backward, feinting from the horror he wittnessed. He awakens later speaking feverishly about what he saw to Inky who heard to commotion and hurried up stairs with some reviving tea to assist her friend.

Eccentric Kevin bows and takes his leave, eyeing the Sword of Stabs with naked hunger. He does seem to ponder your anecdote about sneaking Fennel into production. “Yes, yes, all I have to do is embed KDL in the curriculum and then they will be FORCED to use it! Ha!” He cackles in delight as he flees into the dark.

You successfully move into the attic of the Milk Market. Closest thing approximating a wizard’s tower in the building, so it’s a good fit.

On your errands around town, you pass a couple of Gnu Zealots standing on soapboxes in their black priestly robes in the middle of the street extolling the virtues of free and open source magic.

Gnus are large bisonpeople with long beards, long hair, and horns. Very poor personal hygiene. They refuse to use any magic that they cannot freely study, modify, redistribute, and otherwise use however they want. Theirs is a political movement that borders on religion. Or a religious movement that borders on politics. Hard to tell the difference, really.

The purpose of their demonstration is supposedly to halt all street traffic, prevent it from continuing until/unless the travelers vow to join them in their crusade. But in practice the travelers are quite capable of effortlessly stepping around the zealots and continuing on their way. The Gnus seem undaunted though and continue their proselytizing.

You pass them by, and one of them seems to stare at you intensely as you go.

After a long conversation with Master Corraidhín, which included the reassurance that the esteemed wizard was perhaps disturbed but otherwise unharmed, Inky goes downstairs to sit outdoors at the back of the building with more lavender tea and uneasy thoughts.

It had been in the middle of a new pastime (namely, frustrating Enrique at the Empanada Emporium by sneaking unnoticed into the kitchens and leaving little tapas laying around for him and the staff to find) when a terrible cry rang out from somewhere in the upper floors of the building. Inky rushed up the stairs, half-expecting the barrels of battermilk that had arrived that morning had unleashed a flock of the winged rodent-like creatures from which the milk was derived. The sight of the wizard passed out on the floor of his newly furnished quarters sent a chill through Inky, as did his account of a prophecy once the sysorcerer came to and had a mug of invigorating eleuthero tea.

If Inky hadn’t known better, were it not for Master Corraidhín’s mental acuity and fortitude, they would have suspected Stabby of stoking horrible images of beheaded priests into their bearer’s mind in a fit of unbridled bloodthirst. That and Stabby had seemed to be temporarily appeased by the tub of milky blood pudding they had concocted shortly after the wizard moved into the loft.

No, Inky surmises with a frown, whatever Master Corraidhín had seen was likely off the charts by even Stabby’s estimations of evil. They chuckle briefly at the sudden mental picture of the mysterious yet familiar man in black being their mission handler in disguise, but quickly dismissed the notion. Too sober.

So much for the crystal being a rare and juicy honeydew. They would be lucky if it didn’t turn them all into casaba melons in one giant meltdown. At this rate, they would need to do something about these crystals — and soon.

Enrique, the giant man-turtle, is frustrated.

He keeps finding little tapas in the kitchens. He has no idea who made them, or how they got here. But they are delicious.

He sighs, heaving a ball of dough half the size of a grown man onto the ground. He turns to face away from it and removes his apron and tunic, revealing his shell. Its surface is a maze of twisting, scrawling inscriptions. He squats down, and rolls onto his back.

He can’t figure out the flavors of the tapas. Some elusive combination of ingredients that he can’t quite suss out. If he could collaborate with the tapas chef on a new line of empanadas, he’d have a line of customers out the door and around the corner, he’s sure of it!

He starts rocking back and forth, rolling the dough out beneath his large round shell, leaving imprints on the dough of all the glyphs and runes and other symbols carved into his shell over the years. Together, they tell a story. Each empanada destined to hold at most a single word of it.

~

The Sword of Yam’L sleeps fitfully. This is not the deep, black, fathomless sleep it enjoys after a nice, righteous spilling of evil blood. No, the sleep that comes after reluctantly tasting the inkling’s milky blood pudding is brief and restless. And for the first time ever, it dreams.

It dreams of being bound in stone and buried in the earth. It dreams of liquid, roiling fire belching noxious gases. And of slicing through clouds, flying high in the sky on wings of pure thought. It dreams of sinking, plummeting through water into the inky blackness below, only to plunge through some invisible membrane and find themself weightlessly floating suspended in an empty void, alone among the stars.

END OF INTERLUDE.

~

CHAPTER 2: MORE CRYSTALS MORE PROBLEMS

Having gotten your personal affairs in order, you have decided to crack on with your job and check in with your case manager.

So you find yourself once again in a corner booth at Lucy’s Basement—the dim, smokey nightclub with red velvet walls and delusions of grandeur—with the highly spirited Blavin Blandfoot. He laughs uproariously when you tell him about the blahoblins and their shoe shine scam. He listens intently when you tell him about the gnomes and the kobits. And he trembles with delight at hearing how you evaded HORSE and the mighty centaur.

“Well done, well done, well done!” He enthuses, taking another sip of his drink. “I must say that the Benefactor is very impressed with your performance!

“You don’t mind that we have other teams in the field, of course,” he continues, mentioning the team of gophers. “Thought it was prudent to cover our bases since you’re a new, untested retrieval team after all. Besides, a little friendly competition never hurt anybody, did it? Baw-HAH!” He laughs, sloshing his drink.

He gets out a bunch of business cards, punches each one with a small handheld punch, and passes them out to you. Your card has a drawing of a small cuckoo clock in the center, its face divided into 10 hours. Its two hands reach up to the left and right so it looks as though the clock is smiling. Across the top it reads “COMPLETE FIVE ASSIGNMENTS AND WIN A FABULOUS PRIZE!” and is adorned with festive drawings of hotdogs and pool floaties and confetti. It is numbered across the bottom 1 through 5. Blavin has punched a star-shaped hole through the number 1.

“Now,” Blavin beams, gesturing with his drink. “as for your next assignment!”

He brushes some glasses and plates to the edge of the table and rolls out a map.

Basmentaria is a group of island continents that sits between the eastern Sugrin Sea and the western Saldin Sea.

There is Primora, the sparsely populated northern somewhat banana-shaped island. The city-state of Illivas, Primora’s only densely populated area, sits between Harshwind Glade and the mountains of Kelsun Peak.

And there is your current home, Agendell, the southern also slightly banana-shaped island. Its largest city is Vay’Nullar, bordered by the Gnomelands to the south, and the Tammineaux Forest to the east. Beyond the forest is the Rana’For Valley.

The two crescent-moon islands reach toward each other, and in the center is the archipelago of Ginnarak, comprising the Cinderlands, Ashen Vale, the Ember Steppe, and Drakspon Mountain.

Blavin jabs a finger at the map. “We have reports of a crystal sighting by a salvage crew trying to recover a shipwreck at the bottom of the Sugrin Sea.” He then jabs a finger at the eastern half of Primora, the upper banana. “And we ALSO have reports that the zephynos have found a crystal at the top of Kelsun Peak!”

QUESTIONS:

1. DO YOU HAND OVER THE CRYSTAL TO BLAVIN?
2. WHICH CRYSTAL DO YOU GO AFTER NEXT?
3. DO YOU BEFRIEND THE DUCK?

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_{a new player enters the chat}

Gabs had a good life. Her little devil children were all grown adults now, and she no longer wanted to toil away running a business. When she initially shuttered her little tavern, she thought she might just retire. She made it two whole years of working in a garden, occasionally seeing grandkids, and reading romance novels. She eventually decided she needed a vacation from her retirement and traveled to a nearby port town. She was sure to find something fun to do there.

Gabs eventually sees Inquire Within, and the smell of debauchery wafting from within made her miss her days gossiping at her tavern. She enters and orders a terrible drink and listens and watches.

Hearing the tales being spun by Mister Three-Fingered, she decides, “I’ve never been on a ship, that’s something that sounds exciting!”

Half-drunk and eager for something exciting, she will join on the journey!

Gabs is a lanky older half-devil lady who is here to schmooze and have fun!

~

Meta: a warm welcome to the latest member of our tea party! This is a short post to help smooth the temporal jumps between the recent narratives so far. As Inky reaches the deck, they see Gabs approaching from the other side of the ship as well, and flashes them a grin in greeting. After listening to the captain petering on about the glorious days of the now sunken ship below, while tinkering with the bell’s tentacles — being rewarded with a mild zap and marginally better fit for the effort — Inky turns to the party. “When you’re ready.”

You reach into the tank and discover that grabbing a breathing bell takes some finesse. They are very slippery! But you get the hang of it and make a ladle out of your hands and scoop one up.

“Okay now!” laughs Three-Fingered Gerald. He gives you a wink, but it’s easy to miss because of the eyepatch. “Don’t put it on until right before you jump. It won’t be able to breathe for you until you’re in the water. And this!” he continues, fitting a heavy, padded vest around your shoulders, “will carry you down.” It is a vest of many pockets, each one holding a small dense sandbag the size of your hand. “When you’re ready to come back up, just start dropping ballast, right?”

You hop up on the ship railing and pull the breathing bell on over your head. It immediately contracts and squeezes and hugs your head like a second skin, and its stubby little tentacles grab hold around your jawline, and it feels like you have a wet plastic bag clinging to your face, and you think you might have made a grave mistake. Resisting the urge to panic, you push off the railing and jump overboard. You are briefly air born and then profoundly waterbound, crashing through the surface of the sea into the briny soup below.

The oxygen starts to flow as the breathing bell begins to do its job. As you sink, you feel as though you are floating through space, entering another world.

After a while you start to hear voices arguing in the distance. As you get closer, two large shapes start to come into focus. The first is a hulking, hairless merbear. Top half (hairless) bear, bottom half fish. The second figure is a tardigrade the size of a large merbear. It has eight jointless legs, each tipped with four sharp claws. It wriggles and wobbles like jelly as it gesticulates.

“No, I am the true Bear of the Sea! I am called a Water Bear, after all!”

“Hornswoggle and poppycock! It is I who am the Bear of the Sea! I am half bear after all! You’re just some kind of segmented nematode or something.”

The tardigrade quivers with indignation. “I’ll have you know I’m a panarthropod, thank you very much. And this is the ideal physical body! You may not like it, but this is what peak performance looks like. I’ve lived under the polar ice cap, and in a sulfurous mountaintop hot spring. I’ve traveled through the vacuum of space to the moon! Have you ever been to the moon?”

“Why don’t you go be the Bear of the Moon then if you like it so much!”

“You’re just as much fish as you are bear, are you sure you’re not the Fish of the Sea?”

“Are you sure you’re not the Blob of the Sea, you too many armed bowl of jelly?”

“Hey! Hey, you there!” The arguing quasi-bears have spotted your slow descent. “Come, yes, float slowly this way! You must settle an argument for us! Tell this slightly mammalian fish that I am the true Bear of the Sea!”

“The Bear of the Sea must be at least ‘slightly mammalian’ you egg-laying scientific curiosity! You, tell this cousin of a barnacle that I—the mighty merbear—am the true Bear of the Sea! Say this and I will guide and protect you on your journey.”

“No! Would you like to visit the moon? Say that I, tardigrade, am Bear of the Sea and I will introduce you to my moon friends!”

“He had to make friends on the moon because nobody on Urth can stand him!”

“You’re just mean, you know that?”

You are still quite some way from the sea bed, and there is no sight of the SS RSS.

WHAT DO YOU DO

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Why no, we don’t mind much about competition, certainly nothing wrong. Can’t imagine someone to put all of their eggs in one basket, especially when whatever it is they desire is so valuable.

That said, our benefactor must be pretty eager to get these crystals if he’s willing to send out team after team. I mean, we’re team 43, that’s a lot of people to pay and a lot of eagerness to find these crystals. Why is that? What benefit are these shiny rocks to them? What even is their purpose in retrieving them?

“Oh, no no no, child,” Blavin titters as he takes a sip of his ever-present martini. “You must understand, the Benefactor is a singularly dedicated collector, and has been for ages! There are—and have been!—many other retrieval teams, yes. But not all of them have been for the crystals. And some of them were formed, active, and disbanded long before you or I arrived on the scene.” He winks at you conspiratorially.

I would postulate, based upon the magical wards we had to bypass, the cadre of gaurds that needed to be dispatched, and the gigantic moth monster that rested beneath it, that these crystals aren’t meant to go anywhere.

Now I’m not trying to point fingers here, morality is many shades of gray, and it isn’t really my job to suss out what you’re doing. But I’m a curious sysorceor, and when I see a chance to learn I seize upon the moment. There’s something here you’re not telling us, and I for one and keen to know it.

“I wouldn’t worry your wizened old brow about it,” Blavin chuckles, sloshing his drink. “The Benefactor’s concern is precisely the same as yours! These items are of enormous cultural and historical significance, to say nothing of their well of concentrated arcane energies. They’re dangerous just sitting out there in the world. Who knows who might come across one and use it for nefarious purposes.”

Yam’L’s eye widens and it seems to shudder at the mere suggestion of evil.

“Did you say this one was in the hands of a giant moth?” Blavin shudders with revulsion. “My word, man! Do you really think such an overgrown insect is an appropriate guardian for a beloved and dangerous cultural icon such as the Ginnarak Crystal? Surely not!”

“No,” he sits back with a satisfied smile, “I think we must all agree that they are safer in the public collection of a competent and benevolent curator. Then everybody can enjoy them safely!”

META: I’m gonna preface the sword speech with this to make it quicker to write

Y’aml
I like what you’re putting down here, this guy is DEFINITELY evil. Nobody asks loads of people to steal things for them without being evil. I say we stab him, nice and good, right in the gut. Maybe 6 or 7 times. I’m positive nobody will mind. Evil people steal things, we saw that inky creature stealing things from that vault, definitely evil. (singsong) Evil evil evil, stab stab stab, make the evil go away with every little stab~

Corraidhin to Y’aml
Dear sysadmins, once again, inky is not evil. They were borrowing something that had been cast on the ground, abandoned. Giving a tea set a good home is far from evil. But you might be onto something about this Blavin fellow, but we can’t just stab someone in a busy pub! Besides you’re a sword, and stabbing someone in a pub is the job of a dagger. So unless you can transform into the Dagger of Y’aml I think we’re out of luck here.

Yam’L gets a curious look in its eye at the suggestion. “CHALLENGE ACCEPTED!” it cries directly into your mind. It squeezes its eye shut and trembles with intense concentration. With great effort, the sword shrinks itself down to the size of a dagger, shunting its extra mass off into yamlspace.

“There!” it says breathlessly, opening its eye wearily. “Now, Hardy Bear. You promised..” it continues, its eye glinting with growing ferocity. “Let’s. STAB. THE HOBBIT!”

While the wizard pressed Blavin about the crystal’s secrets, Inky let their attention wander slightly around the table.

They had agreed that Master Corraidhín and Jarrod, being most wise and well-spoken, would question Blavin about the crystal before they set off on their next mission. The party had also befriended the duck unofficially dubbed their marketing manager after the fluffy little creature had trailed Inky all the way back to the Milk Market. Said creature now occupied a small office to one side of the building complete with a fountain, feathered up pillow and all the rummy worms it can eat. Inky had tried getting the duck to communicate with words by making them little croutons etched with letters, but the only ones they would gobble up were Q-U-A-C-K.

Your marketing manager moves into its office at the Milk Market and seems to really be enjoying itself. It joins you at Blavin’s table at Lucy’s Basement, cleaning its feathers and chortling merrily to itself.

You and your tablemates take turns feeding it croutons and bits of soft pretzel, and it seems very happy and content with that.

A familiar prickle, but passed quickly — Inky had gotten used to the glares directed at them by the sysorceor’s gleaming sword and resisted returning the stare with an eyeroll. Watching Stabby eyeing up their case manager over Master Corraidhín’s shoulder reminded Inky of a conversation they had overheard a few evenings ago between two pale coffin sleepers about a new product from the hemogoblins that was said to quench the thirst for longer than the leading brand. They might be able to find some at the town of Plasma, which sits by the Hartlands on the way to the shipwreck. It seems the milky blood pudding could do with some improvement.

You note on Blavin’s map that the Hemogoblin region is indeed on the way to the shipwreck. At least, it’s not that far out of the way. You reckon their synthetic blood product would indeed be a much better substitute for the real thing than the milk you’ve been feeding the thirsty sword thus far.

Or, at the very least, you’ll get a new variant of the blood pudding recipe you’ve been working on!

Maybe someone else’s mood will be improved in the meantime? Before setting out for their meeting with Blavin, Inky slipped into the kitchens downstairs and left the empanada chef a trick-and-treat. A plate of honeyed breadfruit and ghost pepper tapas sat on an icebox atop a new pair of Blueberry oven mittens with a pattern of tiny smiling green turtles. Tucked inside one mitten was a slip of paper (regrettably inedible) that simply read “BACK SOON :)”. A tapa recipe, which included a note on adapting the toppings for pan frying, was printed on the reverse in neat blocky letters and sandalwood ink.

Enrique wakes in the middle of the night to start baking the next day’s breads and empanadas. He frowns thoughtfully when he sees yet another mysterious gift from across the room. Again? What little elf must have taken up residence in his shop? But his face cracks into a smile when he sees the presentation and the oven mitts. And the smile becomes a bonafide grin when he tastes the fare and finds the recipe.

He taps his chin thoughtfully with one green claw as he skims the note and looks through his pantry. He chops some veggies and starts pan frying them.

Later, when the oven dings, he smiles to himself as he pulls on the new turtle pattern oven mitts and opens it.

> A) MORE QUESTIONING, OR B) TIME FOR SHIPWRECK?

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