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Stats
Total length: 87088 words / 372 minute read. (Mind you, that’s the
length of this entire page, including all the extra bits and bobs. Not
just the story.)
There have been 235 messages posted over 231 days since the first
post on July 13, 2022 for a daily post rate of 1.01.
“Congratulations!” The slightly tipsy hobbit grins and salutes you
with his martini. “On Retrieval Team 43’s inaugural mission! I’m so
excited for you, I’m sure you’ll do fantastic!”
You are all seated around a table in the corner at Lucy’s Basement.
It is dimly lit and fairly noisy. The walls are covered in red velvet
curtains, and the tablecloths have little gold tassels. A cloud of
purple smoke from candles, cigars, and pipes hangs in the air. Waiters
bustle between tables refilling drinks.
“So to recap, the Benefactor has tasked you with retrieving the five
fabled Ginnarak Crystals. I, Blavin Blandfoot, will be your case
manager. You will be paid handsomely for each crystal you retrieve. And
if you retrieve all 5, you’ll get to meet the Benefactor at be their
guest at their glorious mansion!”
“The first crystal has been spotted near a Gnomish dig site in the
Tammineaux Forest, just east of here.”
“I recommend getting started right away!” He polishes off his drink
and squints at his empty glass. “Well, maybe first thing in the morning.
Waiter!”
Who are you?
What role do you think you will fill on the team?
What do you plan to do with your cut of the money?
Blavin provides you with a multibeast for your excursion. “Courtesy
of the Benefactor!” You pack it up with food and supplies, and trek into
the Tammineaux Forest in search of the first Ginnarak Crystal.
The forest is lush, thick, and green. You have to hack your way
through the vines and the brush. There are stinging insects, squawking
birds, and dangerous forest creatures a plenty. It is hot and
sticky.
How will you ever find your way through this wilderness to the dig
site?
“Shouldn’t be too hard,” you remember Blavin saying back at Lucy’s,
gesturing carelessly and sloshing a little bit of his fourth drink.
“They’re gnomes, after all! Just follow the sound of explosions and
screaming.”
Sure enough, before long you hear a mechanical droning and some
blasting up ahead, punctuated now and then by high pitched screams, and
you guide the multibeast in that direction.
Suddenly you are ambushed by a troop of blahoblins! Awful looking
things. Taut rubbery gray skin. Long flat noses stick out way far from
their faces. And so do their protruding, lipless mouths full of sharp
pointy teeth. You didn’t hear them over the noise of the shrieking
parrots and, in the distance, the shrieking gnomes.
“SHOE SHINE!!” the first one yells. It is wearing a gold ring on each
finger (minus the three fingers it is missing), two in each ear, and one
in its nose. It is dragging a vat of black polish nearly as tall as it
is.
“SHOE SHINE!!” a second one agrees. It is wearing a nice waistcoat
with large gaudy buttons, and a nice looking pocket watch on a gold
chain. It is dragging a comfy looking chair stuffed with bits of fluff
and leaves and fur.
A third one screams, “SHOE SHINE SHOE SHINE!” It has several gold
teeth and carries a huge block of cheese secured to its back with long
loops of hempen rope.
The fourth and final one is wearing what looks like freshly painted
red shoes and is carrying a lit torch. “SHOE SHIIIIINE!” it screams. It
is wearing a gold medallion on a gold necklace.
“SHOE SHINE!” Bellows Tea, with a full bodied laugh!
With a well practiced move, faster than one would think giant like
Tea could move, Tea removes an object from their satchel.
…at first glance it appears to be a flail without a handle, but is
actually a spare pair of giant boots, held by their laces.
“These could indeed use a good shining.”
The boot are spectacularly large, probably a 1/2 size too large, in
all honest, for even Tea’s feet.
The boots have gold eyelets.
Earrings greedily snatches the boots and start washing, drying, and
polishing them to a shine. Waistcoat eagerly tugs on Tea’s wrist and
guides him to the comfy chair, which is decidedly too small for his
bulky frame. Teeth graciously offers him a wedge of cheese.
Depending on how observant Tea is, he may or may not notice that the
boots are returned to him with 1 - 3 fewer eyelets.
Bending down, Inky sniffs the bottles carefully, mumbling, “Creosote,
shellac, hopweed … ou, wild cherry liquorice.” Then, a little louder to
one of the blahoblins, though it came out not much more than a squeak,
“Might I ask from where did you get these?”
“Shoe Polish! We Make! Roots and ash!” shouts Waistcoat. They seem to
only have the one volume.
“And jolly good polish too, it looks like,” Inky replies, squinting a
bit at the ichor being smeared onto the boots in Earrings’ large
calloused hands. “I hear there be some gnomes hereabouts? A camp? With
your remarkable service, I bet they’d be coming to you all the time to
get their boots cleaned.”
“GNOMES!?” Earrings interrobangs loudly and questioningly. It brings
its hands to the sides of its face, covering its ear holes, and wags its
oversized head in dismay, squeezing its tiny eyes shut. In the process,
it smears polish around its face.
“Gnomes there!” shouts Waistcoat. Its hands busy polishing, it tosses
its head, gesturing with its prodigious proboscis in the direction you
were heading. You continue to hear bangs and booms in the distance every
once a while.
Glarg gurgles something to the effect of “gluggurguuuurglaaaachhhh?”
Its stance is one of surprise as its disposition changes to that of
inquisition as its head cranes down to look at the blahoblin carrying
the smelly rock on its back.
Teeth looks questioningly up at Glarg and experimentally gargles back
up at it. “GURGLE BURBLE GLUG GLUG?” It smiles apologetically (a
fearsome sight, its protruding jaws full of tiny pointy teeth) and
shrugs and asks, “Shoe shine?”
It attempts to pick that whole blahoblin up and bring the smelly rock
to its face for a closer inspection.
“WAAAAAAH!” Teeth kicks its feet ineffectively and is quite
helplessly tied to the big smelly rock when Glarg picks it up. The
smelly rock smells pungent, sharp, earthy, moldy. Definitely could be
food.
By this time the blahoblins have polished the shoes of everybody who
has consented to it, and are packing up. Except for Teeth who is being
detained by the earth elemental.
Red Shoes reappears from wherever they have been this whole time with
a sly smile and rejoins its comrades.
Your pockets have successfully been picked while you were distracted
with the shoe shine, but not of anything of particular value.
What small item(s) will you notice is missing in the hours and days
to come? How will its absence be a minor inconvenience?
As the blahoblins were packing up, Inky persuades Waistcoat to sell a
few small bottles of shoe polish, a roughly round piece of broken glass
and scraps of cheesecloth from the mountain of debris previously on the
ground. Inky rolls Do Anything 1 and rolls a 4.
Inky successfully persuades Waistcoat to sell a few baubles and
trinkets with the first roll of the game!
They haggle back and forth a little bit, and Inky ends up paying a
little more than they wanted to, but they get all the stuff they wanted.
Yay commerce!
Having concluded business, the blahoblins pack up and disappear into
the bushes toting their chair, cheese, and vat of polish.
The sound of mechanical droning and periodic explosions compel you
forward to the dig site.
It is easy to find.
It is a large hole blasted deep into the ground. There are drills,
and conveyor belts, earth moving machines, and all kinds of gadgets and
gizmos, the purpose of which is not always readily apparent. And there
is a zip line that seems to be the only way down to the bottom.
The site is absolutely teeming with gnomes. Diminutive humanoids with
bright red noses and long, long ears, and long, nimble fingers. All
gnomes are compulsive tinkerers and mechanics, and build fantastic
contraptions. All gnomes are women, and are all highly explosive. Which
makes their combustion powered machines extremely dangerous, both for
themselves and for any unfortunate bystanders close enough to get caught
in the blast.
A gnome in a white hat comes running up to you. “You there! Hey! Yes,
you!”
“Are you the retrieval team? We’ve been expecting you! The whole dig
is halted because we accidentally blasted into a whole nest of Kobits,
and they won’t let us get near to keep digging! They keep sabotaging our
machines when we try!”
“They also stole the Ginnarak Crystal that we found! That thing could
have powered such glorious new machines!” She pouts.
In the background, a gnome who had crawled half way into a coal bin
in the side of some kind of excavator suddenly scrambles quickly out,
smoking, and runs around in circles in a panic. Nearby gnomes dive out
of the way as she erupts in a small ball of fire. The gnomes wait for
the smoke to clear and then immediately return to working on the
contraption.
The foreman continues talking to you as though nothing happened. She
leads you over to the edge of the hole and points to the bottom.
“The entrance to their cave is right down there! The zip line is the
second fastest way down.”
Suddenly three anthropomorphic gophers come crashing through the
trees behind you into the dig site. The first is wearing a sash of many
pockets. The second is wearing cargo shorts of many pockets. The third
is wearing a vest of many pockets. Each wears a pair of goggles with
thick smokey black lenses, and a floppy checkered hat that looks like a
waffle.
They march up to the zip-line.
“Out of the way, losers!” Sash cries. It grabs the zip-line trolley,
and immediately dives off the side of the cliff and zooms down into the
deep, deep hole.
Vest introduces itself, “Retrieval Team 70 here! We are here to
recover the Ginnarak Crystal that is reported to be at this location.
After we collect all five, then it will be us who get to hang
out in the Benefactor’s hot tub! Not you! Ha!”
Sash has reached the bottom of the deep, deep hole. Shorts starts
reeling in the pulley.
Vest leans in close and peers at you through its foggy lenses. “You
must be the new Retrieval Team 43. Hmmph. Shame what happened to the
previous Team 43. Hope you know what you’re doing! Would hate to see you
end up like them!”
Shorts grabs the trolley and leaps down into the deep, deep hole. It
sails all the way down, and joins Sash at the bottom.
“Welp!” Vest concludes with an air of finality. “No hard feelings,
and all that! After we collect this crystal, we just need four more. And
then we get to meet the Benefactor! Ha!”
Inky peers down at the hole, and after some time, turns to the party.
“Do you think they’ve cleared most of the gnomes by now, or should we
wait until they emerge and grab the crystal then?” Gazing at some
invisible spot farther among the trees, Inky continued, “One of the old
miners back at the tavern said there used to be a natural maw on the
southwestern side, but it was blocked when the tunnel caved in many
years ago. The gnomes don’t waste their efforts on blowing up things
knowing someone’s already been through them. Chances are there’s only
one exit, unless this mine is a decoy.”
Inky peers down the hole and watches Retrieval Team 70 approach the
kobit caves.
The maw on the southwestern side did indeed collapse several seasons
ago. If you know anything about the industrial and intrepid kobits
however, it is that they have probably dug several alternative, secret
entrances since then.
Just as the gophers reach the cave entrance, a large erge, muscles
rippling beneath its white feathers, emerges from behind a boulder and
blocks their way forward.
It raises the feathery crest on the crown of its head, and fluffs up
its plumage in a dramatic display. It appears to be arguing with the
gophers. All three gophers appear to be arguing back.
The egre gestures angrily at the gophers’ feet, shakes its head, and
crosses its arms defiantly. The gophers look down at their own feet and
shuffle about as though embarrassed.
They all exchange a few more words and then the gophers retreat away
from the egre and the cave entrance. They huddle together briefly and
then start slowly climbing the scaffolding back up to the top of the
hole.
“Oh yeah,” the foreman remarks absentmindedly. “There’s an egre
guarding the kobit caves.”
The egre below preens and struts about proudly having chased off the
gophers.
“Stubborn things,” the foreman continues. “Easily provoked to
violence. Impeccable fashion sense though.”
Inky blinks down at their pinecrab apple leather boots consideringly.
“Tea’s got the fanciest footgear, but at least we aren’t sporting fetid
foot fungi like stockings. Maybe we could persuade the egre to let us
through? It might set us back half a day trying to find any kobit holes
that aren’t just non-portable potties.”
You look down at your boots. How serendipitous that you just had them
shined by the blahoblins! You feel confident in your footwear.
Corraidhín: I may have a solution to the Egre problem. I gesture
grandly, as it so happens I always come prepared for a fashion show.
With a grand gesture I cast a spell to transform my robes into a
stunning suit, complete with top hat, monocle, and cane
I’m certain we can convince the fine fellow to let us pass if we look
the part. Or better yet, I’m almost certain I can distract him while the
rest of you sneak past, I’ve been told I can be quite verbose and
boisterous.
Corraidhín successfully conjures up a stunning suit, surely the envy
of every dandy, fop, and gentleman in the southern continent, if not all
of Basmentaria!
A nearby gnome gets flush, starts to fan herself excitedly, and then
explodes dramatically.
“A splendid idea, with an equally splendid outfit to match!” Inky
exclaimed. “Then, shall we proceed? Master Corraidhín, at your
signal.”
You proceed down into the gnome hole.
Retrieval Team 70 glares at you from behind their smoked glass
goggles as you zip line past them. They continue their slow, defeated
climb up the scaffolding. Vest shakes its gopher fist at you and swears,
“You haven’t seen the last of us, Retrieval Team 43!”
At the bottom, on solid ground, you approach the entrance to the
kobit caves.
Standing guard at the entrance to the kobit tunnels is a massive
egre, a fearsome bird beast, muscles rippling and bulging beneath its
beautiful white plumage. It turns its head and regards you with one jet
black eye and then the other, snapping its sharp beak in the air as it
tosses its head back and forth.
It looks you up and down, and its gaze rests on your freshly polished
shoes. It huffs and grunts, “Your shoes look clean.” It rests its
scrutinizing gaze on Corraidhín’s garments. “And YOU look FABULOUS!” it
exclaims as it tosses its head and beats it wings excitedly.
“You may enter.” It graciously steps aside with a flourish.
The smallest of you can stand upright in the kobit tunnels. The
largest of you have to crawl.
Kobits are small, vaguely mammalian, vaguely reptilian bipedal cave
creatures. They are scaly and furry, and live in tunnels deep in the
earth. They have huge yellow eyes, and long fine whiskers on their
snouts and faces, all of which help them find their way around in the
dark. They also have long, thick, coarse, drooping mustaches. The
overall effect is that they look like tiny, monstrous, perpetually
startled cowboys.
You follow the winding tunnel down into the earth.
You come around a corner and almost bump right into a kobit. It has
eyes like saucers and an awe-inspiring mustache. It wears a name tag
(“Corey”) and carries a clipboard. It blinks at you in surprise and then
asks, “Who are you? What are you doing in here?” Corey flips through the
pages on its clipboard. “There are no upsiders scheduled to arrive
today. I don’t think you’re supposed to be here!” Corey glances around
nervously with its huge eyes and looks about ready to cry out for
help.
Inky smiles at Corey. “Hullo! We’re the waterworks crew from the
neaby town, here to check the outhouse tunnels, inspect all the pipes
and so on. We received reports of a blockage somewhere inside the
networks. Have the tunnels been flushing well lately?” While speaking,
Inky flashes a waterworker’s ID briefly at the kobit before pocketing it
and pulling out a pressure gauge, giving the little handle on one side
of the device a few cranks, and looking back at Corey expectantly.
Corey slowly blinks its eyes. “Inspektor?”
ASIDE: I rolled for Inky and rolled a six, which according to the
rules means GREAT SUCCESS, and also Inky gets to Level Up: they gain the
skill Persuasive 2.
“Of course! Inspektors! Yes, yes, right this way! A surprise
inspection, how exciting!”
Corey continues to chatter excitedly as it leads you further into the
branching, winding tunnels, pointing out particular bits of stonework
and engineering, and also baubles and trinkets and fossils and artifacts
that the kobits uncovered in the process of digging their tunnels.
Your tour eventually brings you into a large cavern with tunnels
exactly like the one from which you just entered branching off in all
directions. It makes you dizzy to think of finding your way through this
labyrinth without a guide.
In the middle of the cavern is a deep pool with a fountain. At the
bottom of the pool, a SWORD is thrust into the ground almost up to its
hilt. A large jewel set deep in the pommel rolls around like an eye in a
socket and tracks your movement around cavern. A few bubbles float up to
the surface of the pool.
And set into the wall on the far side of the room is a massive stone
door reinforced with thick iron bands. There is a keypad and a small
printer on the wall next to it.
“….and so our tour concludes here in the central atrium!” Corey
concludes excitedly. “Behind this door is the VAULT, where we keep all
the valuables. Gemstones, gold, crystals, et cetera.”
“Top notch security!” Corey exclaims tapping the keypad. The printer
spits out a square of paper. It reads
ed v1.16
*
?
*
?
*e door
19
*,n
1 the door is Locked
*wq
“Ha ha!” Corey shakes its head in amazement. “I have no idea how this
thing works!”
The eye in the sword watches as Corey clips the small printout to its
clipboard.
“Now, I trust you’ll find that everything was in tip-top order! Yes,
indeed!” Corey wriggles its mustache proudly. “Now if you’ll excuse me,”
it flips through the pages on its clipboard, “I am late for my next
appointment. Good day!” Corey turns and walks toward one of the twisty
little passageways, all alike.
Once Corey the Kobit exits the antechamber, you are free to look
around a little bit.
The eyesword continues to watch from the bottom of the pool, and the
Kobit Ed terminal continues to await you by the vault door.
But also you notice a couple of alcoves along the walls between the
twisty little passages. Each of them holds a relief sculpture depicting
one of the three deities of Basmentaria.
There is Neddas, the wise god of sages and starlight. Androgynous,
clad in purple robes, depicted with a golden third eye in the middle of
their forehead. They are shown here stoically bestowing gifts upon the
inhabitants of Basmentaria.
And here is Nullar, god of time and tides. A bespectacled male figure
with a golden third eye on his forehead. He is dressed in a dapper vest
and bow tie, and is adorned with small cogs and gears. He is depicted
here looking up at the stars from a mechanical contraption he is working
on.
Finally, there is Liandt, goddess of war and flame. A primal,
elemental deity, she is depicted as a fiery warrior with a golden third
eye. The relief shows her on the battlefield during the Artifice wars.
The wars which reduced Ginnarak to the wastes of cinder and ash that
they are today. The wars which drained Liandt’s divine energies so
thoroughly that she fell into a deep sleep and has been absent from the
mortal realms ever since.
But enough of this lore dump! There is something important
happening!
You hear a shuffling and a mumbling approaching from one of the
twisty little passages.
You’re already in one of the alcoves studying the relief, so your
press yourself flat into the recess.
Three gophers with smoked glass goggles spill out from one of the
passages. Retrieval team 70! They made it past the egre after all!
They don’t see you, but head straight to the keypad by the vault.
They crowd around it and start pressing buttons, arguing and bickering
with one another.
The sword at the bottom of the pool seems to roll its eye in
exasperation.
“I’ve tried it! It’s not vi! It doesn’t do anything!” Vest moans.
“Here you try it if you’re so smart!”
Sash is balled up on the floor crying, having already had a turn at
the terminal.
Shorts carefully steps over them and timidly prods at the keypad.
A throng of beefy guard kobits come charging into the hall, alerted
by the gopher racket.
“Here now! You’re not supposed to be in here!”
One of them trips over Sash, still balled up on the floor, and
crashes into Shorts’s back, pinning them to wall. They squeal. Another
guard grabs Vest by the collar, and after a brief scuffle all three
gophers are escorted out of the hall despite their howls of protest.
“I had better check on the vault!” exclaims one of the kobits who
remains behind.
They bang a few keys on the terminal and it spits out a slip of
paper.
ed v1.6
19
P
*,n
1 the door is locked
*1s/locked/open
?
*H
no match
*1s/Locked/Open
the door is Open
*wq
17
There is a mechanical whir deep in the walls, and a click and a gasp
of air as the door swings inward.
The kobit slips into the vault and the door swings only partly closed
behind it.
The sword in the bottom of the pool pointedly narrows its eye at
you.
The gods of Basmentaria observe passively from their reliefs in the
alcoves around you.
The door to the vault is ajar, the first of the five legendary
Ginnarak crystals presumably behind it.
From one of the twisty little passages, you hear a guard kobit
approaching, singing a sad cowboy song to itself.
Harrumph I say as I billow out my mustache. I know exactly what this
is, I’ve seen these silly terminals at the wizarding academy.
Fascinating little babbles really, not that easy to use, and I find
they’re easier to melt with a well placed fireball or two, but I think I
can get us past without that. Now I might need someone to cover for me
if that Kobit catches onto what I’m doing, and I’ll say the weird sword
is starting to creep me out a bit.
Corraidhin approaches the terminal, cracks his knuckles, and enters:
1,$p
The printer spits out a piece of paper:
The door is Locked
Corraidhin stares at the paper. Well, that’s not right, the door’s
only partially closed. Preposterious thing.
That’s okay, I know how to fix this.
19 c there is no door, there never was, and never will be. Also the
Kobit guard forgot to tie his shoes. . w 1,$p
The printer spits out a slip of paper.
there is no door, there never was, and never will be. Also the Kobit guard forgot to tie his shoes.
With a soft pop, the thick stone door vanishes.
The sword at the bottom of the pool widens its eye in surprise.
Nothing remains between you and the interior of the vault.
Some light from the hall spills in and glints off what appears to be
a mound of gold, gems, and crystals. The rest of its contents are hidden
from view unless you venture inside.
You can still hear the guard kobit in the passage, now whistling a
warbling, lamentful tune. It sounds dangerously close. Best get a move
on if you want to avoid a confrontation.
WHAT DO YOU DO
While the wisened scholar inspects the vault door, Inky walks a few
steps from the antechamber to meet the Kobit guard, pressure gauge and
tiny notebook in hand. Inky proceeds to ask them about water flow sounds
in the surrounding area, water stains, signs of potential pests that
could damage the pipes, and other rather boring elements pertaining to
modern Basmentia burrow plumbing.
After a while, seeing as they have been conversing for some time,
Inky pulls out two small bottles of chilled arrowroot beer from a waist
pouch and offers one to the Kobit guard.
The big guard kobit’s eyes start to glass over as Inky goes on about
water pressure and structural integrity.
But it does graciously accept a bottle arrowroot beer.
“Well, golly, don’t mind if I do!” It cracks the lid off, toasts to
your health and takes a long swig.
“Aaaaaaaah! That hits the spot!”
Corraidhin absentmindedly inspects the terminal and door while Inky
converses with the guard. He’s utterly distracted and talking to
himself.
By the gods, it’s gone. Just like that! I thought it’d fizzle or
something, but it’s gone! I wonder what else I can do with this
thing.
Corraidhin wanders back to the terminal and enters another
command.
19 c The wise and elderly Corraidhin is now a young and dashing
rogue, with a very nice hat. .
The printer spits out a slip of paper:
?
Maybe the ed terminal only has jurisdiction over the door to the
vault.
Or maybe the machine, the universe, or whatever, is telling you not
to push your luck.
By now the big guard kobit, lulled by Inky’s questions and finally
sedated by the alcohol, is slumped and snoring softly in the mouth of
one of the twisty little passages.
You stand before the open vault under the ever watchful gaze of the
sword at the bottom of the pool of water in the center of the room.
WHAT DO
00013
Psst, Inky, can you poke your head into the vault, see if you can
spot any crystals. Also, can you tell what kind of gold’s in there?
Maybe it’s worth something to nab a piece of two for ourselves, you
know, since we’re so good at vault cracking.
While you do that I’m going to take a closer look at this sword, it’s
giving me heeby jeebies.
I cast a spell on the sword to identify its physical, magical,
and metaphysical properties
“Strange sword, I command thee to divulge your secrets! All that you
are of, exist in, and imbue from shall be wrought in words of sorcercy
so that the world my see clear what you are!” I chant as I invoke
ancient runes with my wand.
Corraidhín commands the sword commandingly. But the sword just rolls
its eye and looks at him exasperatedly.
Hmm. Yes, no mouth. Well then.
Corraidhín draws on his mastery of Arcane Lore, and sifts through all
the knowledge he has filed away on magical swords. There are so many
books on magic swords!
While at first you guessed that it may merely be a common Look Sword,
you have since revised your initial assessment. Look Swords are minor
magical items, and are not quite as sentient as this particular blade
appears to be.
No this must be something a little more special.
It’s hard to tell from here–the water is not perfectly clear–but the
pattern on the hilt is kind swirly and whirly. Probably a Sword of
Omens.
Unless…
No, it’s so unlikely.
And yet.
If the pattern on the hilt turns out to be more whirly than swirly,
then it probably is indeed a Sword of Omens.
But on the other hand, if it is more swirly than whirly, it’s
possible that this may be then legendary Sword of J’Son.
If only you could get a closer look…
Inky nods and peeks inside the vault, while keeping an ear open for
any sounds coming from the tunnel where the guard kobit is currently
sleeping soundly. Small mountains of ancient gold, some as coins and
some in nuggets of various shapes and sizes, filled most of the cavern
floor. In one corner were a few chests overflowing with rubies and
emeralds, with the occasional amethyst and tiny pink diamonds. Whoever
had this vault set up has amassed a nice hoard!
Inky whispered back, “Some good old gold! There are also little
crystals in one of the chests, but I can’t tell if any of them is a
Ginnarak.”
Inky hears the drunken cowboy Kobit guard snoring gently. It whistles
adorably a little bit at the top of each exhale.
You peek inside the vault just in time to see the lone Kobit guard
that went inside to check on the vault. It yelps and trips over its own
feet.
Its shoes were untied.
There are indeed piles of gold, gems, and crystals. Chests full of
precious stones. A few suits of armor. For some reason, a giant clam,
mouth open to reveal a giant pearl.
And in the center of it all, atop a stone pedestal, beneath a dome of
glass, is the blue and gold Ginnarak Crystal. It is the size of a melon,
and kind of shaped like one. A lumpy, multi-faceted blue and gold
melon.
Flitting around the pedestal are a couple of Aurs. Giant ears with
bat wings. Very keen hearing obviously. Usually more of an annoyance
than a true deterrent. Unless there’s a Centaur around. Nasty things
those. A hundred ears with a hundred wings. The size of a small horse.
They can really ruin your day. Luckily you don’t see one around.
Finally, curled up on the ground at the base of the pedestal, hugging
a mound of gold coins like a body pillow, is a nude Kobit, sound asleep.
It stretches briefly in its sleep and when it does, you are astonished
to see that it has large leathery wings.
Jarrod wanders into the vault. Spotting the Aurs and the Kobits, a
slow grin starts to spread on his face. Taking a deep breath in, he
gestures grandiosely around him and booms: “Ah! Come gather round! Hear
a tale of Triumph! Of Heart! … Maybe even a bit of Nirvana!”
He saunters over to the giant open clam and poses grandly nearby. His
eyes sweep across the Kobits, attempting to catch the eyes of each one,
as he begins to tap the fingers of his left hand rhythmically against
his thigh, mimicking a heartbeat.
"Our tale begins with a hero, though one not oft recognized,
Weaving bureaucratic mysteries across parchment with zeal,
Though held to account, and by all accounts terrorized,
By small minded yes-men with power and zeal!
Yes, our hero of sorts did not act and avail,
He gave others their tasks to be done.
No pleasure he gleaned from the mop or the pail,
And yet here we begin with the fun!"
Thus has the epic begun, and Jarrod is pushing the rhythm of the
words hard, attempting to draw all eyes and ears to himself.
Broad-chested, olive-skinned Jarrod launches into the epic, flanked
on one side by a giant clam and on the other side by a suit of
armor.
The aurs, enraptured, immediately flutter down to rest at his feet to
listen to the poem.
The one Kobit that tripped over its own feet rolls over where it lays
on the ground and listens with naked admiration.
The naked, winged Kobit rouses from its sleep at the noise with a
groan. It grouchily rises to its feet, flaps its wings a few times, and
soars up into the air.
“My name,” it cries out, “is HORSE! BhrruUHRHUuHRRh! Behold my
majesty! BrUHrhHHHURHuRu! You shall not steal my blue and gold,
melon-sized gem! BhrruUHRHUuHRRh! I have such beautiful WINGS!”
The aurs and the clumsy Kobit all start to fidget as Horse’s outburst
threatens to break the spell of Jarrod’s captivating oration.
“Excellent!” Corradihin whispers to Inky nudging her gently as he
does. “It looks like Jarrod has the Kobits covered, I’m gonna make a
break for the sword, I’m decently, somewhat, sort of positive that it’s
the legendary sword of Jason. But if I’m wrong and it’s cursed watch my
back. I might need a quick save.”
Corraidhin makes a step forward, “Oh and Inky, if Jarrod’s
distraction goes awry, shout, I’ll come in fireballs blazing. I highly
suggest a rapid retreat if it comes to thay.”
Corraidhin darts towards the sword scrambling over the terrain while
the actions on the vault. As he approaches the sword he asks the sword
if it wouldn’t mind coming along for a bit of adventure, and he grabs it
by the hilt.
Corraidhín wades resolutely into the pool. The water rises up to his
knees, his hips, his shoulders, and finally he dives under about 10 feet
to the bottom of the pool. The eye of the sword stares at him with great
intensity as he descends.
The mage reaches out and firmly grasps the hilt.
You feel a jolt, and the eye rolls back in its socket.
You yank on the sword and it budges not one bit. Not one iota!
You go to adjust your grip. But your hand is stuck fast! Glued to the
hilt of the sword!
You look up at the surface of the water, some 10 feet above.
You look down at the sword that refuses to release you.
You look more closely at the pattern on the hilt. Egads! Why did you
not see it before? The pattern is neither whirly nor swirly at all! It
is in fact kind of spacey and indented.
This is not the legendary Sword of J’son! It’s so obvious! How could
you have been so mistaken! This is none other than the infamous Sword of
Yam’l. Yam’l is of course a superset of J’son, so it is an easy enough
error to make. And perfectly harmless in an academic setting. It is
however a costly miscalculation to make while glued to a sword at the
bottom of a fountain.
You lungs start to burn a little bit, and you hear a spectral,
burbling, significant whitespace voice in your head as the sword makes
intense eye contact with you:
And then an expectant pause, as though the sword eagerly awaits your
reply.
Inky watches Master Corraidhín make his way towards the creepy sword
with two drams of admiration and a tiny dose of apprehension. Taking out
a small wrench, a pouch of nuts and bolts, along with some gum twine,
Inky crouches near the vault archway, listening in a little on Jarrod’s
epic tale about the unsung hero of sanitation while occasionally looking
into the pool.
Inky, from the best seat in the house, hears Jarrod launch into an
epic poem, and also the beating of leathery wings and a mighty whinny
and a neigh.
They also watch Corraidhín dive to the bottom of the fountain, and
then thrash about a bit with one hand on the hilt of the eye sword.
Jarrod raises his right hand and begins adding a new rhythm to his
beat by slapping his palm against his chest. The resulting beat sounds
eerily like a galloping horse. Jarrod pushes his voice outward and
upward, directing his vocal energy at HORSE.
"A mighty steed did carry our hero through forest, hill and town:
A comely beast with silky mane and smooth and supple hide.
One would think that such a stallion needs must have renown,
But only our dear hero understood, and so did ride."
Jarrod subtly adjusts the rhythm to a fast, regular beat.
"Lightning of the hoof!
Fire in the eye!
One with blowing wind!
Strength of mountain high!"
Jarrod slowly calms the beat back down to a heartbeat with his left
hand fingers on his thigh again. However, the right now rests close to
Gertrude’s handle, at the ready.
"On fated day, our hero does require
Underlings for which a task is set.
And yet, this day the underlings and squires
Have booked their time away from toil and fret."
While continuing the epic, Jarrod makes note of two options, should
he need them:
Should he need, he can dive behind the giant clam; and
He eyes a path back out the vault, should he be able to draw the
Aurs and Kobits out with him.
Jarrod keeps his eyes on HORSE, attempting to react to whatever HORSE
brings.
HORSE gives a snort, a groan, and a sigh as the beat of the poem
accelerates to a trot, and turns its subject to matters of its own
interest. Namely, himself. HORSE likes to hear its own name, and it
likes to hear people pay tribute to it with verse. Which is 100% what it
thinks is going on here.
HORSE beats its wings a few times and then flaps over to where Jarrod
is delivering his oration. It stands a little too close, basking in the
glory of Jarrod’s verse.
There is now gathered at Jarrod’s feet three Aurs; one clumsy Kobit
with untied shoe laces; and one naked, winged Kobit named HORSE.
The blue and gold, melon shaped crystal in the center of the vault
has been left unguarded. It hovers, suspended, beneath its glass dome on
top of its pedestal, revolving slowly in place. It looks like a weird
tiny asteroid. The veins of gold in the stone pulse lightly with
otherworldly energy.
Damn it Corraidhin thinks to himself, here I am yet again at the
bottom of some insipid pool stuck by some random magical thing all
because I didn’t pay enough attention in mythical history class. Bloody
hell!
Good thing I paid attention in sorcery and yesteryears secrecry
administrivia, this little sword won’t stay stuck for too long! My lungs
if I bungle this though..
Corraidhin quickly invokes a spell with his spare hand, casting
mystical runes with his hand.
That should do it corraidhin thinks to himself. If not I’m going to
need to think quick, I’m stuck and there’s no way up without this sword.
I might be able to transmute the water into air around me, but probably
only a small pocket which will surely disappear in a gasp. Alternately I
could try and blast my way down, creating a pocket for the water to flow
into, but I’d be willing to bet I’ll hurt myself in the process..
You trace some watery runes, invoking Sudo to bend reality to your
will.
The unschooled masses sometimes erroneously assume that Sudo is a
deity in its own right. There’s a certain misguided logic to it: an
invisible force that governs the relationships between entities, and
infallibly predicts how they will behave? Certainly, it must be an all
powerful, godlike entity.
You and your ilk, of course, know that there’s no more intelligence
behind Sudo than there is behind gravity. No need to correct them
though. Sometimes it behooves the mage to allow others to think that
they serve an unfathomable arcane lord.
There is a dull underwater flash and a muted underwater bang, and you
feel the sword slip from its stony clinch like a knife tearing through
soggy bread.
You push up off the bottom of the pool and rocket to the surface,
helped–surprisingly–by the sword, which remains glued fast to your hand,
but which also rises above you as though somehow lighter than water.
You break the surface of the water and hear joyous laughter.
"Oh, yes! Well done, Hardy Bear! So very well done indeed! Oh, I had spent so long trapped at the bottom of that pool waiting for a new bear to come and free me. And now here you are! Oh, what a very good day this is. What a magnificent pair we shall be.
"Now, let's go stab some evil!"
You look down at the sword in your hand, and the eye twinkles at you,
full of adoration and zeal.
A small wine pitcher splashes into the water next to you. It is
attached to a thin hose, at the other end of which Inky sits on dry
land, drinking a cup of tea. They wave.
Inky squints at the silhouette underwater, slightly distorted by the
occasional ripple on the surface, trying to decipher the odd hand
gestures and wisps of light coming from below. Why was Master Corraidhín
repeatedly forming semi-circles with his finger, almost like … the
handle of a teacup? Was it a request for tea?
After a pause, Inky rummages inside a bag and brings out a large
porro and a long rubber hose. The porro is filled with a demi-tasse of
black grapefruit pekoe from a flask and the spout plugged with an
eldarberry-flavoured gummy pen nib. Inky strings together a handful of
brass nuts with twine and ties it to the porro’s handle to act as a
small weight, then affixes the hose tightly to the open top of the
porro. Casting a slightly apologetic look in the direction of the water
for a brew long since gone cold, Inky swings the hose and flings the
drinking vessel into the pool towards Master Corraidhín, watching for a
moment as the porro sinks down into the water to hover near his arm. The
other end of the hose is tied securely to a narrow rock on one side of
the pool with more twine, the end sticking up in the air like a wiggling
snorkel.
Inky returns to crouching near the vault entrance and looking inside
another small pouch for fresh tea leaves. Waiting is thirsty work!
You cast an improvised lifeline to the floundering wizard, and find a
cache of very fine fermented tea leaves wrapped in waxed paper that you
left for yourself at some point in the past. How thoughtful and
considerate of Past You!
From your vantage point, the sleepy guard Kobit still shows no sign
of stirring. And Jarrod has a throng of captive beasts listening very
intently to his stirring, epic poem. HORSE in particular seems to be
gaining some kind of physical sustenance from the words, snorting and
whinnying and beating its wings with each new stanza.
If you can slip through the doorway without disturbing them, there
will be nothing between you and the now vulnerable Ginnarak Crystal.
Before Corraidhín ascended to the surface of the pool….
As Corraidhin finishes his incantation a small porro drifts down
bonking him on the head. Startled corraidhin begins to move around in
the pool trying to find his assailant.
“By the gods what in the world is in this pool with me!” he tugs
frantically on the sword, and as he does so the porro drifts into view.
“Oh wait, that..” his eyes follow the rubber hose attached to it up to
the top of the pool. “Ah ha!” he exclaims immediately inhaling a mouth
full of water and frantically pulling the porro from the hose with his
spare hand and teeth. Corraidhin sucks greedily at the air the hose
provides as he becomes acutely aware of the burning sensation in his
lungs.
The porro drifts wistfully to the bottom of the pool, just out of
reach. A dark liquid rises from it as it comes to rest on the bottom of
the pool.
And now back to our show!
After heartily congratulating Master Corraidhín on his successful
sword acquisition in hushed whispers and finishing off a cup of
blackcurrant tea, Inky retrieves the porro from the bottom of the pool
with a fishing pole and a few recasts. (Calling that gnarly stick with a
line, bottle and hook slightly bent out of shape on one end a fishing
pole would be an affont to any self-respecting fisherfolk though.) Inky
rinses the pitcher and hose before stowing them away again in the bag
along with the pole and other ink brewing paraphernalia.
Refreshed, Inky slips noiselessly inside the vault, edging along the
wall on the farther side from the crowd now wholly enraptured by
Jarrod’s grand recital. Seeing the crowd pacified and giving Jarrod a
thumbs-up, Inky unfurls a long and dusty bolt of dark cloth with the
words “UNDER MAINTENANCE — NO UNAUTHORISED ENTRY [by order of the
Basmentaria Bureau of Sanitation]” in roughly-scrawled letters tacked
onto it, and hung the ends of the cloth so it spanned and completely
obscured one side of the vault.
Standing behind the makeshift inspection site, Inky proceeds to fill
several sacks with gold and gems using a small shovel, before putting
one of the sacks into their Hacky Duffer Discette (its capacity for
large storage and small weight is a blessing in disguise for both
aspiring and afflicted collectors alike).
You successfully cordon off a corner of the vault and set up a very
convincing UNDER CONSTRUCTION banner. It looks straight up like a 90’s
website.
You start shoving bags of treasure into your HD Discette, but it only
accepts 1.44 bags before running out of space. You you leave the
remaining bags for the others.
During your excavation, you find a complete set of magnificent,
ornate, gold-nibbed quills, and also a small wooden rack of bottled
ink.
There are a dozen small bottles all arranged in a row, each one with
a different mysterious glyph, the contents all a slightly different
shade. As you handle the rack, the ink sloshes around inside. It could
still be good!
The fine wooden rack encloses them all and holds them in place by
means of the lid, which closes securely around the bottle necks. Once
you open the lid, you can easily retrieve and stow the bottles.
You also spot a fine jade teapot. A matching set of small cups—no
handles, no saucers—cluster around the pot like nursing pups.
Corraidhin clambors out of the pool, magical pokey stick in hand.
Good show! He exclaims to himself and the sword. Now I can finally
get a good look at this sword, though for some reason I can’t seem to
let go, I guess for now I won’t lose it.
You said you wanted to do some stabbin right? Of evil things? What
constitutes evil my pointy new friend?
The sword does indeed remain steadfastly glued to your hand. As you
swish it around you discover that it seems to get lighter when you hold
it aloft, and that it trembles and grows increasingly heavy as it
descends. The sensation is almost as though it has a hollow core in
which some kind of heavy liquid sloshes around. And as though its blow
would be devastating.
The sword relishes being wielded and swung, and grows more and more
ecstatic. Its eye darts menacingly back and forth, vanquishing imaginary
enemies with each jab.
Yes! Yes, I am made for a singular purpose. To RID EVIL. To root out evil, spill its blood, and then do it again! So let's go find some evil, Bear! And then you can just stab it with me.
Oh, what constitutes evil, you ask? In my experience, evil can't help but make itself known. You'll know it when you see it.
For example, see there? That little inky fellow sneaking into that treasure room? Probably super evil. We should go investigate.
As corraidhin questions the sword he wanders towards the vault
peering in to inspect Jarrod’s performance. He’s really good at that,
what do you think? Actually what do I even call you? Do you like
nicknames? I was thinking pointy, or stabby, but I’m open to
suggestions, respect and all that.
Oh hey, the crystal! It looks like it’s unguarded! Corraidhin slinks
towards the crystal muttering to his magical sword as he does.
The sword is momentarily distracted by the Aurs and Kobits. Its eye
widens. It almost seems to shudder with anticipation.
EEEEEVIL! Rid. Evil. Spill. Repeat.
You are thankful that the voice seems only to be heard inside your
own head.
Oh, my name? I'm sure I had one at some point. Long forgotten by now. No matter, I'm not sad about it. One has no use for a name when instead they have a singular, all-consuming purpose!
But, my last Bear called me her Bee. I quite liked that. The bee in her bonnet! Ha! Evil, fear my sting!
The sword prattles on in your head as you sneak past Jarrod’s
monstrous storytime and approach the pedestal. Or is it a lectern?
You arrive unseen. The crystal is a dazzling deep blue, with pulsing
gold veins. It is oddly shaped, somewhat like an egg. And it floats,
rotating slowly, suspended in air beneath the glass dome that encloses
it.
Drawing on your knowledge of Arcane Lore, you remember that the five
Ginnarak Crystals played a key role in the Artifice Wars that once
rampaged across all of Basmentaria. They are sources of tremendous
power. Some say that, the five of them together, they could kill a god.
You’re not sure you believe that. But they did definitely reduce the
once lush and verdant island nation of Ginnarak to cinder wastes and
deserts of ash. A cataclysmic event that put a resolute end to the
Artifice Wars.
You look around the vault. Jarrod is reciting epic poetry and
mesmerizing the monsters. Inky is pillaging and looting. You have a
bloodthirsty, sentient sword in one hand; and a large arcane battery of
a crystal within reach of the other.
While Inky packs the top of a sack with a thin layer of earth from
under a loose rock, they feel a heated glare in their general direction
for a few beats and surmises Master Corraidhín had entered the vault
with his newfound companion. After decades of serving rather … demanding
customers as an inkling, Inky knew an evil eye directed at them even
when they can’t see it (while preparing a brew with their back turned,
for instance) and makes a mental note to give Pointy a wide berth.
Once the sacks were placed close to the vault entrance for a quick
haul, Inky returns to the items that had been discovered while digging
under the loose rock. The set of gold-nibbed quills were swiftly
pocketed — each quill was finely crafted and felt balanced when held in
one hand. The malleable tips in a range of sizes would be invaluable for
testing ink viscosity and smoothness, among other properties. A
felicitously fantastic find!
The jade tea set was next to be admired, its deep green hue
reflecting the age of the stone from which the items were carved. With
cups for every member of their merry group, the teapot would make a
worthy addition to any travelling, crystal-seeking tea party. So thin
and translucent were the small cups, having been expertly crafted, that
they were almost too fragile to carry around everywhere. A
non-shattering charm was often applied to heirloom sets meant to be
passed down through generations, but it is difficult to tell by looking
whether a set had been charmed unless the spell was a particularly
strong one. The teapot and cups were returned to the small wooden box
they were found in and stored away. Perhaps a few crockery talismans
could be procured at the next town?
Inky pauses at the rack of bottled ink. The first rule that any
inkling in training learns is to never trust pre-bottled inks from
unverified ingredients or unknown sauces. Inky tilts the rack to better
examine the weird yet vaguely familiar glyphs on the bottles.
The first glyph was a circle with three dots. The bottle next to it
was adorned with a swirl, followed by a bottle with a circle surrounding
a pointing hand or a snail. Another glyph looked like a twisted hook,
and was that some sort of sinister grinning reptile on the next one??
Towards the middle of the rack was a bottle with a glyph of what could
be a mountain with a tunnel at its base. The bottle beside it bore a
glyph of a block broken to three pieces. Yet another bottle was simply
stamped with a circle and a dot at its center. Its neighbour held a
glyph that slightly resembled a mountain range if someone stared very
hard. The next two bottles bore glyphs that looked like a spiky fish and
a circle with a pair of horns protruding from it. The last bottle’s
contents seemed more gooey than the others, with a glyph of a
helmet-wearing hare.
The shade of ink within the bottles varied, but all seem to be
derived from the same indistinct hue. None of the bottles had the usual
piece of ash paper with bits of string attached to them, but otherwise
appear to be intact and the vessels themselves top quality, as shown by
the delicate tarring on the caps. The wooden rack was lightly worn but
solid in Inky’s hands.
It was certainly an odd collection. “No hash, no stash” though, as
the rule of thumb goes. Inky puts the rack down carefully on the floor
by the sacks, concluding that if anyone wanted to help themselves to the
bottles, they were hopefully not planning to ingest the contents.
Dusting off their boots, Inky settles just behind the banner, closer
to the vault entrance and rousing performance, to watch the crowd around
Jarrod and listen for any sounds from outside the vault.
You pack up the quills and the jade tea set, and arrange the bags by
the vault entrance for quick retrieval.
As you carry the rack of ink bottles over to the bags, the twelfth
and final ink bottle, the one with the glyph of the helmet-wearing hare,
suddenly cracks. Seemingly of its own volition. A tiny shard of glass
slices the palm of your hand and disappears into the meat at the base of
your thumb. The gooey ink seeps out of the bottle and paints your hand a
muddy, rusty blue.
You jerk your hand back. The ink is swiftly absorbed into your hand
as though it were a sponge. Soon it’s all gone: the ink, the blood, all
of it. Nothing remains of the scratch itself but a hair-thin line. If
you run your finger over it, you can feel the hard nub of the glass
shard beneath the skin.
For a moment you can hear the double drum of your own heartbeat
rushing through your ears. Your senses seem to sharpen. Colors grow more
crisp, and sounds more clear. But then it passes, and the moment is
gone.
Harrumph, pointy my friend, that’s just inky. They’re definitely not
super evil. That’s the finest ink craftsmen and tea preparer this side
of Basementaria. And we absolutely won’t be stabbing them. There are FAR
eviler things to stab, potentially that weird naked thing that seems to
think itself a horse. I could be convinced IT was evil, but wouldn’t use
attacking it unprovoked make us evil? Surely a sword as ancient and wise
as you could see the perfectly puzzling philosophical delimna we put
ourselves in.
And then this thing, (corraidhin gestures at the crystal), horrible
magical item used to create untold death, destruction, and mayhem during
the last Artificer war. Definitely probably evil, if used that way, but
also filled with untold power that could be used for good! Now would the
person weilding it be evil just because, or could someone overcome the
magical nature of a device capable of such evil and apply them for good?
I for one believe afirmatively that one can overcome such things.
As corriadhin finishes his philosophical prattling to his new stabby
friend he pushes the glass case off the crystal and grabs it.
The Sword of Yam’l starts to launch into a long winded reply.
Oh yes, that winged naked thing is surely evil. Let us stab it, Hardy Bear! Let us stab and stab and stab until --- What's that? Oh no, don't worry. We are unquestionably, infallibly good. I was designed and made for but one purpose, after all. TO RID EVIL! As for the crystal, yes, I suppose you are correct. Wielding a powerful, bloodthirsty, magical item probably does make the wielder evil, and consequently immediately deserving of being stabbed! Say, speaking of stabbing ... that naked, winged thing--
But then, before the sword can finish its thought (a thought, you are
quite confident, would end with something like, “let’s stab it!”) you
knock the glass dome off the pedestal and grab the Ginnarak Crystal.
You brace yourself. It thrums slightly in your hand but doesn’t do
anything overtly magical or destructive. In fact it seems perfectly
inert.
So there you are. A pointer murder stick attached firmly to one hand,
and a potential atom bomb of a crystal in the other. But you think
you’re totally going to pull this off!
Then the glass dome hits the ground and shatters into dozens of
pieces.
HORSE screams and whips around at the noise. “BhrruUHRHUuHRRh! My
blue and gold melon sized gem! Noooooo! BrUHrhHHHURHuRu!”
It flaps its wings and wheels up into the air and swoops down at you!
The three aurs get swept up in the excitement and start flapping around,
making tiny squeaks of alarm. The remaining kobit leaps to its feet, but
then trips over its shoelaces.
From their spot behind the construction banner, Inky pulls a pewter
bowl, a large wooden spoon and a set of silver spoons from their brewing
kit. In one quick fluid motion, Inky strikes the bowl with the wooden
spoon. The sound reverberates soulfully through the domed cavern of the
vault, like a call to meditation. The kobits too, seem to recognise that
single, sonorous note.
After a long pause, Inky taps several silver spoons in rapid
succession against one another and on a small rock. The result can be
barely heard by everyone in the vault except the aurs, for whom the
sounds may resemble the soothing trickle of pebbles flowing along the
path of a tunnel.
A rich tone permeates the vault. The Aurs cease their squeaking. You
don’t hear them say this, but you imagine they’re thinking, “Oh shit, I
still need to log my sit for Sitember..” And they flutter down to the
ground and sit in a circle and close their eyes and are still.
You also hear a deep rumbling somewhere beneath you in response to
the gentle call. Some of the gold coin dunes start to shift and spill. A
suit of armor falls over. HORSE and the clumsy kobit halt their advance
and look around nervously, and then bolt for the front door of the
vault.
Why Stabby, it looks like we won’t need to stab Horse at all, but are
you any good at stabbing armor?
Corraidhin stuffs the melon shaped gem into his knapsack and rushes
towards Inky and Jarrod. Best to get this party started in style
Corraidhin says as he casts a fireball at the suit of armor, followed
closely by a second, and a third.
As corraidhin reaches Inky and Jarrod he raises the Sword of Y’aml
ready to fight. Stand and deliver you curr!
The trigger happy mage rushes toward the vault exit, flinging a
couple of fireballs over his shoulder as he goes.
Stabby is delighted at the carnage as the suit of armor is blown to
bits, but also disappointed at the general lack of stabbing.
The Aurs, deep in meditation nearby, get caught in the conflagration.
Their kernels swell and pop explosively. Though not as explosively as
the fireballs.
The whole Retrieval Team 43 pours into the cavern outside the vault
as it turns into an inferno, and they are swept up and away in a throng
of kobits evacuating the tunnels.
You are deposited, like silt after a flood, outside the caves back at
the bottom of the gnome hole, where the kobits and the lone egre are
frantically climbing up the scaffolding, which bends dangerously under
their combined weight. The gnomes up above are running around in an
agitated state at the sudden commotion, and a few of them explode in the
excitement.
The ground rumbles again, and the entrance to the kobit caves, and
several feet of the surrounding area, is swallowed up by a sinkhole that
spreads across half of the bottom of the gnome hole. From the hole
emerges a gigantic moth-like creature made of a hundred ears of corn and
a hundred wings. It is bigger than the very largest horse.
You hear a single word repeated fearfully over and over again by the
crowd of kobits. “Centaur! Centaur!”
It crawls up out of the pit, and tastes the vibrations in the air
with its feelers. It flies clumsily up into the air, flutters, and then
crashes back into the ground.
It looks like one of its wings has been singed by fire.
Undaunted, it crawls across what is left of the bottom of the gnome
hole toward you, beating its wings as though to bash you with them.
Which would hurt a lot.
Looking around the chaotic scene, one of the vines among the bushes
caught Inky’s eye. It was one of several bean plants probably native to
the Tammineaux Forest, with strands of faintly glowing pods hanging from
the vines.
Inky snatches several of the dried but luminous bean pods from the
vines, then sprints a wide circle around the centaur, all the while
counting out 43 beans and throwing them into the topsoil, where much of
the earth around the sinkhole had already been turned over by the
gnomes’ drills and machinery.
Earlier in the commotion, one of the gnome explosions caused a water
main leading towards what had been the kobit caves to burst. Water was
now spraying across the area with the gusto of a fizzy cold spring and
gathering in small pools over the soil. More water sluiced over the
moth-like creature’s singed wing, snuffing the remaining embers.
Within moments, long tendrils shot up from the ground, which rapidly
thickened at the bases to the size of young southern oak trees, to curl
gently but firmly around the centaur. “Sister!” a melodious voice
emanating from somewhere amid the beanstalks exclaimed, “What are you
doing up? It is not yet autumn. Go back to sleep!”
The pooling water puts out any of the licking, reaching flames that
followed the centaur up from below. The dark smoke carries the smell of
ash, soot, and burnt popcorn up into the air.
There is no mistaking the climbing vines of the common Tammineaux
Forest Bean. If you don’t recognize it by the heart-shaped leaves or the
winding stems, then the luminous, dangling seed pods nestled amongst the
bulbous pink blossoms are a dead, somewhat obscene, giveaway.
Inky plucks a handful of the pods and rips them open, meticulously
counting out a mystical number of individual beans, and sowing them in
the ash and the mud.
Vines erupt from the ground and entangle the centaur, dragging it
gently back toward the sinkhole and whispering a soothing lullaby in its
ears. The centaur struggles weakly before surrendering to the vine’s
caress. It is pulled back down underground.
In the aftermath, there is a handful of leftover beans, and also some
large, vibrant kernels of corn that flaked off the centaur during the
struggle.
You and the first Ginnarak Crystal are able to leave the dig site and
the Tammineaux Forest without further incident.
You pack up your faithful multibeast and trek back to the city of
Vay’Nullar, where your adventure started.
THE END OF CHAPTER ONE
EPILOGUE: what are you doing in the final moments of this battle? Or
on the way home? Or, what are you doing to rest, relax, and recover once
safely back in town before reporting back to Blavin?
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.
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:
“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.
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!”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Gentle bears, there is no need to argue! Why can’t there be two true
bears of the ocean? For what its worth, I personally think the ocean
doesn’t have enough bears and could do with two strapping examples of
true peak bearitude! The two of you should be working together to show
the world how important bears are and how wonderful the sea is to have
two. And the moon! Who’s to say the moon doesn’t also need two
bears?
The only time I can ever think that a bear isn’t needed is when it’s
calling itself Monokuma, once it’s doing that you know you’re in for a
hell of a bad time. And since neither of you are it, I say we let this
matter rest and declare this ocean two bears richer!
Corraidhin grips the innert dagger of Y’aml beneath his cloak, just
in case. No need for a blood rush like last time, can’t let daggers go
mouthing off an all that. Or perhaps the ocean needs less bears, it’s
tempting, I wonder if Y’aml would react to bear blood..
The bears shudder at the mention of Monokuma. “Oh, such a dreadful
bear,” laments the tardigrade. “You mustn’t mention him!”
“Indeed,” agrees the merbear, “a discredit and an embarrassment to
bears everywhere, at sea and on land!”
“Yes, this sea may be big enough for two bears, but not if one of
them is HE!”
The merbear considers the tardigrade’s words. “Hmm, two
bears you say?” he ponders, giving the tardigrade a scrupulous side-eye.
“Do you truly think so?”
“Now that you mention it, I don’t see why not!” admits the
tardigrade, gesturing broadly at the fathomless leagues of ocean all
around you.
“You know what? What is the sky anyway if not a sea made of stars!
The moon could indeed use two bears too, could it not?”
“It could indeed, Brother Bear!”
“Brother!”
The tardigrade and the merbear embrace. If you’ve never experienced
the eight-armed hug of a water bear, well, then you don’t know how soft
and enveloping it is.
“Come, Brother!” cries the tardigrade suddenly. “We must begin our
search at once! For what if there is a third Bear of the Sea yet to be
discovered?”
“Another Brother of ours who doesn’t know about us? Oh, I can’t stand
the thought!” sobs the merbear.
They swim away hand in hand, paragons of brotherly bear love. “Good
luck and safe travels, interlopers!” calls the merbear to you over its
shoulder. “If you ever end up on the moon,” adds the tardigrade,
laughing merrily, “say hello to Hap’n’stance for me!”
Suddenly, a disturbance! A perturbance of bubbles and a rush of
current as massive amounts of water are displaced by inky black
tentacles that shoot up from below! They reach! They grasp! One grabs
the tardigrade around the middle. Another grabs the merbear by the tail.
Both bears cry and reach for each other as they are ripped apart and
pulled down below.
The tentacles grope around in the water, batting at you and
threatening to pull you down too! They grab at your wrists and at your
ankles!
Inky flips backwards and up, narrowly avoiding the tentacles’ grasp.
From their courier bag they shake out an inflatable bubblebee[1] of the
sort made for aquatic camping. It is one of the fancier models provided
to each member of their party courtesy of the well-endowed Benefactor.
They yank on one of the cords and scramble inside, hastily closing the
flap as the bubblebee rapidly draws in water and fills out to its full
size.
The bubblebee rises as Inky pulls on the flippers and allows the
drifter to buoy the bubble upwards, a bat from the end of one tentacle
sending the bubblebee forward a short distance before it slows above the
flailing tentacles. Inky switches on the lights to try to get a clearer
view of the source of the tentacles.
[1] Specific features of bubblebees vary among makers, but they
generally have a transparent or translucent spherical body, a pair of
small translucent wings that act as flippers, an opening flap at the
back with a short rudder attached, and two cords inside at the front
near the top which when pulled inflate the bubble with the surrounding
air or water. Premium versions might also include headlights, a buzzer,
built-in filtration, improved insulation, a drifter and thruster. Like
tents they come in various sizes, from small ones that can fit one or
two people at average elven height, to larger ones for group outings.
Their portability and rugged durability make them very popular among
tourists and campers who can enjoy a range of water sports, such as
water walking on the surface, riding the bubble down river rapids, or
bobbing along underwater to watch the sea life wander by.
Inky climbs into the inflatable bubblebee just in the nick of time. A
tentacle bats them a short distance away, and then the apparatus’s
lights cut on and illuminate the murky water.
You see the tentacles recede into the depths into, from this
distance, what looks like the outline of a shipwreck.
At the moment, you are out of reach of the tentacles. And the
bubblebee affords you some extra maneuverability.
Corraidhin eyes inky as they drift away in their bubblebee. “hmm a
wonderful idea, that seems safe, but I need to get in closer.”
While Inky drifts away Corraidhin swims down and towards the
tentacles to get a better view of whatever creature stole his new found
bear friends. “I simply cannot bear any harm to come to my bears!” As he
approaches the creature he prepares a spell should he need to vanquish
the monster.
The tentacles pull your dear bear friends downward, and you struggle
to get a view of whatever creature is abducting them.
The long, slender tentacles appear to originate from within or behind
a large sunken ship!
Could it be the SS RSS?
Gabs was stunned by the majesty of the two bears, and upon seeing
these two beautiful creatures be pulled down, got unreasonably angry.
She made sure that the breathing bell was properly attached to her head
(a marvelous thing, she thought. She had always wondered what it would
be like to have a jellyfish on her head).
Gabs bundled and tied up her skirt, as she started to bolt toward the
edge of the ship. She reached into her purse and moved away all the
loose candy and pulled out two long stiletto daggers. She begins
stabbing with unusual precision at the tentacles reaching up on the
ship.
She yells, “Come’on y’all! We gotta save those babies!”
She dives in.
Prior to the incident, Gabs would have noticed that there was a very
slight, wobbly weight to the jellyfish. Kind of like getting a gentle
hug from a helmet of warm spaghetti.
Some loose candy floats up and away as you rummage through your
purse, the brightly colored wrappers attracting the attention of a
curious passing manta ray. It glides over and has a nibble.
You fetch your stiletto daggers and start stabbing at the long,
slender tentacles. Your unusual precision causes the tentacles to coil
and retreat, releasing the merbear in the process. It shouts through its
tears, “My brother!” and dives back into the fray, fighting to free the
tardigrade.
From here, you can see that the tentacles seem to come from the
wreckage of a large ship lying on its side on ocean floor.
META: Gabs rolls a 6 on “Do Anything 1” and gains a
new skill: Stabbing 2
Seeing his new comrade enter the fray heroically Corraidhin gathers
himself. “I suppose this is no time for errant curiosity, can’t have
anyone getting hurt after all.”
Ensuring that he doesn’t hit either Inky nor Gabs as they near the
creature, Corraidhin throws the spell he prepared in the direction of
the center of the tentacles. (vanquish “tentacles”) And releases a
pinpoint thread of searing energy from his palm, guiding it through the
mass of tentacles in a random and chaotic pattern, attempting to sever
as many tentacles as possible.
As that goes on the sysercoerr calculates his retreat plan, he won’t
be able to prepare another spell like that on the fly, far too
meticulous work to do mid combat. As soon as the spell runs out, best
case will be to retreat somewhere out of reach, or as far away as is
possible there.
Corraidhín takes careful aim fires off a searing bolt into the center
of the mass of squirming, reaching tentacles. The bolt of energy bounces
from tentacle to tentacle creating a chaotic web of energy.
One of the final bolts of energy pierces the tentacle that happens to
be gripping the tardigrade. It releases the water bear, but not before
the tardigrade takes the full brunt of the final blast of the dying
searing bolt. It cries out and curls up into a ball. Motionless, it
starts sinking downward. “BROTHER!” the merbear swims after it heedless
of any nearby danger.
A wayward crackle of energy blasts outward toward a giant manta ray
happily crunching on a piece of hard candy. It flaps out of the way at
the last minute and continues to angrily enjoy its candy, glaring at you
quite indignantly.
META: Corraidhín rolls a 2 for “Do Anything 1”,
which means things go bad, and gains 1 xp for a total of 1 xp. You can
spend xp to turn any die into a six for the purpose of advancement.
While Master Corraidhín and Gabs confront the tentacles to rescue the
bears, Inky looks around the sea floor. Maybe if they found suitable
replacements for the bears, the tentacles might be distracted long
enough to release the bears, or provide an opening advantage for one of
their party?
A small distance from the fray, Inky finds a load of discarded
bottles among a large pile of other trash carried there by the push and
pull between the water currents and a hot spring. Gathering up some
bottles, Inky ties them together with twine in singles and small
clusters until they resemble two large, crudely-made multi-coloured
tanokuma[1].
With some difficulty due to the additional weight, Inky attaches the
tanokuma to the back of their bubblebee and drags them back above the
tentacles, roughly near the spot where the previous bears were taken.
When the valiant members of their party dive to one side for another
strike, Inky loosens the rope around the “bears” and lets them sink down
within reach of the tentacles.
[1] First featured in the garden play Teatime with Tanokuma,
the fluffy purple, jam-grabbing, tea-guzzling bear became an overnight
hit among children as well as the fashion-conscious youth who frequent
the trendy “Shin-ku” district of Vay’Nullar.
The decoy tanokuma float above the tentacles as they retreat from
Gabs’s stabbses and Corraidhin’s bolts. They grope about weakly, wrap
themselves around the tanokuma, and finally withdraw.
You can now clearly see the wreckage of the SS RSS. The tentacles—and
whatever beast they belong to—is either within, behind, or below the
ship. It is definitely ship adjacent wherever and whatever it
is. The large double-masted ship is lying on its side, teetering
precariously on the edge of a large, deep ocean trench. There is a large
hole in its hull providing unfettered access to its insides.
The tardigrade is sinking inertly toward the ship deck, and the
merbear is swimming blindly after it.
Inky follows behind the merbear at a healthy 2 meters’ distance away
in the bubblebee, the headlights illuminating a moderate distance ahead
of the distraught bear as it darts after its brother.
As the merbear homes in on the tardigrade near the ship deck, Inky
keeps a lookout for any signs of movement or tentacles from behind or
below the shipwreck. The bubblebee’s headlights cast an eerie shadow
from the ship’s double masts even as it partly lights up the rim of a
gaping hole in the hull.
The tardigrade, still tucked into a ball, lands on the ship deck with
a gentle thud. It rolls a couple of times and finally comes to rest
against the rigging. The merbear reaches it a moment later and cradles
its jelly-like body gently in its bear arms. “My brother!” it cries. “My
dear bear brother!”
The tardigrade slowly uncurls and stretches out and looks around,
disoriented and bleary-eyed. It waggles its eight arms around
experimentally, closes and opens its claws as though kneading the water.
“Brother?” says the merbear in astonishment.
“I am okay brother!” says the tardigrade. “We water bears are very
hardy and resilient! It will take more than a mere other worldly
tentacle attack and an arcane electric blast to do me in!”
While the bears are having their teary-eyed reunion, you sense
movement in the shadows deep in the ocean trench, over which protrude
the ship’s masts. Your lights don’t penetrate the darkness enough to see
what it was. But it was large. The very stuff that thalassophobia is
made of.
You also think you see a flash of gold as the light of the bubblebee
reflects off of something inside the ship through the hole in the hull.
Could it be the second Ginnarak Crystal?
The breach in the hull is easily large enough to admit a medium sized
creature such as an inkling in a bubblebee apparatus. Or a sysorcer or a
lanky old half-devil tavern owner.
Oh thank goodness, I thought I killed that innocent bear! I should
probably be a little more careful with my spells..
Nonetheless, we need to shed some light on what’s going on here, no
sense in diving into the clutches of some evil sea creature blind.
Gather himself, Corraidhin casts a fzf on the ship, searching for the
creature inside
sudo fzf $(pwd)
t e n t a c l e
Hmmm, no nothing too interesting there.. Maybe crystal?
sudo fzf $(pwd)
c r y s t a l
Blast! Why can’t I find anything.. The syscerroer muses for a
moment.
OH!
sudo fzf /sea/ship_wreck/interior
t e n t a c l e
You probe the ship. You do not detect the presence of any tentacles
inside the ship. But you do detect the presence of the crystal you
seek.
If you scan the trench, you will detect the presence of a
harrowkrake. A colossal, many-tentacled sea monster with a plow
shaped shell that it drags across the ocean floor, digging deep furrows.
Kind of like if a giant squid could grow a nautilus shell. They are
usually content to stay in their trenches, grabbing prey as it swims by
with their long tentacles like some kind of nightmarish barnacle.
The giant manta is still gliding around crunching on candies. A few
blue spherical globules of harrowkrake blood float lazily upward from
where Gabs got her stabs on, attracting the attention of a couple
horkosgrampus. The manta gives them a wide berth but doesn’t otherwise
seem too concerned about them.
Horkosgrampus are toothy whales with a single long tusk. They are
mostly scavengers, and are only provoked to violence in the presence of
a lie or the breaking of an oath, in which case they go into a frenzy
preying on the liar or liars. They can smell blood from a great
distance, but can hear a lie from much further.
You hear a thud from inside the ship, and a slow rustling like smooth
stones rolling over each other. The ship settles a little further onto
its side, and dangles just a little further over the harrowkrake
trench.
At Master Corraidhín’s confirmation of the crystal’s presence within
the shipwreck, Inky moves the bubblebee closer above the opening in the
hull, adjusting the angle of the headlights so that a little more light
falls over the gaping hole should the rest of the party wish to enter
the ship through it.
Next, Inky pulls out some wasabi pears from their bag, biting into
one before dropping the others one at a time several paces apart,
starting near the bow of the ship in a trail until a few roll down into
the hole and land in a hollow thonks somewhere inside the ship.
Inky then settles near the opening, partly-eaten pear in hand and
waits for the source of the rustling sounds to emerge, if it decides to
emerge at all.
From their vantage point, Inky sees a figure crawl up onto the deck
of the ship through a hatch from somewhere below. It appears to be
wearing a breathing bell and a vest of weighted sandbags similar to
yours. It is carrying a bulky bundle tied to its waist by a cord.
It freezes when it sees the merbear and the tardigrade on ship deck.
But then the bears are teleported to safety a few meters from the
inkling. The figure looks around curiously and shrugs. It casts off some
sandbags and starts rising up through the water toward the happy manta
ray and the restless horkusgrampus. It looks down in your direction as
it goes. Its face is somewhat blurred and obscured by the breathing
bell, but you see a glint of gold as the light of your bubblebee
reflects off one of its eyes.
Ah ha! Our prize is near then. And it looks like that bolt forced
that squid monster thing back into its hole. Likely we’ll be alright to
plum the depths here.
Thank goodness our bears are safe, I should probably move them
somewhere out of harms way, just in case.
#!/bin/sh
safety=$(find /ocean/* -perm 644 | head -n 1)
for bear in merbear tardigrade; do
sudo usermod -a -G party $bear
sudo scp /ocean/shipwreck/$bear /ocean/$safety
sudo chown corraidhin:party /ocean/$safety
done
sudo chown -R 770 /ocean/$safety
That should ward them sufficiently, now only the party members can
come and go freely, and they’re part of the party. I’m positive nobody
will complain, they might, but there won’t be anymore bolt mishaps this
way at least..
As Corraidhin finishes his relocation spell he creeps closer to the
hull of the ship. “Lets see what we’re dealing with here..” he sticks
his head into the opening looking about inside the wreckage, a small orb
of light illuminates the tip of his right hand pointer finger, and he
uses it to carefully probe around the opening as though it were a flash
light.
Corraidhín cautiously explores the breach in the hull of the SS RSS.
You poke your head in and see the cargo hold of the ship. The remains of
some of the ship crew are here, long since picked clean by ocean
critters. Their bones are bleached white and they grin mirthlessly at
you. They are nestled in and amongst the spilled contents of several
large chests: jewelry, gold coins, precious stones litter the floor of
the ship.
You do not see any lumpy, multi-faceted, blue and gold crystal melon
here.
The ship is resting mostly on its side, so its sloping “floor” is
actually the ship wall. The hatch up to the upper deck is to your right,
and as you enter the hold, someone or something shuts the hatch
closed.
A skeleton by the hull entrance crawls forward, trying to block your
exit. And two more start to claw themselves up and free of the ship’s
treasure, and they start to advance toward you.
Fuck, skeletons? This is ridiculous, I did not sign up for underwater
pirate skeletons.
Reacting quickly Corraidhin prepares a fork bomb, if the skeletons
are going to take him out, he’s going to take out those skeletons
too.
#!/bin/sh
:(){
:|:&
};:
Hopefully I won’t have to use that. Corraidhin hoists himself up into
the opening and begins targetting the skeletons one by one. No time for
much fancy preparation here, just good old fashioned magic missiles
strewn about the interior of the hull. While so doing Corraidhin glances
around the treasure strewn hull, searching for the crystal, can’t blow
the whole ship up if the prize is here.
Then again, a magical item that powerful, could probably withstand a
fork bomb pretty easily. It’s worth the risk if things get worse.
Corraidhin ensures his back is to the opening, able to make a
haphazard escape should the skeletons get the better of him.
You prep your fork bomb to keep in your back pocket as a last
resort.
In the meantime you start blasting skeletons. They maintain a slow
advance but you able to pick them off slowly one by one. Bones splinter
and fly apart.
During your maneuvering, you get turned around and are backed into
the corner with the hatch leading up to the upper deck. You reach behind
yourself and fumble with the latch. One skeleton manages to get its bony
claws around your ankle just as you open the hatch. You look behind you
and see a human shaped figure floating away, illuminated in the beams of
Inky’s bubblebee. It is toting a small bundle. Up above you can see the
shadow of the manta ray gliding around eating candy, and the
horkosgrampus idling in the absence of carrion or lies.
“I thank ye, gents!” cries the figure down to you as it ascends. “You
distracted the harrowkrake just long enough for me to get in that ship
and grab what I needs!” It tugs on the cord attached to its bundle and
laughs. “I shan’t forget ye!” It waves and gives a little salute.
You have a magic missile loaded and ready to go. In a moment the
figure will be out of range. You can blast it now and risk being pulled
down by the skeleton. Or you can blast the skeleton and risk the figure
getting away.
Shouting in the direction of the grampus “Yo! That dude is definitely
going to forget us. We’re almost the definition of forgettable, I mean
it’s not like we’re some kind of murderous hobos or something!”
While shouting Corraidhin takes aim, and slings his magic missing at
the figure, aiming for a kill. (Meta: I’d like to spend that xp now,
lets take this sucker down).
After the missile flies loose the skeleton begins to pull Corraidhin
back into the hull of the ship, he kicks desperately at the boney
clutches desperately trying to break free.
“I always knew I’d go out fighting some undead spooky thing. If you
don’t become a necromancer, you end up some necromancers thrall.” at
least, that’s what Kevin used to tell me. I always thought he was being
melodramatic.
As the skeleton drags Corraidhin back through the hatch he grabs the
dagger, in a vein attempt to ready himself.
“I guess this is it my Stabby friend, time to show these Skeletons
what happens when you back a Sysorceor into a corner”
And with that Corraidhin activates his fork bomb.
~
While feeding their jellyfish bites of wasabi pear and watching the
sysorcerer investigate the hull, Inky eventually notices movement in the
direction of the ship’s deck in the form of a figure crawling out of the
hatch with a bundle. Inky squints at the retreating form. Could it be
another retrieval team, or a rogue agent? Master Corraidhín would
probably not be pleased if the crystal melon were to fall into unknown
hands, never mind of those whose names don’t start with the letter “B”
and end in the letter “r”.
Sparing a brief second to lament the waste of a perfectly good snack,
Inky reaches into their bag and lobs a spiky chestnut cluster at the
figure’s breathing bell from the opening of their bubblebee, followed by
a glass bottle of blahoblin shoe polish. The glass shatters on impact,
sending the dark, sticky and somewhat pungent substance all over the
figure’s (punctured) breathing bell and face.
As Inky’s bubblebee floats up a little closer to the figure, Inky
tosses a smaller bottle at the figure, this time of some synthetic blood
from another brick that Inky had set aside for experiments of a
different sort. At the last moment the thruster accelerates, Inky throws
their paring knife at the bundle where the cord hugged the figure’s
waist, before veering away just as quickly as the horkosgrampus nearby
catch a whiff of the blood.
RETCON: It has been brought to our attention that
the scp spell does not move an entity, but merely
copies it from one location to another. As such, the original merbear
and tardigrade are still on the deck of the SS RSS. Their facsimiles are
present near where Inky used to be.
Okay so two extremely interesting and complicated things happen all
at once and in quick succession. It’s very chaotic and explosive and
cinematic.
THING THE FIRST
Corraidhín aims his shootin’ finger—the one that resolutely,
emphatically mashes the Enter key when deploying to production—at the
floaty thief. The very same second he fires off the magic missile, he
sees the figure jerk as a small projectile first punctures its jellyfish
helmet and then coats its entire cranial area in black ink.
It screams, “Aw, fuck!”
The breathing bell is having none of this shit, thank you very much,
and detaches itself from the figure’s head and starts to propel itself
away. As such, the figure no longer has access to breathable air.
It screams, “No, wait!”
And then a fine blade juts out from the bubblebee severing the cord
connecting the floating bundle to the would-be thief. The blade scoops
out a hunk of flesh from the thief’s hip in the process.
It screams, “Ouch! Stop, I wasn’t going to…”
The horkosgrampus—kind of lazily drifting about thus far—stir from
complacency at the first scent of blood. But they snap to ravenous
attention at the first utterance of a possible lie.
Finally (an instant later) the magic missile strikes its target and
the thief splatters like a wet paper bag full of soup hitting the
ground.
It sputters and coughs and screams, “I wasn’t going to! Please, you
can have it! I wasn’t going to take it! I don’t even want it! It’s
yours!”
And the horkosgrampus fucking lose their minds. They stop being mere
toothy scavenger whales, and instead become the ravenous, wrathful
instruments of the god of oaths and promises. They descend upon the liar
in a fury of teeth and tusks. First Mate “Lucky” Three-Fingered Gerald
cackles with depraved, unhinged mirth as he is torn to shreds. In the
end a single golden orb—his false eye—is all that is left of the
would-be thief of the second Ginnarak Crystal.
The eye and the crystal slowly emerge from the horkosgrampus frenzy,
hovering suspended above the harrowkrake trench.
THING THE SECOND
Remember there are two extremely interesting and complicated things
happening all at once?
The second thing is this.
First, Corraidhín lets loose his magic missile at Three-Fingered
Gerald. Then, as he is being pulled down by the undead pirate skeleton,
he lets loose a fork bomb.
The fork bomb is also known as a ‘rabbit attack’ because the rapidity
with which it spawns new processes resembles the fecundity of breeding
rabbits.
So here’s what it looks like. The skeleton pulls Corraidhín downward.
Corraidhín points and clicks. Pew, pew. A single small sea bunny slug
wriggles its way between the skeleton’s fingers where it has a hold of
the sysorcerer’s ankle. Another two wriggle out. Then four, eight,
sixteen. In an instant there are dozens, hundreds, thousands, millions
of the tiny slugs in the hold of the ship.
Everything, every living entity, every process, light and sound and
thought itself, it all grinds to a halt as the sea bunnies continue to
multiply until billions and trillions of them squeeze and burrow their
way amongst molecules, betwixt atoms, and into the quantum foam between
subatomic particles.
The ship and everything on it and inside it—including the original
merbear and tardigrade—collapse into a singularity. It continues to
exist in this moment in space and time but only as a static snapshot of
the moment that its operating system crashed. It is a mirage, a core
memory dump, a segmentation fault, a flickering feedback loop, the same
two to three seconds endlessly repeating: Corraidhín backed into a
corner, and pointing a finger at a skeleton, and then BANG! over and
over and over again.
Corraidhín, you can continue to act and move, but your have become
unhinged and unattached from this moment in space and time. You can
interact with entities inside the ship, but will struggle mightily to
comprehend and interact with entities outside the fork bomb.
Outside observers see the SS RSS become paper thin and translucent as
it starts to lose its footing in this plane of reality.
The gods are missing now. But before they went into hiding, the Trine
walked the earth and actively participated in the affairs of
mortals.
Sweet, tenderhearted Neddas—god of sages and starlight—fell in love
with the worldkin and often gave away trivial little bits of their
divinity as gifts to the people. Chief among these gifts were the divine
aspects of coin, mirth, lore, craft, and tact. With these gifts,
civilizations grew and flourished and accomplished great things.
Then the Artifice Wars rocked all of Basmentaria and the gods
vanished. And even with Neddas’s gifts, civilization still struggles to
reach its former heights.
I watch as the magical bolt sails away overhead meeting its target,
receding back into the depths of the hull of the ship as the skeleton
drags me down. The fork bomb goes off flawlessly, and the world comes to
a screching halt around me, only to slowly rewind itself.
I contemplate the absolutely absurd position I’ve put myself into as
the skeleton pulls me back down into the depths and I watch the would be
theif take a direct hit again.
“Okay, THAT was a good shot.” I say to myself as the scene repeats
again. I could probably watch that a few times. But after about the
hundredth time the feat seems a little less epic. And the skeleton a lot
less frightful and a lot more dull.
Sigh
Kevin always said this would happen. “Corraidhin, you can’t play with
dangerous scripts like that, you’ll crash your systems”. Right you were
Kevin, right you were. Corraidhin casts his eyes around wistfully. I
guess I got that boat I always wanted? And it’s filled with treasure.
That’s a positive. Oh and um I’m not alone, yeah, that’s right. You’re
stuck here too Mr. Skelly. (The skeleton does not reply). Oh come on
now, don’t be rude. (still no reply). sigh right, sorta dead, I
shouldn’t expext more than a loving embrace from you as you try and
invite me to look at your treasure right?
After about the thousandth time the Sysorcerer was still in a
rut.
I’m stuck insid the crash, not from without. It seems this moment is
just going to idle on perpetually. (he rummages in his pockets), okay I
guess I still have the Ginnarak crystal, and stabby. Those seem safe
enough here with me.
So long as I don’t go crazy I guess there’s hope. If not, what a damn
foolish way to die.
MEANWHILE
An automated alert system triggers as the Sysorceror blips out of
existence. And then on, and then off, and then on, and then off.
(Problem: Corraidhin: Entity not found)
Problem started at 19:37 on 2281.67.43
Porblem Name: Deadman's Trigger: Entity not found
Host: Corraidhin
Severity: Critical
Operation Data: (corrupted)
Problem ID: 92746027498
(Problem: Corraidhin: Entity not found)
Resolved in 1d 0h 0m 0s: Entity not found
Problem Name: Deadman's Trigger: Entity not found
Problem Duration: 1d 0h 0m 0s
Severity: Critical
Original Problem ID: 92746027498
Bloody Zabbix alerts flapping again, what the hell does it mean that
Uncle Corraidhin is gone. You can’t Die then Live over and over and
over. Stupid broken monitoring system. Guess I had been check in on him,
bloody fool constantly gets himself in trouble.
Alex grabs his shortsword and backpack and shoulders them. If anyone
will know what’s foolhearty issue his uncle has gotten into, it’ll be
Kevin as the Sysorcerors Guild.
Corraidhín settles in for what may or may not be a lifetime of stasis
aboard the glitch formerly known as the SS RSS. At least Stabby will be
good company if it ever wakes up from its blood coma. Hmm, actually
that’s debatable. Now that you think of it, you’re not sure you’re up
for a lifetime of ranting about blood and evil.
The merbear and the tardigrade are on the ship deck, also trapped in
the fork bomb. You’re not sure whether you can reach them or not.
You see a flickering of motion and a flash of light outside the ship
as what looks like a small school of fish moves darts in and out of
view. It rushes past, doubles back, and swims past again, passing close
enough that one or two get sucked into the fork bomb with you.
Impossibly, what you thought were fish were apparently small birds?
Or, perhaps they were fish after all and some quality of passing through
the boundary of the fork bomb simply turns them into birds? Either way,
two small blue songbirds with red heads and forked tails hop around
inside the ship chirping incessantly. You watch as one of them hops
toward one of the sea bunny slugs and pecks at it, and then scoops it up
in its beak and swallows it whole. The second does the same. They hop
from side to side a bit, and then set to feasting on the slugs. A couple
more birds pop through the membrane separating you from the outside
world and join in.
~
Alex grabs his perfectly normal, blissfully non-sentient shortsword
and heads off to the Cabinet, where the Sysorcerers Guild is. He has to
detour around the Wandering Bazaar, which decided to plop down in the
middle of the street, but nonetheless arrives in short order.
He finds Kevin working in the library on Kevin’s Document
Language.
Alex describes the errors and Kevin groans, “Ugh, I told him! I told
him you can’t play with dangerous scripts like that, you’ll crash your
systems! We’ll have to try a manual reboot. Well don’t just stand there,
young person. Come on, come on, try to keep up. We have work to do!”
Inky follows the bundle’s path as it sinks downwards and maneuvers
the bubblebee to retrieve it along with the eye.
Floating to a stop above the ledge of the trench, Inky looks at the
small golden orb, then removes an empty lunch pail from their knapsack
and drops the eye and several small glass marbles into it. The contents
jostle around inside the pail in a cacophony of whirs, clicks and
clatters. With the lid firmly closed, Inky tosses the makeshift
percussive instrument into the trench for the harrowkrake so it could
jam with its new tanokuma buddies.
Staring at the bundle, Inky suddenly recalls the projectile that had
come from the general direction of the SS RSS shortly before the
horkosgrampus got to Mr. Not-So-Lucky. Master Corraidhín! They turn back
to the shipwreck, only to find the entire ship had turned eerily
translucent, like a ghost ship from some tipsy sailor’s tale. Inky halts
a short distance from the wreckage for a closer look, though something
about the apparition told them it would be a terrible idea to enter the
ship’s hull now. Something had happened to the ship’s remains, with the
sysorcerer trapped inside. Maybe it was all part of the sysorcerer’s
plan, that he had teleported himself back to a safe location and this
was a mirage, just a remnant from the moment of teleportation.
Or at least Inky hopes so.
Inky drops the improvised goldeneye noisemaker down into the trench.
The rattling as it falls is reminiscent of Gerald’s laughter. One
slender tendril reaches up out of the abyss and grabs the rattle, and
then disappears once more into the murky dark.
You are now in possession of the second Ginnarak Crystal. A blue
stone with lightly pulsing gold veins. As you gaze at it, it’s almost as
though you can hear peals of tinkling laughter in the back of your
head.
The horkosgrampus, temporarily sated having removed the liar from
this timeline, drift lazily away.
The giant, candy-seeking manta ray passes closely by and fondly
caresses the bubblebee with one wing in passing. Its little manta face
pulled up into a chubby smile.
The bear facsimiles join you and begin crying when they see their
“brothers” trapped on the deck of the ship.
You see a small school of fish making multiple passes by the SS RSS
like birds skimming insects from the sky.
Different cultures of Basmentaria have different traditional stories
about Nullar, the lord of time and tides.
The cobits say he is an insatiable Wyrm who lies coiled tightly
around the present moment. He devours the past the moment it stops being
the present. And when he has finished digesting it, he regurgitates it
as the future, the processed remains of the past. And he remains ever
out of sight, just around the corner. Always having just happened. Or
about to happen. But never here, never now.
The gnu describe Nullar as a fastidious Librarian. They believe that
every time you make a choice, you create a create two separate
timelines, two stories. One in which you chose Option A and one in which
you chose Option B. The Librarian collects these alternate stories,
binds them between the covers of a new book, and adds them to his
collection. In this way he maintains the single sanctioned timeline and
keeps the tree of the multiverse pruned.
The torque say he is a solitary old man, a weary prisoner of his
office, fatigued by the neverending repeating cycles of time and tide,
with only his ravens for companionship.
Inky looks in the direction of the bears’ anguish and blinks at the
forms on the ship’s deck. How strange. Why are the bears in the mirage?
Didn’t Master Corraidhín send them to a safe spot earlier
before he entered the hull?
Between the two bears’ tearful retelling of events, Inky gathers the
sysorcerer had conjured an identical (at least in appearance) pair of
bears farther from the shipwreck, while the other pair were still on the
deck. If the sysorcerer had teleported himself out, Inky was fairly sure
he wouldn’t leave the bears behind to whatever had taken hold of the
ship after he and Gabs had gone to the trouble of rescuing them from the
harrowkrake’s clutches. Either the wizard will return to free the bears,
or he was still inside. From an angle close to the deck, Inky can see a
shadow inside the hatch that vaguely resembled the sysorcerer, but it
was difficult to tell from the blurry edges.
Resigned to a long wait, Inky sighs and pulls out bottles of instant
brew acorn tea and offers one to each bear, as well as a jar of candied
carrots. The tea was a few pinches saltier than usual, but it would do
for now. They float out some carrots to the giant manta ray hovering
nearby, holding up the jar briefly for the jellyfish atop their head to
snag a few with a free tentacle, before picking out two themselves and
passing the jar to the bears. To distract the bears a bit from the sight
of their doppelgangers in painfully slow motion, or the urge to dive in
after them, Inky inquires about their deep sea and lunar adventures.
After some time, Inky notices the same group of fish swimming back
and forth by the shipwreck, a few appearing as though they were passing
through the ship? “Hey. Do you know what the fish there are doing? Do
they regularly hang out near the shipwreck?” they ask the bears.
“What fish?” says the bear, squinting at the ship. “Those aren’t
fish.”
The alleged not-fish skirt around the edges of the wavering,
translucent ship. They dart in and out as they go as though trying to
clip a newspaper article.
END OF CHAPTER 2
INTERLUDE:
You return to Vay’Nullar with the second Ginnarak Crystal, but
without your comrade the sysorcerer.
When you get back to the Milk Market, there is an unsigned note
waiting for you:
You have done exceptionally well so far Retrieval Team 43. We are
quite impressed, and will be in touch with you shortly. Until then,
trust nobody and watch your back. Not all is as it seems, and not
everybody is being truthful with you.
There is an emblem at the bottom of the note in lieu of a signature:
an abstract white iris resting on top of a golden apple.
Do you consider the mission a success?
What are you doing to recoup, recover, and unwind from the
mission?
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?
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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!”
This seems a bit strange. Certainly Blavin has been pulling strings
from behind the scenes the whole time, but why coordinate a special
escort for us when there are other retrieval teams, and we’ve been less
than amicable with the bloke the entire time.. Alex thinks to
himself.
DM: I’d like to check for any signs of deceit in the toques
demeanor or communcations with us
Confidence you said right? What would you do if I simply chose not to
accompany you? I mean, there’s a whole city around us, perhaps I’d
prefer a drink before climbing a mountains worth of stairs. Or better
yet, I could get back on the boat and ride to the top and same myself
the hassle.
Bread once again looks confused. Confidence looks surprised, caught
off guard.
Confidence sputters, “Well, yes, of course. You’ve been traveling for
some time now, haven’t you? I can assure you that the food and drink at
Runesocesius will be better than anything you can get here! But the
choice is entirely yours. Feel free to avail yourself of the local
offerings. We will wait here at the steps for you.”
Bread nods slowly, and seems to trailing behind the conversation just
a second or two.
Their reactions seem genuine to you despite the circumstances. They
seem like a couple of low level employees of a luxury hotel earnestly
trying to follow the instructions they’ve been given.
There are a couple of stalls and vendors set up around the gondola
station. Many of them serve mulled wine and hot chocolate. There is some
edible fare. Hot sandwiches and pitas. Nothing that an empanada from
Enrique’s wouldn’t put to shame. But they look hot and steamy, and of
great comfort to anybody who might be hungry and cold. There are a few
fire pits, next to which there are long benches with blankets, where you
might sit and warm up for a bit.
The gondola lift ends here, and does not continue up to the mountain
any further. The cloud steps are the most common way to get up to the
peak, and to the Runesocesius. But you’re pretty sure one or two of the
stalls here offers balloon rides up to the peak for thrill seekers and
for those with accessibility needs.
“I think you already know I’m interested in neither bread nor cheese,
the second of which I certainly did not ask for yet you tried to offer
in your hasty pretence.” Inky smiles thinly at the toques.
Taking out a small bag of gold coins and weighing it slowly on one
hand to the sound of coins clinking inside the pouch, Inky continues,
“Speak, answer our questions frankly and you will be rewarded. The
hotelier up there need not know. Breathe a word of our little chat to
another soul, however …” Inky’s gaze cut briefly to four snow ravens
perched atop a spiral lamp post and back, “and you will learn the
meaning of disappearing without a trace.”
Bread looks confused. You are starting to believe it is their default
expression. “So, you don’t want no chee—”
“Our only desire is to help!” Confidence hastily interrupts. He
smiles pleasingly. “We are your guides! Not just physically up the
steps, but in all things here on Kelsun Peak. You have but to ask, and
if it is within our power to give it, it will be yours! We are but
humble ser—”
And just then Confidence is also suddenly interrupted. A thundering
boom like a canon sounds from somewhere nearby, followed quickly by an
explosion somewhere up above. Snow ravens fly off in all directions in a
panic. The sound ripples through the mountaintop, rattling the ground on
which you stand. A bunch of small rocks and two large boulders shake
loose from the mountainside. Shoppers and travelers shout and duck for
cover as they are pelted by the scree. One of the large boulder bounces
clear over the station and plummets down the side of the mountain before
disappearing into the cloud ocean below. The second one falls straight
toward the platform. A vendor selling wreaths and candles dives out of
the way as his stall is crushed by the boulder. A bench is toppled over,
spilling its blankets into the fire pit, and catches fire, quickly
spreading to another nearby stall.
Bread looks up at the sky, confused. You see a thin line of black
smoke starting to rise up into the sky from over the ridge where the
Runesocesius lies. Confidence shouts, and you see him pointing at the
sea, where a balloonship is rising up out of the cloud bank, sailing
quickly toward you and the summit of Kelsun Peak.
It resembles a seafaring ship, but instead of masts and sails, it has
two large, colorful, patchwork balloons that provide it lift. A large
fan on a pivot at the rear of the ship provides thrust. As you watch, it
fires a second canon—that is what the sound was!—nearly
straight up, arcing up and over the peak at Palace Runesocesius.
The crew of the ship bustle around on the deck of the ship, reloading
the canons, firing the balloons, shouting, giving and following
orders.
“Cyberplasms,” groans Confidence, and Bread whimpers. Alex, that
quiet, dull, static roar that has been constantly tickling the back of
your head ever since you found that dagger seems to rise in pitch and in
tone. It conveys a sense of urgency, of warning. You can almost
hear a desperate voice behind the static fuzz cautioning you,
“Evil…”
The only corporeal element of the crew are their cybernetic
enhancements. A mechanical leg. A synthetic eye. A claw, a hook, a hand.
An arm canon. Almost all of them have more than one, some as many as 3
or 5. The cybernetic pieces of each individual crew member are held
together by plasmic energy arcs, crackling blue and green. And
surrounding the bioware and the plasmic arcs of each crew member, like a
blanket or a cocoon, is the translucent, wavering, ghostly form of some
humanoid long-dead.
The figure standing on the deck surveying the work of the rest of the
crew—presumably the captain—has a synthetic eye rotating freely, 360
degrees in all directions, inside its skull-like head; a bulky arm
canon; and a thin robotic leg terminating in a thick boot. Plasmic
blasts arc through its core, sometimes disrupting and glitching its
ghostly body.
The captain raises its arm canon and shouts to the crew. Its voice
carried on the breeze sounds like something otherworldly rising slowly
from the murky deep. “Fire the canon, boys! And fire up the balloons!
Drop the ballast! That crystal is ours!”
It happens very quickly: the ship ascends to the summit and soon is
firing grappling hooks at it to pull themselves in and breach the walls
of the hotel.
Bread looks at you, wide-eyed and trembling. They let loose a pitiful
wail and turn and start running up the steps. “Bread!” Confidence yells
after them. They cast a backward glance at you. “I’ve got to help Bread!
We’ve got to save the hotel!” And they give chase to their fellow toque,
bounding up the cloudstuff steps.
Pirates?! Again?! Alex groans, unfortunately he’s run into this crew
of dastardly mostly cybernetic punks in the past. Nasty group back home,
always kept the precinct busy. Not necessarily with the detective work,
it was always a little obvious when they showed up. They have a flair
for the dramatic.
Alex shouts to Inky & Jarrod “Come on, we need to get in one of
those balloons and fast!” he then darts off in the direction of the
nearest abandoned balloon in the market place, not looking to see if his
companions had followed him.
internally I know these guys have pulled off smaller heists,
they could just be attacking the hotel to plunder riches from its
guests. They don’t seem the likes of a retrieval team.. Then again, that
Blavin fellow has multiple teams working for him, and he doesn’t seem
all too picky about how they get the job done, it wouldn’t be surprising
if he’d hired some brigands hoping they’d get the gems faster.
Alex conjures up another bug, a stag beetle this time, and casts it
away at the pirate ship. It’ll probably take some time to catch up, but
once it does we’ll be able to keep an eye on the pirate’s ship and
general actions, at least within line of sight of the bug.
As Alex reaches the balloon he grabs the ruby hilted dagger and cuts
the mooring lines keeping it down, and jumps into the basket preparing
for take off.
You spot a balloon that has already been knocked half loose of its
mooring by the pirate attack. The basket is listing to the side and
tugging at the one remaining rope tying it down Its owner scurries
around in circles trying to secure it.
The vertical panels of the balloon are all different colors, creating
a brilliant rainbow pattern. The large woven basket is large enough for
maybe three people.
You leap inside, swinging the ruby hilted dagger at the remaining
mooring line. The balloon owner cries out in dismay. The basket shifts
beneath your feet as the balloon tugs it skyward.
In the burner, a small sunspoke—a minor fire elemental—is merrily
burning away, producing a modest flame that is hot enough to lift the
balloon slowly above the market into the sky. There is a knob valve on
the side of the burner to allow more oxygen to flow in, thereby feeding
the sunspoke and encouraging it to burn more intensely and raise the
balloon higher and faster. The valve is currently only about one third
open.
A pile of blankets in one corner of the basket—and that area of the
basket itself—is covered in blood. Somebody injured in the pirate attack
must have temporarily climbed into the basket looking for cover? As
you’re about to look away, something large-ish (small for a human, large
for an animal) under the blankets shifts and moves.
Inky stares after Alex’s sprinting figure before shrugging and
stepping towards one of the stalls selling sandwiches bowled over by one
of the large boulders. They place some loose change on the stall’s
wooden sign that had tipped over on the ground and pocket one of the
sandwiches displayed inside an open chest oven. Next, they pick up
several of the scented candles scattered on the ground by the crash,
throwing some coins in the direction of the disoriented vendor before
continuing at a leisurely pace up the steps to the hotel, taking in the
balloonship and surrounding scenery. The members of their merry party
arriving first can hold their own as well as the fort of a hotel.
You do a little leisurely shopping as the vendors and other shoppers
put out fires and tend to the injured. With a couple scented candles and
a sandwich safely in your pocket, you start to climb the cloud steps,
enjoying the scenery as you go. Bread and Confidence have quite a bit of
a head start on you, and are nowhere to be seen. As the stairway winds
around the mountainside, the market and its bustle recede from view, and
soon you are quite isolated and alone.
The majesty of creation is humbling here: the endless, roiling ocean
of cloud; the towering mountain of rock. It’s as though this was the
creator’s playground when they were still trying to figure out scale.
Before they quite got it right for human-sized creatures.
About halfway up your climb, it starts raining sheets of paper. You
snatch one and read it. Some heroic fantasy about slaying demons and
facing great peril. You grab another. A bodice-ripping romance. Another.
A gourmand’s food tour of Basmentaria, eating their way from coast to
coast. A murder mystery whodunnit. An aetherwael handler’s guide to
interplanetary travel. How to grow your own fortified pumpkins. On the
Care and Maintenance of Fortles. The Rise and Fall and Rise of Palace
Runesocesius. Within a minute, you have fists full of an entire
library’s worth of snippets and passages.
~
It looks as though Alex will approach the hotel by balloon from the
non-pirate side. And Inky’s approach by stair will deposit them at the
hotel entrance, roughly pirate-adjacent.
As Alex spots the sunspoke valve he grabs it and cranks it up to the
2/3 mark. “Sorry little friend, we’re going to need a little bit more
juice”. The baloon lurches upwards as air rushes in feeding the
sunspoke, causing it to burn more intensely. After setting the sunspoke
ablaze and shouting back to the balloon’s owner Alex takes account of
his surroundings. It’s during this time he spots the bloodied, moving
blankets. They seem to writhe, as though something beneath them is
injured.
Gripping the dagger firmly in one hand Alex grabs the blankets from
the corner of the balloon basket revealing whatever lay beneath.
The sunspoke stretches its little arms and wriggles its little
fingers. It sighs happily, luxuriating in the extra fuel. It burns twice
as bright, shooting a hot jet of bright yellow flame up into the
parachute. The sunspoke starts to glow a molten red, and you start to
rise faster.
As you rise up over the peak, you can finally spot the Runesocesius.
The grand hotel is draped over the top of the mountain, clinging to it
like a dragon resting on its hoard.
The “cyberplasms” as Confidence called them have docked to the side
of a tower on the other side of the peak from you. They have shot a
large hole in the side of the tower, and you can see them now starting
to zipline into the building. A thick plume of black smoke billows out
of the side of the tower, carrying pages and pages of loose paper into
the air with it. They rain down like snow. The tower must house an
extensive library.
You cautiously pull back a corner of the bloody blankets, jeweled
dagger raised and ready to strike. You reveal a small bloody furry blob.
You see two big round eyes, a short-snouted face, and enormous pointed
ears. It quickly looks away from you, chirps pathetically, and trembles
as it cowers in place. You have found a frightened hemogoblin
stowaway!
As the blankets draw back from the bloody mass, a cute little
hemogoblin appears. “Aww little fellas just scared.” Alex lowers the
dagger, but otherwise ignores the hemogoblin. Best to leave it be for
now, there’s more important things.
As the balloon gets within range of the ship Alex begins to scan the
deck for Cyberplasms. At the same time he checks his bug to track the
location of the cyberplasms more acutely. It looks like there may be an
opporunity to jump from the balloon to the ship. After that cutting the
zip lines would give me the opporunity to steal the ship, leaving the
cyberplasms trapped at the top of the hotel.
Just a few Cyberplasms remain on the deck of the airship. The vast
majority of them have zipped into the hotel tower.
You check your bug’s feed. It has gone almost entirely unnoticed in
the fracas, and you are able to piece together a clear picture of the
inside of the tower. It is indeed a grand library, its galleries
spanning each floor of the tower. One of the largest collections in all
of Basmentaria.
The Cyberplasms have breached the tower near its base and are pouring
into the Great Hall. You tune in just in time to see a rail-thin, bald
and mustachioed man standing defensively in front of a display case.
“No! You can’t!” he exclaims as a disembodied sickle approaches him in a
cloud of electricity and ectoplasm.
Behind the glass in the display case is a bluish hunk of rock the
size of a melon, with gently pulsing gold veins.
Inky puts away the papers they caught in passing or picked up along
the path up to read later, including a number that from a cursory glance
appear to be from a culinary collection and a few from some moth-eaten
but finely illustrated botanical tome, among others.
Eventually arriving at the hotel entrance, Inky enters and manages to
catch a frantic-looking attendant near the reception to ask the
whereabouts of the hotelier, indicating they had a business appointment
with said manager.
You walk in through the hotel’s main entrance. The grandeur would
take your breath away were it not for the shouting and the smoke and the
explosions coming from down the hall to your right.
You wave down a passing hotel clerk and inquire after the hotelier.
They are hauling a large bucket of hot water, and carrying an oversized
bundle of clean towels under one arm. They pause for a moment to look at
you incredulously before running off in the opposite direction.
A cry rings out nearby and a Cyberplasm flies through an open door
down the hallway. It lands in a heap of crackling energy, smears of
ectoplasm streaking the floor as though it were bleeding heavily. It
seems to be barely held together by the energy stored in its cybernetic
leg and a metal skull plate.
It scoots backwards on its hands and its butt, trying to stand up.
Two toques leap out of the door after it. You recognize Bread and
Confidence right away.
Bread has obviously been to the kitchens. They are wearing tin baking
sheets and an oversized pot on their heard as makeshift armor, and have
a couple of dangerous looking kitchen knives hanging from their belt. At
the moment they are swinging a large meat tenderizer over their head as
though it were a war hammer.
Confidence, meanwhile, has been to the gardener’s shed. They are
wearing a heavy leather apron and thick leather gloves, and have a
trowel in each hand, and a large hoe or rake strapped to their back.
Bread lowers their hammer on Cyberplasms head, denting the skull
plate. And Confidence darts in and stabs with both hands at the leg. As
soon as the prosthetics go offline and the plasmic arcs cease firing,
there is nothing left holding the ectoplasm together and the ghost kind
of dissipates into the air with a soft wail.
They look up and notice you at the same time, relaxing their
offensive stances. “Oh!” cries Bread. “It’s you!”
“You don’t happen,” asks Confidence, “to need a guide, do you?”
Ah so I suppose those Toques were being honest then, there was a
Ginnarak crystal, and I guess they were going to give it to us.. oh
well, nothing good in life comes easy.
Alex cranks the dial on the sunspoke, grabs the hemogoblin from the
basket, and jumps out of the balloon and onto the deck of the ship. He
rushes over to the nearest pile of bundled rope and barrels and stows
his new hemo friend. “Just stay hidden little guy, let me take care of
these pirates first.”
Alex grabs the dagger from his side as he makes his way towards the
side of the ship, first thing first, best to cut the mooring lines and
zip lines. The static clawing sensation appears at the back of Alex’s
mind, but he attempts to ignore it. There’s too much that needs to be
done too quickly, and he’s all too aware of the danger he’s put himself
in. “What would Corraidhin do..” Alex thinks to himself, “perhaps a
spell?”.
After preparing the spell Alex makes his way towards the guard rail
ready to cut the mooring and zip lines, spell at the ready should an
enemy appear.
You crank the dial to 11. The sunspoke squeals in delight and burns
like a tiny star. You grab the hemogoblin, who chirrups and clings
tightly to you, and leap from the balloon onto the deck of the
airship.
You think you can hear—barely audible—the sunspoke singing a song of
homecoming as the hot air balloon continues to rise unpiloted up toward
the sun.
You rush over to cover behind a barrel, and deposit your new
hemogoblin friend safely inside the center of a large coil of rope. It
looks up at you quizzically, but nods when you tell it to stay put.
You invoke the powers of the moon and prepare a quick but (hopefully)
sufficient Spell of Yeeting.
When you draw the dagger, the world develops a faint static
background noise which is easy enough to ignore at the moment given the
state of things. You dash forward and start sawing at the thick mooring
lines. The dagger’s ruby hilt flashes in the sunlight as you work, and
in your mind’s eye you see a bright red wine, and a drop of blood red
ink flowing from the nib of a fountain pen.
You shake the images from your head just as you finish sawing through
the rope. A Cyberplasm who was shimmying back up the rope from the hotel
to the ship yelps as the line goes slack and swings back into the side
of the cliff. The pirate rebounds from the impact, bounces off the
mountainside a few times, and falls from view as it disappears through
the clouds below.
The ship drifts lazily, rising slightly, and despite your best
sneaking around, the remaining Cyberplasms on board cannot help but
notice that the ship is no longer tethered. You successfully hide behind
a barrel as three cyber ghost pirates come rushing over to the ship
railing and lean over, looking below at where there are no longer any
ropes attaching the ship to the hotel.
Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the hemogoblin toddling
across the deck toward the Cyberplasms, no doubt curious about what
they’re looking at over the side of the ship.
“Indeed, Bread, it’s me. You have not yet escaped your fate of
untraceable disappearance just yet.” Inky deadpans, then smiles. “We
have much to discuss, but later. I do need a guide … to your hotelier.
Presumably I will find them by following the racket and trail of ruined
decor, but maybe you know of a quicker route?”
Bread smiles at the threat of being untraceably disappeared, mostly
confident that they are on the inside of a private little joke and that
they are presently in no actual danger from Inky. They grip their hammer
a little tighter nonetheless.
Confidence slips their trowels into their apron. “Yes, this way!”
They hurry down the hall. You know you’re going the right way because
tattered, torn, charred books litter the ground in increasing numbers.
Bits of paper and ash fall like snow.
Confidence guides you away from the entrance to the library’s Great
Hall, and takes you instead to a smaller, more discreet staff entrance.
They open the door a crack, and as you look through you are just in time
to see the ship captain with their cybernetic leg, arm canon, and eye.
Now that the crew have cleared the way for them, they stroll across the
library over piles of fallen, damaged books.
A thin bald man with a neatly trimmed mustache is on the other side
of the hall, his back turned to the pirate. He wears a fine suit and has
just finished unlocking a glass display case. He retrieves a
multifaceted blue and gold stone and hugs it to his chest with both
arms. He throws a panicked glance over his shoulder at the slowly
approaching pirate, and turns to run away. His retreat is halted by a
small explosion at his feet. He skids to a stop and looks back at the
pirate, who is lowering their arm canon.
“The crystal,” the captain demands in a voice part ghostly moan, part
mechanical drone. “Hand it over, hotelier.” It steps closer. “Mother has
promised us new bodies if we deliver the quintessence. You won’t be
permitted to stand in our way.”
One pirate near the breach tucks a couple volumes of manhwa under its
arm and climbs out onto the mooring line, returning to the ship with its
plunder. It howls as the line suddenly goes slack, flinging the pirate
and its comics into the mountainside, and then out into space.
Sunlight pours into the library from outside as the shadow of the
airship shifts as it starts to drift, suddenly unmoored.
Damn it! I should’ve left the little goblin in the balloon, this
could get tricky..
Time slows for just the briefest of moments while Alex calculates his
next move. Looking at the position of the pirates he can probably yeet
the middlemost one away from the group into the left most pirate. Best
case this sends both of them sailing over the edge of the ship, worst
case it just slightly knocks them off balance. In either event this
gives me enough time to dart from cover and quickly dispatch the right
most pirate with Uncle’s dagger. I’ve got to sever each connection point
between the ecotplasm and the cybernetics, nothing quite as quick and
easy as flesh and blood, but a quick slice to the left most armpit, and
another to the right most leg right above the carotid artery should do
it..
Jumping immediately to action Alex casts
yeet.middle_cyberplasm() sending the middle pirate into the
left most pirate away from the hemogoblin while he dashes forward to
take the third right most pirate by surprise. As he reaches the right
most pirate he makes two quick slices, first at the leg, followed by a
quick upper cut to the left arm.
You channel some of the ambient environmental charge into your
prepared incantation. It’s comforting sometimes to peer behind the veil
and see the world through this lens. It’s so simple. The separation of
self and other is an illusion: everything is just a table. The concept
of time itself is simplified: coroutines prevent everything from
happening all at once and create the illusion of concurrency. It’s all
really quite elegant.
Anyway so the hemogoblin sidles up next to the pirates at the
railing. It’s not tall enough to see over the railing, and starts to
kind of jump up and down, trying to catch a glimpse. The pirates look
down at it in confusion just as the yeet happens, and they
knock into each other. The leftmost one almost manages to regain its
balance but then trips over the little blood gremlin and pitches over
the railing. The middle pirate yelps as the startled hemogoblin darts
between its legs to get out of the way. The pirate stumbles and then
slips in a small puddle of blood. Its feet shoot from beneath it and it
too tips over the railing.
The hemogoblin dashes right into the waiting arms of the rightmost
Cyberplasm. “Gotcha, you little … ugh! What …” The pirate is starting to
regret snatching up the little furball, which is defensively gushing
blood all over it, when you make your first slice into its left armpit.
Half its cybernetics go offline. One arm goes limp and it drops the
hemogoblin, which scurries around and hides behind you. The pirate turns
toward you, now full of regrets, and you stab into its right leg,
knocking its tech completely offline and dispersing the ghostly
energies.
As far as you can tell, the ship is now free of Cyberplasms.
The hemogoblin thrusts its tiny fists in the air and cheers.
Inky shakes out several large and very fine kerchiefs, handing two
each to the guides and gestures for them to cover their noses and mouths
with them while they perform the action themselves to demonstrate.
Donning a pair of skydiving goggles snatched from one of the souvenir
stalls at the gondola station while no one was looking (replacing it
with its approximate weight in silver coins), Inky retrieves a black
metal box that previously served as a portable camp stove from their
knapsack and removes the lid. The inside of the box is filled with dry
wood chips mixed with a pine green powder, and Inky throws in the wicks
pulled from some of the scented candles that were pushed into a heater
flask to melt fully during the walk up the hotel steps. Finally, Inky
pours another vial of foul-smelling liquid over the contents, opens the
door just wide enough to slide the metal box through to one side of the
door a few paces away.
A mildly sweet, cloying smoke emanates from the flameless heat inside
the box, which begin to fill the library hall with a rapidly thickening
cloud. It is also taking on an acrid and slightly sooty edge. Near the
door, Inky fans more of the smoke in the direction of the cyberplasmic
apparition with a thin bound manuscript laying on the floor.
Bread, Confidence, and you all don protective gear. You push the camp
stove through the door like an Olympic curler. It glides across the
library floor a respectable distance considering the book debris and the
lack of sweepers. Much more quickly than one would think possible, the
hall is filled with a thick, sooty smoke. The Cyberplasm captain groans
with frustration as even the short distance between it and the hotelier
(and the crystal) becomes occluded in the smoke screen. The hotelier
wisely doesn’t make a sound as he disappears from view.
Bread nudges you, grins, and gives you a thumbs up.
Alex snatches up his new hemo friend cheering huzzah as he does.
We’ve got a pirate ship little guy!
Rushing about the deck Alex quickly takes stock of what’s left,
plenty of ammo, general supplies, fuel, perfectly provisioned for a
quick crystal kidnapping. Smart move pirates, but not smart enough.
Alex heads to the helm and steadies the ship guiding it out and away
from the library, can’t have any of the remaining cyberplasms easily
reboarding it now can we? Once the ship is out of range Alex checks his
S.T.A.G drone’s twtxt feed for updates.
@<drone/fhsoa7483/video> Cyberplasm approaching crystal
@<drone/fhsoa7483/gps> approx library, top level
@<drone/fhsoa7483/audio> Cyberplasm threatens violence
@<drone/fhsoa7483/video> Inky, bread, confidence enter subvertly
@<drone/fhsoa7483/video> Visual feed impaired due to unknown smog
@<drone/fhsoa7483/audio> Angry tones, uncertain who
Not particularly helpful, and it rules out my first thought. I could
blindly fire the broadside canons into the library hoping to hit the
cyberplasm, but I’d be just as likely to hit Inky, Bread, Confidence or
any other innocent bystander. I’ve got to get a message to her.
Alex quickly dispatches a command to the S.T.A.G
@<drone/fhsoa7483/cmd> Seek Inky
@<drone/fhsoa7483/relay> Secured ship, inform A.I of intentions, will coordinate rescue via the stolen ship
If all we’ve got is this, then we’d best be ready for a quick rescue.
Alex busies himself preparing a new zipline and mooring lines. He then
loads the boradside canons and the top deck swivel canons. It’ll need to
be quick, but if I’m ready I can swing the ship in close, deploy a
zipline for Inky to zip down to the ship with, and defend the retreat
with the swivels. If everyone retreats to the ship we can take a note
from the pirates playbook and blast them to hell with the broadsides
while we make our retreat. Or simply run I suppose, but I dislike the
idea of leaving innocent people to deal with angry pirates
The hemogoblin cheers you on as you take possession of the airship,
accidentally squirting a few jets of rust colored blood in its
excitement. Must still be quite young. They don’t gain full control of
their blood sacs until well into adulthood.
You check your S.T.A.G. drone’s twtxt feeds. This A.I. seems
especially reliable, you note with satisfaction. Its updates are regular
and detailed. Even when there’s not much to report.
You load up the canons and take control of the helm. The hemogoblin
stands at attention at the broadside canons with a cracklesparkler,
ready to light the fuse at your command. You steer the ship a short
distance away from the hotel, hopefully out of reach of the cyberplasms.
But within range of your own canons and ziplines.
While Inky has the attention of both guides, they close the door
again until it is slightly ajar, and make a series of hand gestures.
First pointing at themselves, at their own forearm and fist held stiffly
to mimic the shape of the captain’s arm cannon, to indicate that Inky
will handle the Cyberplasm. Then Inky points the two fingers of a hand
at Bread and Confidence, turns the two fingers downward and swings them
back and forth in opposite directions to convey walking. This was
followed by a single finger pointing in the general direction they had
last seen the hotelier; then the finger hooks inward, the arm repeating
a yanking motion once or twice before ending the gesture with a thumb
tossed over their shoulder towards the hallway away from the staff
entrance, to ask them to get their boss out of the library to a safe
spot.
Without waiting for confirmation from the toques, Inky opens the
door, abruptly stops, turns and shoves a compostable bag of
mango-flavoured croutons at Bread, gives them a thumbs up in return and
a mildly disturbing, eye-crinkling smile behind their kerchief, before
slipping inside the smoky room. One hand is already pulling out a thin,
extendable metal walking pole with a carrying strap visually resembling
the type used by hikers from their courier bag to check for obstacles
amid the lowered visibility.
Confidence watches all of your hand gestures closely, and then nods
resolutely. They draw their large hoe, and turn and start to crouch run
toward the main entrance to to the main hall of the library.
Bread looks confused, but ready to follow Confidence. They grab their
heavy meat tenderizer and crouch down in imitation of their fellow
toque. Before they can run off, you shove a bag of croutons into their
arms. “Small. Toasted. Bread,” they intonate slowly in wonder. The
confusion falls from their face as they break into a wide grin. “Now
I’ll never disappear without a trace,” they laugh. They thank you and
run like a duck after Confidence.
Inside, Inky lobs the empty glass vial that had held the unpleasantly
pungent organic catalyst at a spot the floor several paces roughly from
where the Cyberplasm — presumably the leader of the group — had been
standing earlier, in the opposite direction of the staff entrance in an
attempt to attention from the hotelier’s last location. As they edge
along the wall towards the tower stairs, walking pole looped over one
hand, Inky grabs a few small hardcover novellas from a wall shelf.
Straightening from their crouch, Inky tosses them one at a time
horizontally in quick succession like a discus, but without the
full-body turning motion, across the hall towards the sounds of
frustrated groans and angry muttering. The first starting higher around
where a human head might have once been, one at waist height and another
at the juncture below where ectoplasmic knees might meet prosthetic
legs.
You pick up three hardback novellas. If it wasn’t so smoky, and if
you weren’t so much in the middle of a potentially life and death
struggle with the Cyberplasm captain of a pirate airship, you might
notice their titles: Stop and Smell the Crystals, Living
the Corn, and A Big Moon.
Anyway, you start flinging.
After you toss the catalyst, you can see a plasmic form heavily
blurred and obscured by the smoke turn in that direction. You fling
Stop and Smell the Crystals at it, and it spins like a discus
and smashes into the pirate right in the face, above the chin. It howls
and brings its hand to its face, and turns and charges up its arm
cannon.
Mostly going on sound now, you fling Living the Corn at the
pirate’s moan and at the electric whine of the canon charging. You hear
the canon discharge but the half-blind pirate fires wide. You see the
flash of the energy blast hitting something, someone, else obscured by
smoke in the middle distance between the two of you. A man screams out
in pain. Right after the muffled thump of his body hitting the ground,
you hear the clinking and ringing of something heavy and metallic
striking and rolling across the floor.
Living on Corn strikes the pirate in the elbow, and with a
fizzle and a spark, the arm cannon sputters offline.
The pirate stumbles forward, half-lame and half-blind. It stoops and
scoops up a heavy melon-sized object. It stomps its cybernetic boot, and
small rockets spring out from small compartments on either side of its
ankle. They start to fire up and the pirate is about to make its escape
when A Big Moon hits it right above knee and severs the ghost’s
final connection to its final enhancement.
It groans as it starts to dissipate, dropping the heavy object once
more.
“My crew, it is too late for me! I shall never have a new body now!
But it’s not too late for you! You must bring the quintessence to
Mother!”
And then the pirate’s essence is diluted in the smoke filling the
library.
At that moment Inky hears a very low whirring accompanied by clicking
sounds behind them and without glancing backwards, swings the walking
pole at the source of the buzzing. The stick collides with something,
sending it careening backwards with a light clatter through what is
likely a row of bookshelves around the area already partially emptied of
their contents. From the static noise that ensues, Inky realises
whatever it was may or may not have been one of the wizard’s bugs
hovering in the shadows earlier or a disembodied, ectoplasm-spewing
prosthetic limb after all. Inky calls out sheepishly, “Sorry, Young
Master Alex! Was that yours? Oops? Haha?” before smashing two more empty
glass bottles as a distraction for any remaining Cyberplasms lurking on
the same floor, and sprints up the tower stairs, using the banisters as
a guide.
The Amber Imp is feverishly reporting all the goings on from inside
the S.T.A.G. drone when Inky strikes its conveyance with their walking
pole. The bug is destroyed on contact. The imp barely manages to fire
off one final End Of Transmission post before ejecting from the craft,
which sinks below like an exploded firework. It drifts on the currents
of smoke and flows out through the hole in the wall into the open air
outside. The imp falls through open space and starts to think back on
its life. So much time and energy spent chasing its hopes and dreams,
its goals and aspirations. So much of its life wasted in pursuit. Always
reaching, never grasping. Is that all it gets? Is this the end? Did it
ever really even get a chance to really live?
These thoughts race through its head as it falls, but are cut short
when it abruptly lands on a hard bed of cloudstuff. It tumbles and rolls
and comes to a stop. And when it looks up, amazed to be alive and vowing
to make the most of this second chance at life, it looks up into the
benevolent smiling face of a pink zephynos.
~
Inky, you cross the floor to where the pirate had its last stand. You
find what appears to be approximately one-fifth of the hotelier, and
wonder idly where the rest of him might be. And you notice a conspicuous
lack of Ginnarak Crystal.
You do however notice a soft crunch underfoot. And when you bend down
to inspect it—disorganized cyberplasms running amok in the smoke behind
you—you discover a trail of mango flavored croutons leading across the
hall to the tower stairs.
You sprint up the stairs using the banisters as a guide. The
breadcrumb trail ends on the seventh level, where Confidence sits
slumped against the wall between two bookshelves. They have one arm
around four-fifths of the hotelier, his shocked gaze telling you
everything you need to know, that he is entirely dead but just doesn’t
know it yet. Their other arm is around Bread, who has suffered a massive
wound to the chest and is only slightly more alive than the hotelier. On
the ground between Confidence’s legs is the Ginnarak Crystal. Several
loose pages are stuck to its sides, held in place by drying blood and
ectoplasm.
Confidence looks at you and smiles wearily. “We left a trail for you.
It was Bread’s idea. They were a good guide.”
“They are a good guide,” Inky corrects adamantly. “Do you
hear that, Bread? You’re not allowed to disappear until you’ve had an
entire bag of these croutons, and even then you’re still not allowed. If
I’d known you’d never had croutons before I wouldn’t have let you walk a
step further into that hall. That was simultaneously the worst and best
idea ever. Mango! Croutons! What a travesty. Did you even taste any of
it? No? You have to! How can you offer guests delicious fondue without
croutons? Speaking of which, we haven’t gotten that fondue you promised
yet, that’s reason #144 you can’t disappear. What’s reason #143?
Crostinis. Small toasted bread. Slice of life. You can put cheese on it
too, if you really must …”
And so on. While Inky talks at Bread in a bid to keep them conscious,
they whisk out a first-aid kit from their courier bag and kneeling on
the floor, proceeds to stem the bleeding from the chest wound with
coagulant-coated bandages. Slowly, they tip a flask of tea infused with
some restorative herbs down Bread’s open mouth, careful not to pour too
quickly. Inky pauses mid-diatribe and mid-pour to thrust another flask
of tea into Confidence’s hand, the one wrapped four-fifths of the
hotelier and ask, “Are you injured? Please keep an eye on your
companion, I will summon for assistance.”
Standing up, Inky walks to a window, opens it and peers out. They
look around for a hot air balloon and notice the unmoored airship. After
squinting at it with a mini-spyglass, they see Alex standing at the helm
of the ship with a young hemogoblin on board. Inky waves, and makes a
vertical cross sign with a fist and thumb on the opposite upper arm a
few times. Next, they pull out a small tin whistle, and toot a few sharp
notes in the same cadence as the one-liner directed at Bread earlier by
the gondola station. After a moment, a scops owl swoops in to land on
the windowsill. Inky inserts a rolled piece of paper into a small pouch
hanging at the bird’s back, and the bird flies off again.
Returning to the figures slumped against the wall, Inky places the
Ginnarak crystal in a lightly padded cloth bag, stowing it away in their
knapsack-style backpack. They resume checking and tending to the toques’
injuries, while expounding upon various permutations of toasted bread to
a captive audience.
Bread closes their eyes and smiles dreamily at the descriptions of
various breads. They weakly sip the tea as you tip it into their mouth
and swallow with effort.
They sigh and open their eyes. They focus on you and maintain eye
contact as you draw from a seemingly bottomless well of knowledge on the
topic of toasted breads. Bread and life are clinging fast to each other,
neither ready or willing to let go of the other. They are going to be
okay.
Confidence’s wounds are superficial. They are winded from dragging
Bread and the hotelier up seven flights of stairs. But they are
fine.
The hotelier’s wounds are sadly quite fatal. Honestly it was all over
for him the moment he took the full force of the captain’s plasma canon
to his chest. He babbles, “It’s not … I wasn’t …” And then with sudden
realization and quiet resignation, a clear-eyed, “Oh.” And then he is
gone.
His courage in the face of danger is the reason you now have the
third of the five Ginnarak Crystals in your pack. Whether or not his
death was in vain is now largely up to you and what you decide to do
with the crystal.
~
Downstairs in the Great Hall of the library, one of the remaining
Cyberplasms crouches down next to the inert cybernetic eye that until
very recently belonged to their captain. They pick it up and turn it
over in their hand. “Worry not, my captain,” the ghost mourns. “We will
find the quintessence. And once we do, we will be made anew in the forge
of our Mother.”
He rolls the orb in palm of his hand. A faint arc of energy crackles
across its surface. And the eye rolls over of its own volition and looks
up at the pirate.
Suddenly reverent, the pirate gently places the eye on the ground as
a ghostly face begins to form around it. The pirate waits patiently,
attentively. It’s not every day one gets to bare witness to a new birth.
The ectoplasm that gathers around the eye forms a rail-thin body. Its
head is bald and its face sports a neatly trimmed mustache. It is
missing an arm and a leg.
Dutifully, the witness fetches a recently discarded arm canon and leg
booster. The exotica tap into the energy provided by a new crossing
over, and come online, and create a new mesh.
The hotelier stands and looks down at its new body. As it were. It
looks around at its surroundings. It picks up a few books and starts
shelving them.
The pirate, mostly wishing to provide companionship and comfort to
the new ghost, assists with tidying up.
~
Alex, you are at the helm of the balloon-ship. As you start to drift
slightly up and away, the blue dome of the hotel comes into view. On its
peak you can see a life-sized statue of a stern-faced Runesocesius
wielding a spear, drawn back as though ready to hurl an angry
thunderbolt down at the world below.
The hemogoblin is still down on the deck by the canons. You see it
waving cheerily at the library tower. You squint in that direction, but
can’t see what has caught its attention.
A small tufted-ear owl silently lands next to you breaking you from
your reverie. The owl is wearing a small harness with a pouch at the
back. Inside the pouch is a rolled piece of paper signed by Inky, up on
the seventh floor of the tower.
You count seven windows up the side of the tower from its base. There
seems to be some movement inside, but you can’t make much out from here.
With a lucky shot, you think you might be able to hook the window frame
with a zipline.
~
Outside, a pink zephynos is spinning raw cloud into a minuscule opera
house and performing arts center under the direction of an amber imp
with a new hunger for life. It is an organic looking structure: a
primary concert hall, surrounded by a number of smaller stages and
performance areas spiraling out from the center like a nautilus
shell.
The imp smiles happily, proudly. What tales will be told here! What
songs will be sung! “Lorehold,” it whispers to itself. “You will tell
the world’s stories.”
It is already trying out lines in its head, imagining the play it
will write of this day. About the hotel and the library and the pirates
and the cloud dragons. About a pair of adventurers. And a very brave and
lucky drone pilot that dared to chase its dreams.
Meta: I look forward to reading the A.I.’s play once it’s written, we
should go back and write the sequence of events for this segment from
their perspective in play form at some point.
Alex gingerly takes the note from the owl and reads it quickly. “I
guess my S.T.A.G. got to Inky after all.” Eyeing the tower and cutting
up the windows, it looks like maybe I’d get a shot in from the zip line.
But it’s iffy.
Alex grabs the wheel and guides the balloonship slowly up a few
levels. From that vantage point it should only be 3-4 levels between the
ship and I.
After getting the ship in place he grabs a zip line canon and
launches it at one of the windows on the 7th floor, sinking the anchor
firmly beneath the window.
Now to signal Inky… Alex rummages around the ship, finding both a
signal flare gun and flares in the cargo hold, at least the pirates were
prepared for the worst. Taking aim away from the Balloon Sails, Alex
fires the flare up into the air creating a dazingly and bright signal in
the sky.
You fire the zipline and the hemogoblin cheers adorably. The spear
pierces the stone right beneath the 7th floor window, and the hooks
extend and foam, cementing the line in place.
In a locker on the side of the ship you find a few signal flares. You
point them away from the balloons and fire into the sky. The flares
explode brilliantly and hang dazzling in the sky before slowly drifting
downward.
A pair of zephynos swim over, attracted by the brilliant sparkling
lights. They excitedly bat at the air with their hands and turn
somersaults. They pull at some clouds and squeeze them into dozens of
abstract forms inspired by the bursts. They toss them back and forth
playfully and soon the boulders are drifting around listlessly
overhead.
Below, almost all of the Cyberplasms have noticed by now that their
ship has been stolen. Several crowd into the hole in the wall and shout
and shake their fists at you.
You hear a low chirrup behind you and turn to see the hemogoblin
standing in the middle of the deck. Somehow in all the commotion it has
managed to get its tiny little hands on the ruby-hilted dagger. It grips
the hilt tightly in both hands and gazes in wide-eyed wonder at the gem,
utterly captivated, back turned to the fireworks. The hemogoblin and the
blade are absolutely dripping with rivers of blood. A decent sized pool
has already formed at its feet.
As they wait for the balloonship to approach, Inky glances to the
prone remains of the hotelier on the floor and frowns. There wasn’t much
they could do about that now. It was really inconvenient timing — he
hadn’t received the papers yet. Inky can already picture Cio’s unspoken
but palpable disappointment even as she offered reassurances that it was
perfectly fine. The gnawing guilt she could inflict with a look was
worse than a tenacious terrorier with a bone biscuit. Then Inky recalls
an urban legend from the elderly aunts they sometimes pass by during
teatimes, which claim that it was possible to send messages and items to
the deceased by burning the articles.
Ducking momentarily behind another bookshelf, Inky removes an
envelope bearing the seal of a butterfly in red wax, drops it into a
recently-emptied shortbread tin and holds a lit match to a corner of the
paper. Before long the entire envelope is consumed by the flames and the
lid replaced tightly over the tin. If the paperwork found its way to the
hotelier on the spiritual plane, that would be the formalities
completed. Or if it was reduced to ashes without ever reaching the
recipient, no one had to know.
Inky walks back to the window to see a flare light and a zip line
ending below the windowsill. They look to the other end of the line,
back to the toques, and around the room. Their gaze lands on a few cloth
covers draped over several bookshelves near an alcove from top to
bottom, possibly to protect the manuscripts on the shelves from extended
exposure to dust and light. They tie a large red kerchief to the zip
line to indicate they had seen flare signal, before turning to
Confidence. “There’s an airship waiting outside with a zip line. We
should get Bread patched up by a healer in town. It wouldn’t do to have
them walk around like that, unless you want to turn the hotel into a
haunted house attraction.”
As they finish speaking, Inky pulls off three of the covers, two iron
spears and one of the two decorative flag poles with flags featuring the
crest of Runesocesius, and a symbol (of the old town, Inky surmises)
that stood in a nook between the wall and a bookshelf. Crossing over to
a wall display of ceremonial chains and maces, they remove two of the
metal chains that hung on from hooks on the wall. Having gathered the
items, they retrieve two zip line harnesses, some parachute cord and two
additional pulley hooks from their bag.
They lay the chains on the floor about two feet apart, followed by
the cloth sheets with their outer surfaces facing down over them, and
tie the corners at both ends to the flag pole to form the base of a
makeshift hammock. With Confidence’s help, they slide Bread onto the
sheets, being cautious to avoid further jostling the toque’s injuries.
Inky wraps the ends of the chains around the flagpole, tying them and
the cloth bundle with loops of parachute cord, and sets the pulley hooks
to links on the top surface of the flag pole.
Inky puts on a zip line harness and throws the spare one to
Confidence, directing them to do the same. With some difficulty, they
hoist the bundle of Bread to the window. Inky descends first, hooking
their harness pulley to the zip line as they brace against the tower
wall. As the bundle is slowly lowered through the window, Inky connects
the pulley hooks on the metal chains to the zip line, Confidence
bringing up the rear while Inky holds the hammock steady.
While the zephynos play overhead, the three of them prepare to slide
down to the deck of the balloonship along the zip line.
Confidence and Inky, framing the Bread basket between them, slide
down the zipline to the balloonship. The zephynos frolic up overhead,
and the hole in the library wall gapes below. And beyond that, the
endless sea of clouds.
Inky, having descended the line first, makes it to the ship ahead of
Bread and Confidence. They clambor up over the side, unhook themself,
and reach for the corner of the hammock.
The 3rd Ginnarak Crystal is now on the deck of the ship.
Looking up, Inky sees that two determined cyberplasms have started
following them out the library tower window. Neither has a harness. One
is hanging upside down on the cable, arms and legs wrapped around it,
and has managed to shimmy a couple feet away from Runesocesius. The
other has just swung out of the window and is holding onto the line with
their hands. They are kicking their legs up over and over, trying to
swing high enough to lock their ankles around the cable.
In the time that it will take you to unhook the hammock and get both
Bread and Confidence onto the ship, the two pirates will have closed
most of the distance between you and might be within striking
distance.
Meanwhile on the deck of the ship, the hemogoblin is deeply entranced
by a private conversation it seems to be having with the ruby-hilt
dagger. It nods and chirps and coos as it continues to strangle the grip
in its tiny bloody hands, singing softly and soothingly. The ruby
flashes and glints, almost strobe-like in the sunlight, as though in the
midst of some kind of struggle. But as the hemogoblin continues its
strange lullaby, the gem eventually fades and grows dull, until finally
it resembles nothing more than a lifeless lump of stone.
The hemogoblin releases its death grip on the dagger and lowers its
arms to its sides, allowing the dagger to slip to the ground. It looks
up at you happily with ruby-red eyes that seem to flash in the sunlight,
and it chirps merrily.
Hmm well, that umm, heya little fella. What umm, what did you find
there? Alex moves to pick up Uncle Corraidhin’s dagger, noting that it’s
not nearly as brilliant as it was before. The ruby gem in the hilt
appearing far closer to black obsidian now, rather unnerving all things
considered..
“There’s definitely something wrong with this Hemogoblin, this isn’t
normal” Alex thinks to himself, “What in the ever loving run level 0 did
Uncle have this dagger for, and why the hell would he stuff it inside
some old book.” He deftly pockets the dagger, for further inspection
once they’re back at base. Likely someone at HQ can do a deeper analysis
of it then. Thinking ahead, Alex also grabs a handkerchief from his
breast pocket and soaks it in the pool of blood around the hemogoblin,
better than nothing he supposes.
Pulling a multi pronged instrument labelled “GBD” from his bag Alex
begins to inspect the hemogoblin for magical, metaphysical, and
technological aburations. “Just sit still a bit little fella, lets see
what’s going on”
The hemogoblin hums merrily as you retrieve the dagger and
fruitlessly attempt to mop up the pool of blood. It wriggles
around—suddenly seemingly boneless—and giggles and blows raspberries as
you try to take measurements with the GBD. It is kind of annoying but
also totally cute.
Your instrument picks up on an anomaly. You have a clear vital signal
for the hemogoblin. That’s normal. And there is an extremely high amount
of ferrous material inside of it. But you think that’s also probably
normal for a hemogoblin. Finally, there is a faint signal of some other
kind of entity. And that is not normal.
Under normal circumstances you would say, given the measurements,
that this second non-goblin entity is in some kind of stable but
near-death or catatonic state. As though it is a deep sleep. Is there
some weird magic at work here? Or is this some strange, undocumented
part of the normal hemogoblin physiology? Did this little fella just
absorb a knife spirit?
The hemogoblin reaches up and holds your hand as you pass the
instrument over its body. It smiles at you happily.
The GDB flashes, vibrates, and murmurs electronic static as it
collects information from the Hemogoblin. “Peculiar readings indeed”
Alex mutters, stashing the blood sample and readings from the device.
Best to scp a copy of these for safe keeping.
scp gdb-readout.dat blood-soaked-handky hq:~
Alright little guy, dunno what’s wrong with ya, but you seem just as
sweet and chipper as you were before, best not let anything foul befall
you. Alex scoops the little hemogoblin up and puts him into his pack.
The little goblin chirps happily, soaking the back in blood. “Hmm I
guess I’ll need a new cloak when we get to town.. good thing the STAGS
are water proof.” Taking accord of the situation Alex notices that Ink
has dropped onto the deck, and is hurridly beckoning what looks like a
stretcher and confidence down the zip line. “I guess things went not so
smoothly back in the hotel then..”
Looking up past confidence along the zip line Alex also notes a set
of cyberplasms making their way clumsily along the zipline. “Shit! Inky,
Confidence! Get the hell on the ship NOW!”
Alex dashes back up to the helm of the ship and grabs the wheel. As
soon as Inky has Confidence and the stretcher safely on the deck Alex
grabs the wheel and casts the wheel hard to starboard side, ripping the
zipline and moarings from the wall of the hotel. “Inky cut the zipline,
quick a you can, and check the side of the hull for any stow
aways!!”
~
As the toques slide down the last few feet to the deck of the
balloonship. Inky takes out a sharp knife and saws through the zipline.
As they patrol along the edge to check the side of the hull for
additional company, Inky pulls out a tea strainer from their kit and
opens a bag of limequats, small round fruits they keep around for their
zest and juice to flavour some infusions. They drop a limequat into the
strainer, preparing to fling a ball of citrus at the potential presence
of any stowaways.
Inky and Confidence carefully dump Bread onto the deck of the ship.
They grunt at the impact and mutter a weak thank you.
Inky starts to saw through the zipline with their knife. The closest
cyberplasm can almost reach out for the railing and haul itself up. The
second pirate is not far behind it. Alex yanks the ship hard to
starboard and—thanks to Inky sawing on it—the line snaps cleanly in
two.
Inky looks over the railing in time to see the second pirate fall
into the sea of clouds with a surprised look on its face. There is no
trace of the first one. As Inky patrols alongside the edge to check for
additional company, they see one ghostly hand and then the other reach
up and grab hold of the rail.
When the cyberplasm pops its head up and peers over the railing, the
first thing it sees is a tea strainer flying at its face. It tries to
turn away, but ends up with a face full of limequat juice nonetheless.
As the citrus starts to burn, it squeezes its eyes shut tight, even
tighter than its grip on the railing. All of its focus and effort is
concentrated on the burning sensation in its eyes. On autopilot, one of
its hands lets go of the railing to quickly wipe the juice away.
When it grips the railing again, its hand is now slick with juice,
and it slips. Knocked off balance and unable to get a grip, the pirate
cries out as it too falls into the ocean of clouds, eyes squeezed shut
the whole time.
Poking its head and arms out of the pack on Alex’s back, the
hemogoblin claps and cheers.
The balloonship sails away from Runesocesius and from Kelsun Peak.
The sun is starting to set, and the clouds are turning brilliant pinks
and reds. This delights the zephynos, who leap and cavort in the clouds,
and run playfully alongside the ship for a while.
You have in your possession a stolen pirate airship, a recovered
Ginnarak Crystal, a couple novellas and manhwa, two warrior toque tour
guides, and a childlike hemogoblin who may or may not be possessed by
some kind of spirit.
END OF CHAPTER 3
What do you do once you get back to the Milk Market?
Once back in the Milk Bar, with the airship safely anchored to the
roof of the building, Alex finds himself amongst the old belongings of
his former uncle.
sigh “Best get a request to HQ for this airship, maybe
they’ll let us operate it for a bit, if not I suppose we have to impound
it..”
<- OP 2817 * LOC MB-A
-> OP 25120 * LOC ESPER
CLEARANCE: INFORMATIONAL
REQUEST ENCLOSED.
REQUESTING PERMISSION TO IMPOUND OR OPERATE.
ONE CYBERPLASM AIRSHIP "The Rusty Maiden"
“There’s also the matter of this little hemogoblin..” Alex mutters to
himself while said hemogoblin happily dances around the room, dripping
little pools of blood hither and tither.
<- OP 2817 * LOC MB-A
-> OP 41154 * LOC ESPER
CLEARANCE: TOP SECRET
REQUEST ENCLOSED
PACKET ENCLOSED
REQUESTING ANALYSIS
ONE GDB @gdb-readout.dat
TWO BLOOD @blood-soaked-handkerchief
NOTE GDB INDICATES SOME ANOMALY
“Hey little guy, lets go get an empanade. Inky says they’re divine.”
Alex says as he scoops up the little goblin and gently carries him
downstairs.”
Striding into Enriques kitchen, and availing himself to the
empanadas, ignoring an indignant Enrique’s protests that these were for
paying customers until a small bag of coins is tossed careless over one
shoulder. Alex stride through the kitchen and then out and away into the
garden to enjoy their pilfered treats.
“I suppose this is more interesting than being on the force at
times”
~
Inky stepped into the toques’ cabin below deck with a tray of
turmeric ginger tea and lavender biscuits. After checking on Bread’s
bandages and offering the toque reclined on the berth the last bag of
mango croutons — or at least the last one for the next two hours — Inky
perched on a wooden barrel across from where Confidence sat on a
creaking old chair next to the bunk and spoke. “We’ll be landing in
about an hour and getting Bread to a medical facility. You can stay with
him while he heals and rest up.”
They paused to take a long sip from their cup, as if the liquid was
being used to summon their next words. “On behalf of myself and the
party, I apologise for the … disruption, and for what had befallen the
hotelier. As you may have already noticed, we’re a fair distance away
from the Peak and will be arriving in Vay’Nullar soon. This airship was
taken over from the cyberplasms in the course of getting the crystal out
and the injured to a safe location, and her new captain could hardly fly
it back straight into the pirates’ hands now.
What we propose is this: you and Bread may take as long as you need
to recover. We can arrange for lodgings and new posts in the city. One
of our party runs a Milk Market that could certainly use some hired
help, and a garden in the back that would benefit from more attention.
Pay will be double your current salary at the hotel. Master Alex may
also recruit you for other tasks. You don’t need to have an answer just
yet — think on it for a bit while you rest and let us know. Afterwards,
if you find that you still wish to return to Kelsun Peak, we will pay
for travel.”
Inky winked at Bread conspiratorially. “You may be interested to know
there is a bakery on the Milk Market’s first floor. If you like the look
of the place, perhaps we can convince the chef to take on an
assistant.”
~
Tess watched her adviser from her position on one end of the plush
chaise lounge in her office, who returned her stare impassively as they
sat in the adjoining armchair to her right. The ornate coffee table
before them had been laid out for tea, but the other cup remained
untouched, which was in itself unusual. Ink rarely turned down tea when
it was offered, which likely meant they were preoccupied with something
they were unwilling to discuss. This had been happening more frequently
since their plans to intercept the Ginnarak Crystals, which was a little
concerning, but she knew it would be no use to question them directly.
The missive she had received this time through Piskin’s people was
brief, almost annoyingly so, but they had returned earlier than expected
with the articles that production had requested, which had fortunately
made up for lost time from the previous delays.
With this in mind, she settled on a lighter note as she picked up her
own teacup. “Salvia passed on the items to the production team. Thank
you for picking them up from the Runesocesius. I would send my regular
couriers but they are tied up with another event. One of them had to
care for their sick child and couldn’t leave the city. As usual, time
and discretion are of the essence.”
When her adviser only nodded, she continued. “How is he? He probably
insisted on bringing the manuscripts out for you himself. The man is
cautious with valuables.”
“Quite dead but managing, or so I heard.” Ink intoned drily.
Tess caught on immediately. “Didn’t you meet with him? The message
only mentioned the items had been obtained. Did something happen?”
The imp shrugged. “We met, I delivered the letter and collected the
items. We didn’t get a chance to talk.”
The hotel was slowly but steadily attracting visitors again,
especially after their last play had prominently featured the
Runesocesius Library as a research partner in the programme credits, but
Tess didn’t think the hotelier was so busy as to entrust this task to
one of his underlings. The man was proud of the first editions the
library had amassed, and the notebooks of Lucidieau that the playwright
sought as a reference were no doubt counted among the treasures, even if
only an expensive commissioned facsimile was permitted out of the
library. Something had happened, she was sure, but decided not to press
further for the moment.
“And the other matter?” she asked.
“Someone already knew the crystal was at the hotel and retained a
crew of cyberplasmic pirates to storm the place.” Ink replied flatly.
“And yes, your acquaintance is very much dead, shot by the crew leader
in the scuffle. As the rumour rags have it, his ghost is now overseeing
the building repairs.”
Tess was about to admonish the imp gently for the tasteless jest when
there was a knock at the door. At her response, the door opened and her
secretary entered with a box of pastries and two sets of tableware,
which she placed on the coffee table before leaving and closing the door
behind her.
Noticing Ink’s look of recognition, Tess smiled and ventured, “This
is the second time is as many months you awarded that empanada place a
glowing review in The Tiny Toaster. I can count the ratings
higher than a 10 you’ve ever given on one hand — of course I had to try
it. Why don’t you have some as well?”
Ink blinked. “I didn’t write the latest review.”
Tess shot them an accusing mock-glare as she lifted a puffy golden
brown pastry onto a plate. “It has your inkprints all over it.”
“I don’t know what you mean. Surely I’m allowed to treat a colleague
to lunch, and they are free to express their satisfaction with a meal
openly if they wish,” Ink replied smoothly.
Tess rolled her eyes. “There’s a name for that. It’s called
bribery.”
Ink smiled faintly. “Just so. However, the selection speaks for
itself.”
“Oh, absolutely! These mini ambrose apple empanadas are wonderful. In
fact,” Tess prodded the open end of the pastry with her fork, where a
light yellow filling was visible, “they remind me a little of the very
crispy tortelli someone made several years ago just for the
opening reception of The Two Genteelkin of Virdantha.”
“Any resemblance is coincidental. The chef is very capable.” Ink said
evenly.
Tess sighed and returned her plate to the table. “We’ve talked about
this before, Ink. You don’t have to hole up in some poor scrub’s excuse
for a kitchen in a closet. If you need more room downstairs then expand
it. Just tell Salvia and she’ll take care of it.”
Ink lowered their gaze to the teacups. “I appreciate the offer, but
the answer is the same. There will be no rest until the crystals are
secured.”
Some time passes.
The hemogoblin turns out to be a fine housemate and less of a problem
than you thought it would be. Be it because its not in the excitement of
battle onboard a pirate ship, or be it because it is maturing slightly,
it seems in better control of its blood sacs. Barring a few small
accidents, it doesn’t make much of a mess. It has found and claimed as
its own a few unused blankets, and has made a little burrow nest in an
out of the way corner behind the furniture.
Bread makes a full recovery and in fact is doing better than ever
before. The blood goblin stays by their side during the first hours and
days and keeps them pumped full of clean, synthetic blood. Afterwards
the toque is flushed a healthy pink and has new vigor. Enrique takes
them under his tutelage. And Bread ends up making a fine baker’s
apprentice. Dough seems to rise more and quicker after he kneads it.
“The lad has solar hands,” Enrique boasts of his new protegee.
Confidence becomes enthralled with the semi-sentient Wandering
Bazaar. The thirteen story building moves with glacial speed up and down
the streets, vendors and stalls and shoppers following in its wake. But
then also it will disappear in the blink of an eye only to reappear in a
totally different part of the area known as the Wandering Bazaar
District. Each floor of the tall, narrow tower is occupied entirely by a
single shop. But which shop it is seems to vary from day to day. One day
the seventh level will be occupied by Fedik’s Butcher shop. And the
next, Lario’s Bakery. It might be days or weeks before one can once
again buy hotlinks from Fedik’s. Where the shops go when they’re not
here is one of Basmentaria’s great mysteries.
The toque studies the Bazaar’s movements and are able to predict its
route with more and more accuracy. They become a highly sought out
guide. Tourists and visitors trust them to take them to the very spot
the Bazaar will appear that day. Residents appreciate the heads up and
not getting trapped in their houses when the Bazaar wedges its way into
their narrow residential streets, blocking their front doors. And owners
of traditional, less ambulatory shops are able to plan ahead for the
crowds that will appear on “Bazaar Day”.
~
Members of the Retrieval Team who sleep in Milk Market HQ start
having dreams of the same mysterious figure. Of course at first nobody
knows their dreams are shared by the others. Not until they become more
frequent, more regular. By the time the figure has visited you every
night for nearly a week, somebody speaks up and you realize the
coincidence.
The figure is clad in voluminous robes of deep purple. Long,
straight, blonde hair falls around their shoulders. Their soft features
are boyish and womanly. They wear a golden circlet on their head and a
golden eye in the middle of their forehead. Their passive, neutral face
betrays no emotion the entire time.
The dream is always the same. They reach out to you with one hand and
turn their palm up. And because of dream logic, in the palm of their
hand you can hear the jingling of coins, mirthful laughter, and hushed
stories told around a campfire. They curl their fingers into a loose
first and the sounds stop. They spread their arms wide and in the folds
of their robes you can see three siblings fighting, squabbling over a
broken loom.
Then you’re standing next to them, and the two of you watch three
friends, Snake, Owl, and Dolphin. Owl tells Snake that he is tired of
flying and hooting, and doesn’t want to be an owl any more, he wants to
be flowers. And Snake laughs and tells him that he is Owl, and an owl he
must remain. And she leaves him to go eat rodents and bake in the sun.
So Owl tells Dolphin that he is tired of flying and hooting, and doesn’t
want to be an owl any more, he wants to be flowers. Dolphin doesn’t want
to help Owl, because if he is flowers, they won’t be able to be together
any longer. But Dolphin finally agrees to help even though they don’t
want to, because Dolphin loves Owl. With all their strength, they create
a great waterspout that will turn Owl into flowers. But the waterspout
is too strong, and Dolphin is too weak to control it. It sprays Owl but
does not turn him into flowers. Owl’s wing is broken and he falls to the
ground in a heap of feathers. The waterspout shakes a great boulder from
the earth and traps Snake under it. And Dolphin sinks to the bottom of
the sea.
And then you wake up.
~
Later you find a letter in the common area of Milk Market HQ. It is
not addressed to anybody. When you open it up, it reads:
Time is running out, Retrieval Team 43. Things are starting to draw
to a close. We cannot delay our meeting any longer if we both are to
achieve our goals. We have information that you are looking for. Meet us
at the Harpoon Club next Selday. We will wear the sign.
The letter is signed with a white iris and golden apple.
Anyone in Vay’Nullar would be able to tell you that the Harpoon Club
is a game room and fine dining club, and one of the rotating tenants of
the Wandering Bazaar. But Confidence would tell you, were you to ask
them, that the club won’t be there next Selday. (When the Bazaar will
appear at East and Lowland.) It is in fact not scheduled to appear until
a week and a half after next Selday, on Third Tensday. (When the Bazaar
will appear at Cathedral and Pine.)
WHAT DO YOU DO
00055
The nibs had disappeared.
Inky had spotted the small ceramic and wicker teapot among a long row
of boxes and bowls at the antique shop on the thirteenth floor of the
Wandering Bazaar while looking for a Near-weightless Verifying Matter
enclosure (NVMe) to their Handy Duffer Discette as a primary storage.
The witch shopkeeper, Agate, had helpfully mentioned the teapot could be
used to steep very acidic or alkaline solutions, as well as distil
solubles. The box it was subsequently packed in did not include
instructions on activating the precipitation feature. With the shop not
returning for another week by Confidence’s reckoning, Inky had used the
teapot in the meantime to rinse off any impurities from an old set of
nibs — the very first functional set they had made as an apprentice
inkling — except the nibs were nowhere to be found when they poured out
the citronella solution and removed the lid. Inky supposed it was to be
expected — some witches liked to go on about equal payment for wishes,
as if it were as easy as reading off a price tag, and it was difficult
to stay irritated at a cute teapot for long. Inky wrote it off as a gift
for what would hopefully thereafter be a cutely functional teapot. The
shop had a no-refunds policy.
Then came the dream. At first Inky had attributed them to reading the
book on the mythology of The Trine that they had slipped out of the
Runesocesius Library, along with an obscure cactus leather-bound
manuscript containing first-hand accounts of the Artifice Wars. When the
dream repeated itself on the third night, Inky suspected it had
something to do with the crystals under the Milk Market’s roof. While
not horrifically bloody in the way Master Corraidhín’s description of
the vision he had from the first crystal had been, it was haplessly
boring when lucid intervention didn’t seem to have any effect. It ran on
like a low-budget B-Grade play that had only three scenes with a few
props each. By the fourth night, the dream had become worse than a
nib-nibbling teapot that they stayed up entire nights for the rest of
that week while they were camping at the Milk Market.
It was mostly an excuse to drop into the kitchens downstairs — which
they could now enter on the pretext of visiting Bread to observe the
apprentice’s progress — in the early morning hours and push new tea
blends onto its unfortunate occupants. Most of the three dozen or so
infusions had been full of fruits and spices, six of which would go well
with items on the empanada shop’s current menu. A handful were medicinal
after procuring a herb illustrated on one moth-bitten page snatched on
the hotel steps back on the Peak. A few others were teas in the loosest
sense of the word. These were as tasteless and colourless as tap water,
only the scent offering a faint clue as to their ingredients. They had
other applications, least of which was in a prank on one empanada chef.
(Inky left him a box of zephyl tea — another Kelsun Peak speciality
besides mulled wine — before he could too riled up, though.)
The note left at the Milk Market was the black cherry atop the hassle
cake. Confidence was fairly sure that the fine establishment mentioned
in the note wouldn’t appear on the day indicated. Couldn’t “Mother” have
chosen to meet somewhere a little more convenient? So it was that
despite the shop having a no-refunds policy, or because of it, Inky
found themselves returning to the antique shop inside the Wandering
Bazaar a week later looking for another item. “Do you sell flight
vessels that could transport people to and from specific places … such
as the Harpoon Club?” they asked the witch.
You and the witch go back and forth a few times before she realizes
that you want to visit a place where it is when it isn’t there.
“Transdimensional extratemporal colocation?” Agate claps her hands in
delight. “This is going to be fun! A witchy problem wants a witchy
solution. That’s what my Auntie Tenfingers always said!”
“Why bother with flying contraptions when you yourself are a
perfectly adequate vessel? I’m going to prescribe you a dream ritual,”
she says, scribbling in a notebook. “It’s complex. But only because it’s
a lot of steps. And the timing is kind of particular in a couple places.
But if you follow the directions, you shouldn’t have any trouble.” She
rips the page out of the notebook and hands it you.
“Basically, you’ll enter a host’s dreams, and then delve into the
Collective Unconsciousness. From there you should be able to find the
Wandering Bazaar’s pocket dimension. Of course you’ll need to find a
guide to take you there. You’ll have to find one in the Sea of
Dreams.”
“And you’ll need this!” She ducks behind the counter and reappears
with a smoke-gray box bound with thick black ribbon. It’s about as long
as her forearm. She unwraps the box and opens it and pulls out a thick,
round candle. It is an unhealthy, sickening translucent yellow. In the
base of the candle is a large, blackened, withered, and shriveled hand.
It is within and without the candle. As though it is grasping the base
of the candle, but also like it has been molded into the candle on
purpose. As though the hand is imprisoned in the wax. You can just make
out a hazy small round object in the center of the candle through the
wax. A large nut or marble. The hand looks like it is reaching for it.
The candle has been burned down a fair bit. The wick is low and trimmed,
and the edges are black and warped where the fatty wax has melted and
hardened. You guess there’s only about two-thirds left of the
candle.
The witch measures down from the top of the candle with a length of
string and bores a small hole in its side. She wedges a large nail into
the hole, leaving half of it jutting out. “A crude clock,” she winks at
you. “Place the candle on a hard metal plate. When it burns down enough
for the wax here to soften, the nail will fall out and strike the plate
and wake you up.”
She pushes it across the counter toward you and frowns. “Eh, should
be okay,” she shrugs. “But if at any point it looks like the base gets
soft enough that the hand might be able to grasp the eye,” she cautions
pointing toward the round object in the center of the candle, “smash the
thing. As hard as you can. Destroy the hand, and run.”
“The rest of the instructions should be pretty self explanatory!” she
exclaims, perking up. “Let me know if you have any questions!”
Ritual Details
ritual outline
Ritual Steps In Brief:
Find a volunteer to be the Dream Host.
Link your sanctum to the place where the Bazaar will be on the
appointed date. (You can’t just do your ceremony out in the open in the
middle of the street! Find somewhere you can safely leave your bodies
for a few hours.)
Draw a circle of salt.
At the appointed time, put the Dream Host in the circle. Also the
Travelers (you), the Dream Sigil, and the Nyxmaer Candle.
Once the Host is asleep (Sleep spell not included), light the
candle and enter the Host’s dream.
Turn “away” from the dream, cross the Sea of Dreams to the
Collective Unconsciousness.
Find the Bazaar’s pocket dimension.
The day the letter arrived Alex was nowhere to be found. It was a bit
strange, somewhat chilling even, that he’d disappear like that. Ever
since they had arrived back at the Milk Maid he’d been seen skulking
about his uncle’s study, or pacing the garden out back somewhat
agitatedly. Unbeknownst to the party, Alex had anticipated the arrival
of the letter, HQ had been following every lead they could pull in since
he began with the Ginnarak recovery team. Not that they really had much
to go off of, but the courier who left the letter wasn’t hard to track.
That was, until he slipped inside one of the ever changing shops right
as it was moving along.
The trail went cold after that. Which meant Alex had to get it moving
again, or at least the crumpled communique he’d received said as much.
Things were moving too quickly to think too hard on the how, all that
was needed was action, something drastic to flush things out.
That’s why Alex finds himself on the east side of the market, skulk
about the back alley behind The Temporal Cup.
“Gotta get this shit ready, there’s no other options here” Alex
thought to himself. He loathed this type of work, it was messy,
abhorrently vile in his mind, but what choice did he have? His hands
worked deftly at the wires in the small package hidden inside the recess
of a loose brick. Once finished, the little packet came to life, muted
lights blicking away happily as the brick slid back over it.
This was the 3rd and final eavesdropping device, all placed at the
busiest cafes in market, all rigged with self destruct mechanisms large
enough to level the building if they’re found.. The eavesdropping Alex
could abide by, but the wanton destruction for the sake of security was
painful to swallow.
But once again, it wasn’t much like Alex had a say in the matter. The
first sign of objection, an inclination that he’d refuse orders, and
they’d have an assassin on him before he could leave the alley. And if
he took it out, they’d send double, there’d be no rest.
— Later that day
Alex watched twtxt feeds scroll through from his monitoring devices.
Most of it unimportant gossip. So and so haves an affair, what’s for
lunch, where to find good empanadas in the market, so on and so forth.
An endless stream on the pulse of the market.
It was errant curiosity to watch these, the Magic Lichen in the
monitoring system was trained to hunt for any hint of what the courier
was up to, any twinge from Blavin and his ilk. It’d send alerts straight
to him as soon as something came up, but it was interesting to see the
pulse of the city trail by. And what else could he do? It was too
dangerous to go back to the Milk Maid, any hint he was there could blow
his cover. Best to lay low for the time being, let the scrapers scrape
and the agents comb the streets until they get a bead on their
target.
Milk Market HQ ought to be quiet. Alex has been conspicuously absent.
Missing in action. Inky seems to be out making rounds delivering tea, or
spending more time than usual at the empenadaria. So Milk Market HQ
ought to be quiet.
Instead, a certain young hemogoblin and a certain yellow duck (both
of whom have yet to be named, by the way) are squealing as they rampage
through the rooms on the top floor of the building, upsetting the
furniture in their wake and in general making a huge mess.
It took some coaxing on the hemogoblin’s part. The duck was
determinedly uninterested in anything besides a soak in its tub and a
nap on its cushion. And it did a good job of ignoring the persistent,
pestering goblin for most of the afternoon. But jumping into a wooden
tub full of blood cracked the foul’s disinterested facade. It gave
furious chase to the goblin until the heat of the moment cooled down. At
which point the two of them simply enjoyed the thrill of chasing each
other through the apartments.
Confidence is actually the first one to stumble across the carnage.
They were just popping by to drop off some new pamphlets, but froze in
the doorway when they saw the suite in disarray and the walls plastered
with blood and feathers. “What the toque…” And then they quietly closed
the door and left without going in after all.
~
Gliftwirp browses the stalls trailing behind the Wandering Bazaar. He
is bare chested save for a sleeveless vest. He wears long, baggy,
striped trousers bunched at the ankle, and a bright red sash tied
loosely around his waist. He grins a wide, gap-toothed grin as he thumps
a melon.
“Look at the size of this melon! And perfectly ripe!” he beams at the
stall vendor. “You’ll be here next week? With more like this?”
Very few people would be able to tell Gliftwirp’s profession from his
attire. For those who can, one look at his red sash would immediately
cause them to give him a wide berth. Because Gliftwirp is a warpwefter.
A master assassin trained in the ancient art of sarong-fu. That is, the
deadly application of soft and flexible weapons. Whips, chains,
garrotes, nunchucks. And most famously—and most effectively—sashes,
sarongs, scarves, and the like. The saying goes that a clothed
warpwefter is never unarmed. Nor even is a nude one if they can get
their hands on your clothes. And a warpwefter can sneak their
weapons into the most secure of locations.
“I am a visitor here, and don’t know my way around,” he keeps up the
small-talk with the vendor, having paid for the melon. “Do you know if
there is a building around here called ‘Milk Market?’ I’m supposed to
meet someone there. No, they’re not expecting me. It’s going to be a
surprise!”
He grins his wide toothy grin.
~
The twtxt feed from the listening devices is dull and quiet. The
monitoring software is designed to only deliver messages containing
certain buzzwords. And those messages are few and far between.
You decide to tap into the unfiltered stream and let the endless
waves of blather wash over you. It’s inane. Idle gossip and mindless
chitter-chatter.
After a day or two of this, you notice yourself getting
uncharacteristically agitated. You squint at the lines of messages
coming in and notice a few transposed characters in some of them,
forming new nonsensical words. A couple messages are missing some
whitespace, squishing words together in maddening run-ons. Glitchy.
There’s no reason the listening devices should be returning errors like
this.
Later still, the feeds have gotten worse. Some words seem to be
written backwards. Entire messages are garbled word soup, devoid of any
meaning or sense whatsoever. Some of the timestamps are invalid
datetimes. But you prefer them to the ones that are valid, but which are
stamped years ago. And you far prefer them to the ones that are stamped
far in the future.
The anomalies are overall infrequent. On their own, they don’t amount
to much. And when you show them, nobody at HQ gives you with much more
than a slightly patronizing, indulgent shrug. But the glitches shouldn’t
be happening at all, is the thing. And when you compile them all
together, you start to notice things. Patterns insinuating themselves,
maddeningly just short of reason or meaning. Like a song stuck in your
head when you can’t remember the lyrics or the melody. But there’s
something there nonetheless. The promise of something, at least.
Something bigger. A wide tapestry of links and connections, wanting to
be known.
There are names. Ellis, the lady in red who sits at the center of a
tangled web. Ousia, a sea of endless knowledge. A sea of magic. The 215R
Dude, a denizen of the other side who can deliver you to its shores.
Other strange beings who lurk just out of sight, just beyond the veil of
perception. The veil that you are now beginning to pierce with the
snippets and snatches of information you pluck from your feeds.
You start to see signs of the veil elsewhere. Of the conspiracy.
Whatever. You can’t decide what to call it. Street graffiti outside of a
red spider spinning a red web. Phrases like “215R” show up in random
articles in the paper. As though the secret world is trying to cross
over. Or to draw you into it.
WHAT DO YOU DO
00056
The agitation Alex feels bubbles just beneath the surface. Patterns
where patterns shouldn’t be, strange orders from HQ, indifference where
once was ample aide as well. It was maddening. Combine it all with the
haunting suspicion that there was constantly someone just around the
next corner, and it was enough to truly drive Alex mad.
That uneasiness takes its toll on a long enough time line, but Alex
wasn’t about to let it get to him. Or so he thought to himself as he
cast a furtive look at his monitoring equipment. This paranoia had
served him well in the past, very well in fact. It’s a sort of sixth
sense in a way, always kept Alex off the edge of the cliff, especially
when someone stepped close enough to push him off. Those were the types
of skills HQ sought after in the first place.
Alex closes the iron door on his bunker, leaving his monitoring
equipment running, dead man’s trigger set to blow the place shoul anyone
enter it. Can’t be too careful these days..
Emerging from the sewer grate, sticking to the shadows, Alex makes
his way down an alley, then another, and yet another, finally emerging a
few blocks from the Milk Market. Across the street, as he had expected,
was Marvelo’s Marvelous MurderSticks, a quaint place should one needed
something, well you get the picture, they don’t really sell anything but
weaponry here.
Alex ducked into the entrance of the shop and strode towards the back
rack, where a collection of knives was on display. A rough looking
fellow, ruddy red beard, thinning hair, moved from the counter as he saw
Alex approach. “Fine sampling of knives we have, could I interest you in
one?” Marvelo says. Alex reaches for a thin stilleto style dagger, and
hands it to Marvelo “This one seems about right, but I’d like an extra
sharp edge put on it, if you don’t mind”. Marvelo takes the stilleto
from Alex say “Not a problem at all sir”, and he heads into the
back.
He sets to work honing the edge, and once complete he places it on
his work bench. Grabbing a velvet lined case from a stack, he deftly
removes the bottom and places a rolled piece of paper into the bottom,
alongside an m1911 style pistol, and a couple of clips of ammo. He then
places the velvet bottom back over the equipment, and places the
stilleto on top, bringing the entire package back to the front. “An
extra fine edge on this one sir, that’ll be 15 gold, plus another 5 to
cover the service.
Alex pays, and nips out the shop and heads back to the back alley.
Paranoia begets what it requets, Alex mutters to himself as he
disassembles the box holstering the pistol and ammo, and sheathing the
dagger. Can’t keep going unarmed like I’m some kind of beat cop, not
anymore.. Alex discards the case and unfurls the message, quickly
deciphering the encryption set on it by Marvelo.
The hunt is still on, no word on Blavin nor the Iris group, yet.
Agent 7 heard rumor of a couple of persons inquiring about the "Milk Market" these past few days.
Agent 3 heard similar rumors, was able to bribe a melon vendor to acertain the figure wore a red sash, and was looking for friends.
Agent 6 has kept watch on the Market, nothing strange yet, coming and goings as usual, no strange visitors
Agent 4 monitoring feeds still present glitches, something abnormal
Agent 5 found the melon vendor dead in a back alley, strangled to death, not immediate signs of blunt force trauma, caution advised
Alex burned the note, striding rapidly away from the alley, taking a
meandering route away from the Milk Market, looping back around, and
heading back towards it by yet another. Nobody appeared to be following
him, yet he paused at each corner and turn, waiting for the footsteps of
a pursuant.
Noting nothing, he made his way through the back entrance of
Enrique’s Empanadas greeting the cook quietly, but jovial. “Enrique,
where’s Inky? We’ve got a problem.”
~
Inky skims the page. They thank the witch, pay for the items and exit
the shop, promptly discarding all notions of meeting Bother at the place
stipulated on the note.
(Half and one hour later)
One-sixths into a caramel cantaloupe cream cornet, Inky runs into
Confidence outside the Wandering Bazaar and obtains some of their new
pamphlets, minted with luminescent ink for the convenience of late-night
tourists. These are subsequently hare-mailed to every editor at the
Niuewstijl office, which is almost certain to earn another
chiding remark from Tess about etiquette and the handling of unsolicited
bulk mail to parent editorial teams.
(Half and two hours later)
The installation on display at the Milk Market was grotesque — that
is to say, a work of beauty. Inky steps carefully through the rooms to
not disturb the piece. Afterwards, they sign the guestbook set up on an
upturned milk crate by the door, delightedly pasting rows of horse head
and thumbs-up emo Gs on a page thoughtfully titled “you can’t ed the
unedible”.
(Half and three hours earlier)
Thanking Agate for her time, Inky passes her a sheet of paper on
which were written a few questions about the prescribed ritual, with
some space after each question should the witch prefer to scribble a
response:
What do guides in the Sea of Dreams and the Ravenfolk typically
seek in return for directing travellers to the correct pocket
dimension?
An establishment inside the Bazaar is only open in the evenings
whenever it appears in the city. How long does travel to a pocket
dimension typically take, allowing for time to seek out a guide? Is
there a way travellers can estimate the time to set out on their
journey, in order to arrive at the establishment while it is
open?
Who are the Red Spider and “Dude 215R” mentioned in the ritual?
How can travellers avoid summoning them?
Would anything happen to the travellers if any of the sigils were
removed during the ritual before they wake up?
(Half and four hours later)
Two sets of eyes peer down at the contents of an open tin. One
accompanied by a focused look and a little trepidation, following the
pinkish, flesh-like chunks speckled with white pockets of fat as they
tumble into a hot pan and almost immediately begin to move of their own
accord. The moving mounds resemble small round mouths opening, each with
a rim of sharp teeth. The other pair of eyes belongs to a grinning face
that beams when the mounds bloom into bright red flat caps, the edges
beneath about to soften in the olive oil.
Minutes after, The slices are ready. Inky accepts the plate of
tostada with spicy pickled artichoke mushrooms and tomatoes with a
murmur of thanks. Reassembling the recipe for the tinned spicy artichoke
mushrooms had been a tedious process — someone had ripped out the pages
from an old pickling book that had long ceased publication. Eventually
Inky found a former nomad who had eaten them for two years in their
youth and could recall or somewhat describe the taste. Flowery and
savoury, they said. Many taste tests later, it turned out to be closer
to partially decomposed cheese in ponderosa lemon juice. Canning was
fortuitously easier with the increasing portability of sealers. Rather
than telling the empanada chef any of this, Inky watches satisfaction
slowly spread across his face. The tale that follows is far more
entertaining.
(Half and five hours later)
While measuring out ingredients for the forty-second tea infusion
since the start of the missions, not that Inky was keeping a close
count, they hear a familiar voice a short distance outside the door
asking for their whereabouts. Without pausing in their whisking, Inky
simply informs the owner of the voice they’re not here, obviously,
before emerging from the storage pantry with a fresh pot and bowls on a
wooden tray, and greets the returning sysorcerer.
Agate writes back quickly:
What do guides in the Sea of Dreams and the Ravenfolk typically seek
in return for directing travellers to the correct pocket dimension?
Intangibles. Usually memories, hopes, or dreams.
An establishment inside the Bazaar is only open in the evenings
whenever it appears in the city. How long does travel to a pocket
dimension typically take, allowing for time to seek out a guide? Is
there a way travellers can estimate the time to set out on their
journey, in order to arrive at the establishment while it is open?
You’ll find that time is rather malleable on the Otherside. You’ll
likely arrive exactly when you’re meant to. No need to worry too much
about it.
Who are the Red Spider and “Dude 215R” mentioned in the ritual? How
can travellers avoid summoning them?
Godforms manifested by the Linking Sigil and the Dream Sigil,
respectively. It’s not terrible if they show up. But it’s
definitely not ideal. You shouldn’t register on their radar as long as
you don’t pump too much energy into, or siphon to much energy out of,
the sigils. If they do show up, just know that you’re in the presence of
a godlike power, and behave accordingly.
Would anything happen to the travellers if any of the sigils were
removed during the ritual before they wake up?
If the sigils are removed or if the circle is broken, you’ll likely
just wake up before you wanted to. Same goes for if your dreamform is
destroyed while in the Dreaming. The only real danger you may encounter
is the Scissormen and their ilk. They will attempt to permanently sever
your dreamform from your waking body. Which would leave your body a
soulless husk, and leave your consciousness adrift in the Sea of Dreams.
But that probably won’t happen! Okay good luck, have fun!
WHAT DO YOU DO
00057
Alex lifts his teacup and sips the fragrantly tea, “perfumed of
rosehips, and cardamum? An interesting choice. I appreciate it Inky,
these past few days have been terribly rough, and I’m rather tired of
field rations.” Alex takes a sip, and then continues hurridly. “I’ve
been monitoring the Bazar, we are in grave danger. It started with just
me, but I fear it’s bled over to everyone here at the Milk Market. I
can’t be entirely certain.”
Alex looks worriedly at Inky. “There’s a lot going on here. As soon
as we got back from Kelsun I was sent on an assignment, normally not an
issue, but they wanted me to level 3 of the busiest coffee shops in the
bazar. I planted those bombs, alongside listening devices, and then I
bugged out. My team appears to have been assigned equally bizarre
assignments, all rather violent messy things. A lot of innocent lives
are on the line here.”
“We dropped off the grid, I’ve got an isolated listening post in the
sewers here, it’s heavily reinforced and that’s where I’ve been hiding
out, but I’m not certain it’s safe. Agent 5 found a melon vendor dead in
the market, and this vendor was specifically seeking out the Milk
Market, looking for us. I believe it may be an assassin, could be from
HQ, could be from Blavin. It’s entirely opaque to me.”
“As far as I can tell, my agents are all loyal to me, there’s 5 of
them in total, 6 if you count me. We could man the ship and get the hell
out of here in a few hours, and it may be our best chance. But there’s
the iris letter we need to attend to, and I cannot for the life of me
find anything, not a damn trace, of Blavin. And I think all of this
bodes very poorly for us.”
Alex looks worriedly at Inky, and you’re telling me we have a ritual
we have to perform, to find the iris group’s meeting place.. I’m leery
Ink, I have to be you see. But my uncle trusted you, and I do as well.
If you think this is our best shot, we can hole up in the sewers and try
to perform this dream walk of your witch friend’s. But if this iris
business turns out to be a trap, well, how well can you handle a
gun?
~
“Your courage and concern are admirable, Master Alex. Caution is
likewise advisable.” Inky nods seriously.
The next moment, they gave the sysorcerer a slightly deranged grin.
“I’m sure you have already seen many grave dangers. What’s another one
for the bucket list? What’s life if not violent and messy? So many
melons dismembered and laid waste daily—”
As if suddenly recalling a detail, Inky pauses and blinks. “Melon
vendor? Oh, poor Pepo. He has been complaining about his neighbour’s boa
constrictors for years. The serpents were drawn to the rodents his
fruits typically attracted, which might not have been a problem were it
not for them hanging out at his stall and scaring off his customers.
Maybe he finally took matters into his own hands, with tragic results.”
They look at an empty mixing bowl across the table glumly. “He had
offered to bring over a few of the new variety as soon as they arrived,
as he was already delivering to a household the next district over.”
They send Master Alex a sidelong glance. “Someone is after you? You
didn’t do something horrid like help an old grandmother cross the street
on sockless skates, for instance?” Refilling the sysorcerer’s cup, Inky
continues, “As for Blavin, only 3 of the crystals have been recovered.
Blavin knows Team 43 is his best chance of obtaining the others. Until
he has all the crystals, he will stay his hand. If he doesn’t know that,
then he is hardly a threat.”
Setting down the teapot, Inky shrugs. “They seem eager to get our
attention. I suppose I could spare them their twelve minutes of fame,
for the right price. Enlightenment would probably be too much to ask of
a nightmare. If you’d rather take your team and make a run for it
instead, that’s fine too. If they come knocking I’ll just tell them you
missed the hotel fondue at Kelsun Peak.”
Their gaze skips to one of the cups before they shake their head. “No
gun.” They turn around and take down a bamboo walking stick hanging from
a hook on a wall next to a worn coat. Inky grasps the handle and pulls.
It slides out quietly to reveal a long, thin, tapered surgical steel
tube which, if someone were to lean in for a closer inspection, is
sparsely covered in tiny, needle-like protrusions along the surface. On
the underside, a transparent sliver ran the length of the tube to end
about a forefinger’s length from the handle. Visible through the narrow
window is a colourless liquid, most likely a sedative or toxin, fills
the reinforced steel interior.
They smile mirthlessly at Master Alex. “I don’t know that Master
Corraidhín trusted me, because if he did, it would have been the most
foolhardy thing the wise man has ever done. You would do well to not
make that mistake.”
~
“It doesn’t sound like we have all too much of an option”, Alex says,
as a little Scarab beetle in his pocket chimes, “that’ll be the dead
man’s trigger going off in my hideout.”
Alex frowns, shame to lose all of that data, those systems, that
hideout.. but I hope whoever broke in enjoys thermite, assuming they
don’t asphyxiate quickly enough to miss the fun..
Inky, you’re right, life is a bit violent and messy, so lets bring
the violent mess to these bastards. If you’ve got a lead on this with
this dream ritual, then fuck it, lets take the risk. I won’t run from
this fight, my uncle sure as hell wouldn’t. And at worst, he’d go out
with a magnificient bang. Lets give it back tenfold, for poor Pepo.
Nodding his own approval Alex continues, I have another hideout in
the eastern quandrant, near the sysorcerer’s guild. It’s a little risky
to head out that way, but none of my Zabbix alerts indicate it was
compromised. It has automated IDS and IPS systems, so we should be safe
enough in there once we whole up. At very least we’ll know if someone
comes for us, and we’ll have a little bit of time to react on it. We
should bring the Toques with us, and little blod clot, and the duck.
Looking sorrowfully at Enrique, “I think it might be best if you got
the hell out of dodge too friend, it isn’t safe, and I don’t want to see
you become collateral here. Head down to the wharf, I’ll have agent 5
meet you there, he’ll help you and your family lay low until all of this
blows over.”
~
At Enrique’s deep frown, Inky sighs and adds, “Might as well do as
Master Alex says. He can spot danger twelve blocks away, and turtle soup
is really out of fashion these days.”
Then they excuse themselves to pack a few items, returning about
fifteen minutes later with a knapsack and a cross-strap carrier draped
in a black cloth cover. Inky says, “I hope you don’t mind if I bring
along a guest as well.”
The cover is pulled back to expose a dome-shaped birdhouse, with
transparent circular rings at the top partially obscured by sliding
shutters of the same shape. A wooden hoop with a woven, web-like pattern
and adorned with a string of feathers hangs from one side. On the
opposite side is a double door with a miniature knob over each door.
Inky lightly taps on one of the doors, and at a low click coming from
within in response, swings the doors wide enough for the kitchen lamps
to illuminate the great horned owl resting on a pillow inside. The bird
opens one amber eye for a moment, gaze sweeping idly across the
occupants in the room before dozing off again.
“This is Fuko. She and her twin brother Futa have certain shared
connections. What one sees, the other will also know. I asked their
caretaker if I could borrow them for a while. Fuko will accompany me for
the ritual. Her brother is at another location and can send a message if
a need arises.” Inky explains with a wry expression. “Think of it as a
minor indulgence of sorts. I was told their kind, along with eagle owls,
are very good at negotiating with those of the ravens.”
They give the owl a small smile. “She may be a little temperamental,
but she is well-trained.” Closing the birdhouse doors, Inky turns back
to Master Alex. “I suppose you’d rather not reveal the location of your
hideout to any more people than necessary. Her carrier will remain
covered on the way in and out.”
Gliftwirp stands under the branches of a tree, pooled in shadow, far
from the small gathering. He has been to plenty of funerals. Often under
these very circumstances, in fact. And he always keeps his distance out
of respect.
For one, he owns no clothes but his vest, sash, and trousers. And his
bright red colors would be a sign of disrespect among the mourners.
Secondly and most importantly, he himself is the one who put the man in
the ground.
Sadly, he had little choice. He had underestimated the sysorcer.
Didn’t realize he had his own agents working for him. When he realized
that one of the agents had been in contact with the melon vendor, he
knew that Popplewick could and would identify the warpwefter if
pressured.
Gliftwirp had grown to enjoy his daily chats with the melon vendor.
Popplewick was a kind, determined man. A refugee from the Cinderlands,
his family came to Vay’Nullar following the Artifice Wars when he was
just a boy. He grew up poor, and often relied on the generosity of
others. But eventually he was able to support himself and his small
family. He was proud of the life he had built.
So Gliftwirp took no pleasure in what came next. Late one night when
Popplewick was on his way home from the market, the assassin slipped a
bag over his head and dragged him into a dark alley. He cinched the bag
tight, cutting off his air. There was a brief struggle before Popplewick
passed out and Gliftwirp lowered him down to the ground. He held him
there, unconscious and not breathing, until he was gone. In only took
but a moment. And then Gliftwirp stood up and left.
Now at the funeral, the mourners leave one by one. Until only the
widow is left, cradling a small sleeping child to her chest. “Oh, Pepo,”
she whispers to the headstone. “What can I do now?”
When she leaves, she does not return to the main path. She meanders
slowly as though in a daze toward the back of the graveyard and down the
hill. She steps into the wood. A flash of red follows her at a
distance.
She kneels on the banks of the forest river and sets the child down
on wide flat rock. It is awake now and looks up at her with solemn eyes.
“I am sorry, made-of-me,” she says to the child. And that is all the
explanation it gets.
She stands and turns and walks away. The child watches her go.
When she has been gone for some minutes, Gliftwirp steps out of the
shadows and crouches down beside the child. It looks up and reaches for
him. “Look at you,” he says to the child as he scoops it up. “Who would
throw you away? A perfectly good baby!” He stands and bounces the child.
“A sweet little melon rind is what you are. Ha! Very well. Come, Rind,
we have work to do.”
The assassin, child in his arms, walks back toward the city.
~
In the aftermath, Agent 5 is found down by the docks. They clearly
struggled in death. The assassin blamed him for Popplewick’s death and
the widow’s weakness.
Down in the sewers, two tiny mittened hands reach up and awkwardly
turn the doorknob to Alex’s hideout. The bolt clears the latch with a
faint click. Two tiny cloth hands struggle against the heavy iron door,
pushing it slowly open, inch by inch. A mechanism clicks inside and
there is a whoosh of air and then a boom as the bunker violently
ignites. The tiny figure is incinerated, and blown back into the sewer
tunnel.
Gliftwirp steps forward into the light of the blaze and crouches down
by the tiny figure. He picks it up, a tattered and burned bundle of
cloth. “Look, Rind,” he says to the small child standing at his elbow.
“You must always acknowledge and be grateful for those who sacrifice for
you.” He starts to untie and unfold the cloth puppet as he speaks. It
unfurls and smooths out and stitches itself back together under his
touch. Even the burn marks fade, and soon Gliftwirp is once again
holding his red sash.
“Now, Rind,” he says standing up and taking the child’s hand,
squinting into the fire. “Let’s see what we can salvage here.”
WHAT DO YOU DO
The time of the ritual is at hand.
What final preparations do you make before entering Dreamspace?
00058
(A week prior)
The secretary collected the stack of papers that had accumulated at
one corner of the desk. “This might help,” she said, setting down a
bundle of herbs with white and pink flowers in place of the papers.
Inky stared at the blooms, hands stilled over the owl’s plumage. “Oh!
Thanks. Good thinking, really. It’ll help make the stench more bearable
when they find the remains.”
The grey elf was confused for a moment, then mortified as the words
sank in. “That’s not what I meant! It’s for the circle,” she
clarified.
Seeing the imp’s preoccupied nod, she coughed lightly to regain their
attention, then spoke in a hushed voice. “Beaker’s associates have
picked up the empanada shop proprietor and transported him to an
undisclosed location. There will be a retinue with him at all
times.”
Inky seemed to visibly pull themselves back to the room before
responding, “Thank you, Salvia. One more thing — if I do not return by
the indicated time, please activate the hitsuzen protocol. As
precaution.”
The secretary looked at Inky in concern. “Is everything all right? If
you’re still troubled by the hotelier, accidents happen. A single
incident—”
“Third. An unidentified man was attacked at the docks. He was
probably sent to investigate the melon vendor. One of the other stall
owners heard him asking questions shortly after the melon vendor
disappeared.”
Salvia’s violet eyes narrowed. “What, the fruit vendor? Didn’t the
tabloids say it was an accident? He tried to get rid of a neighbor’s
nest of snakes.”
Inky only raised an eyebrow at her.
The secretary let out a low curse. “You didn’t tell her. You didn’t
want her to worry,” she said aloud in realization. She sighed. “She’s
going to be pretty angry with you when she finds out, you know.”
Inky offered her a sardonic smile. “Making people angry is my job.
You of all people know this well. In the event of my timely demise I’m
sure the others would find it cause for a grand celebration.” They
replied matter-of-factly before returning to smoothing the feathers of
one bird wing.
Salvia shook her head vehemently. “That’s not true. You’ll make it
back, Ink. What then—”
“Then our fair Lady’s ire would be the least of the problems.”
~
Alex stared morosely into his cup of coffee. He’d received word of
agent 5’s demise that morning, and had been the only thing on his mind
since. 5, no Be’tram knew the risks, we all knew the risks defying HQ
brought, but to happen so suddenly? He’d snuck down to the wharf once
he’d heard, making sure to cover his tracks and dodge any potential
witnesses. He even managed to slip past the police cordon they’d setup
around the body. What he’d found wasn’t pretty, it looked like Be’Tram
had suffered in his final moments. The bruising around his neck pointed
to strangulation, with some sort of cloth, perhaps a rope. The bruising
was deep, and there wasn’t a cut, burn, shot or something of the likes
on his otherwise.
The kill had been intimate.
Alex had worked quickly that night, popping Be’Tram’s eye had been
hard, but he’d of wanted Alex to have it. Behind his right eye was a
recording device, it could only catch the last 15m or so of what he had
seen, but it would give him a clear look at what had happened. And
potentially lead Alex to the killer. Miserable business, but Be’Tram
knew it could make a difference.
Alex had planted a bomb on the body after he had extracted the eye,
and made his way well away from the area before it went off obliterating
the remains. A regrettable end for an old friend, but it was too
dangerous to leave.
And then there was the matter of the zabbix alert, a little purple
red critical for the sewer hideout. He’d had time to send out a drone
beetle. The smoldering slag that was left was reassuring. Most of the
equipment was utterly destroyed, racks upon racks of servers reduced to
twisted melted metal. The effectively of the destruction was delightful,
in a sick sort of desperate way. Alex felt assured that most if not all
of the equipment was useless, but this spelled the end of a valuable
listening outpost. And whoever had done it wasn’t part of the slag
pile.
Alex stood up, his coffee untouched. The cafe around his burbled in
quiet excitement. The city had lit up since the Melon vendor’s death. A
thousand rumors abounded about it, but none of them held true; some said
the city had become dangerous, a crime syndicate had arisen in the
neighboring city block another thought, and did you hear about the
explosion at the wharf the other night, the city was electric, yet
somehow ever so slightly off the pulse of the issue.
As Alex stepped away a woman with horn rimmed glasses strode past the
table he had just abandoned, deftly pulling the note from beneath the
coffee cup, left for her.
4 -> 3
Daylight breaks on the morrow
The suns rays make chase
casting soft cloth
across the nap of nature's neck
So, night relents and gives way
biding time until
it can rule
in its own domain
For the passerby, it was but a bit of poetry, scribbled carelessly on
the back of a napkin in a coffee near the wharf. But for Agent 3 it was
a warning, one part notes on Agent 5s demise recovered from his eyecam,
one part orders; stay low and we’ll strike these bastards from the
shadows, on our terms, on our ground. Similar missives were delivered to
Agents 6 & 7. The numbers were dwindling rapidly, even just one
agent lost was hard to stomach.
Alex hand gripped the pistol in his coat pocket with a white knuckled
grip as he stepped from the coffee shop into the city. Whatever was
after him, whatever had gotten to Be’Tram, it had better know he was
coming, and he’d happily send it straight to hell. HQ be damned, the
rules be damned, this little game of cat and mouse had just gotten
personal.
~
Alex, Inky, Confidence, Bread, and Agent 7 find themselves in a dark
backroom in a secluded corner of an old fish processing plant on the
wharf. The accommodations are rough, and the stench is abhorrent, but
it’s the best that could be procured in a pinch. And it should provide
enough seclusion.
The backroom is like that of many factories, high up near the
ceiling, a single rusty rickety staircase winds its way along the side
of the building for what seems to be 3 flights, before it reaches a
metal room with dusty grimy windows, and a single steel door. The
windows on the interior overlook the fish processing plant, where rows
of belts and machinery stand still, covered in dust and long forgotten
blood. You’re glad to know that the factory stopped operating years ago,
hygiene is lacking in every sense.
Alex stares forlornly out the exterior windows, the sky is a grey
overcast, it matches his mood perfectly. He didn’t like what him and
Inky were about to do, but they didn’t have much they could do about it.
They would be vulnerable for the duration of the ritual. But Agent 7 and
Confidence were there to help mitigate that risk. Alex and Agent 7 had
taken every precaution they could think of.
The plant floor was scattered with booby traps, trip wires, and
alarms. The other agents were laying low, but kept drones around the
wharf feeding in a network of twtxt data back to Agent 7 for recon. And
that was on top of the double barred steel doors, and reinforced glass
box they’d chosen as their hide out. Meticulously planned, Alex expected
no less from Agent 7.
See Marvelo had been at this as long as Alex had, and then some. He
was sharp as a tack, with an animal-like third sense that came from
years of close calls. He was, simply put, the right man for the job,
when that job was keeping your unconscious ass alive.
Alex turns away from the window and addresses Inky. “Apologies for
the smell, it turns out there’s a strong correlation between disgust and
seclusion, but I believe we should at least be safe here. Safer than we
would have been back home. I’m ready if you are, as ready as I’ll ever
be that is.”
The Golden Iris have summoned you to appear at the Harpoon Club this
evening. But the Harpoon Club is nowhere to be found on this plane of
existence. It won’t appear until a week and a half from now, on the last
day of the month.
Confidence the Guide has predicted exactly where the Wandering Bazaar
will be on that day. With a small bucket of red paint and a large brush,
he has drawn a Linking Sigil on the ground at the location. He sits
nearby, making sure careless passersby and mischievous kids don’t
disturb it, but otherwise letting the sigil absorb the energies of the
bustle of shopping and commerce.
At the fish market, Marvelo is posted outside. He keeps vigilant
watch, alert to every movement and disturbance.
And inside, Bread, Inky, Fuko, and Alex are huddled up in the office
in the back near the ceiling. They all sit inside a dark circle that has
been smudged on the floor with a paste made of ash and salt. Painted on
the ground is a second Linking Sigil, connecting this spot to
Confidence’s, allowing the energies of the two locations to co-mingle.
There is also the Dream Sigil, which will connect this place to the
Dreaming.
Bread the Host is propped up on some pillows and cushions in the
center of the circle, next to the Nyxmaer. The candle is alleged to be
made of the flesh and fat of a certain nightmare. Its hand and eye bound
in the wax. The Dream Sigil is the door, but the Nyxmaer is the key. The
catalyst that will cause all of the otherwise inert metaphysical
particles to become volatile and reactive. It is what will allow you to
actually pass over and arrive on the shores of the Sea of Dreams.
Per the shop witch’s instructions, the Nyxmaer has been placed on a
thin, hard tin plate. As the candle burns, the wax will soften and
eventually allow the large metal nail in its side to fall. When it
strikes the plate, you will awaken, exiting the Dreaming. You expect
hours may pass in the realm of sleep. But only about thirty minutes will
pass here.
Inky and Alex sit inside the circle, near the perimeter, facing Bread
in the center. Fuko the owl sits at Inky’s side.
It is dim. You are illuminated by mundane, non-magical candles set
around the edges of the circle. Outside, a steady rain beats on the roof
and the windows of the building. The smell of fish is faint but
ever-present. A constant reminder of the small creatures that have left
their bodies in a fashion far more permanent and irreversible than the
separation of spirit and body you are about to experience. You hope.
WHAT DO YOU DO
How do you induce a deep and powerful slumber in Bread?
What shape or form will you take when you arrive in the
Dreaming?
What are you secretly worried or hopeful about being exposed in
the dreamland, the realm of metaphor?
00059
Alex procures from a pocket of his trenchcoat a tiny vial. On the
vial is a small strip of parchment which reads:
#!/bin/ash
sleepy=true
sleep() {
while sleepy; do
sleep(10)
done
}
trap sleep INT EXIT
He empties the vial into a glass of warm milk and hands it to
bread.
“Drink up friend, this’ll relax and soothe you. You’ll probably have
the best night’s sleep you’ve ever had”
Over the radio Alex provides a quick reminder to Marvelo.
“7, remember, should you need to wake bread to get us out you can
interrupt or cancel the sleep script, Ctrl + C should work for the
disruption work. Or if you need to you can set sleepy=false, if it gets
crazy and you need to modify the metavarbalic properties of the
enchantment.”
Turning to Inky, “Eight bells and all’s well, lets get this show on
the road”
Bread smiles and thanks you for the milk. They down the glass, smack
their lips a few times, and wipe their mouth with the back of their
hand. Their eyelids grow heavy and close, and they slump down on the
cushions. They’re already asleep by the time their head hits the
pillow.
Inky nods once at Alex’s words and finishes off their own cuppa
steeped with calea and thyme, and blended into osmanthus matcha. Lucida,
Protege, Aware, Perfume. A meaningless mantra.
They glance to their owlish accomplice (who, she will remind you, is
well-trained and needs no sleeping aid, thank you very much, unlike her
impish charge) and silently mouth the words “Dude 215R” with a wink.
Then they settle for a nap, chin pillowed on their forearms, which are
propped atop drawn-up knees. A walking stick rests on their lap. A herb
bouquet of pink blooms becomes an owl cushion.
Inky dreamforms of a cream noogle. Puko. And Fuko is, well, still
Fuko.
You light the Nyxmaer. The flame crackles and dances. It smokes
darkly, and the scent it gives off is thick and heady.
You breathe deeply of it and settle down to sleep.
When you open your eyes you are standing on the branch of an enormous
white tree. It’s as wide as a narrow street. Its leaves are silver
blades that uncurl in the dappled light from below.
One of the first things you notice is that gravity is reversed here.
The branches below you reach down, grazing an endless sky. Small
iridescent jellyfish medusae drift lazily far, far below, catching and
reflecting the light. And the trunk thickens as it reaches up overhead,
where its roots drill into the ceiling above.
Because of dream logic, you know that in some way this tree
represents Kelsun Peak, Bread’s home. And also because of dream logic,
you know that the branches furthest away from you in some way represent
the great dragon Lucin who lives deep in the mountain. And they are just
as dangerous. They sway in the breeze and seem to be aware of you, and
are for now satisfied at the distance you keep from them.
There is a chipmunk sitting cross-legged before you on the branch. It
looks curiously up at you and says, “The Red Squirrel stole my acorns!
Are you going to get them back for me?”
You can feel a metaphysical tug in your gut as your orient yourself
to dreamspace like the needle of a compass. “Inward” you can feel a tug
toward Bread’s deep unconscious. To their core memories. “Outward” you
can feel a tug away from Bread toward the shores of the Sea of Dreams,
where you may continue your journey through the Collective
Unconsciousness to the pocket dimension of the Wandering Bazaar. You
need not move physically to travel in either direction. It’s more a
matter of choosing a destination, and letting the winds blow you in that
direction.
“My acorns!” insists the chipmunk, wringing its hands. “The Red
Squirrel has taken them all! Are you going to help me?”
WHAT DO YOU DO
00060
Alex takes inventory of himself, this dream world is definitely
strange, but fortunately its decided to provide him with his impecable
fashion, trench coat and all. Unfortunately the same can’t be said for
his roguish good looks, as he’s found himself 6 arms heavier, and a bit
more octopus-y than he remembers.
Nontheless this doesn’t appear to be much of an impediment, and he
promptly moves on with assessing the situation.
“Acorns? No, I don’t think so. I’m afraid octopus’ are terrible at
fetching acrons, and at any rate, I have a dreadfully important meeting
across town.” turning to address Inky, “We need to make a break for it,
what’d the witch tell you? Envision our goal or something? This is
really a little outside of my realm of mechanical magic expertise..
unless..”
Alex makes a gesture with his tentacles in the area and a terminal
prompt appears before him. His tentacles work at blinding speed at the
digital window, a quick bypass there, a root access escalation
there.
“Looks like this whole place runs on Linux, it’s an older kernel,
about 2.6 or so, but it checks out. Easy to exploit as needed. Here I’m
giving us sudo access, should we need it.”
It takes Alectopus a couple tries, but he gets it. First he corrects
‘acron’ to ‘acorn’. Then he moves all the acorns to the
chipmunk instead of to the squirrel.
Hundreds of acorns appear at the chipmunk’s feet. It squeals in
delight.
In the distance, far below you, you hear the anguished yell of what
can only be a Red Squirrel whose giant stash of acorns has just
vanished.
The chipmunk rubs its hands together gleefully and starts scooping up
acorns by the armful and shoving them into its mouth by the dozen. “Oh,
thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” it says around a mouthful of nuts.
“Here…” It tosses you a large square silver coin with a round hole
drilled in the center. On one side is the number twenty-one next to a
picture of a curved, short-handled sickle. On the other side is the
number five and a picture of a flail.
“A Twenty-One Fiver! Sorry, you deserve more, but it’s all I have,”
it apologizes as it scampers off, no doubt to hide its nuts. Hopefully
somewhere more secure this time.
If you hold the coin up to your eye and peer through the hole, you
see the dreamscape before you as though looking through a cloudy film.
All the same stuff is there, but it’s hazy and shadowy.
Standing a fair distance from you on the branch, just out of hailing
distance, is a tall figure cloaked in black robes. Dark shadows pool
restlessly around its feet. Occasionally the shadows leap up and take
the form of demons the like of which words cannot describe, before
falling and returning to shadow once more. The figure wears a large
spherical helmet of obsidian-like glass. You can see constant flashes of
a rainbow of colors crackle and splinter along the inside of the helmet
like lightning, but illuminating nothing within. You feel sickened at
the sight, but at the edge of your mind you feels a tug, a familiarity.
Something about this character is familiar to you, but you cannot place
it.
When you lower the coin, the figure and the dark landscape both
disappear. When you raise it again, the distorted landscape reappears
but the figure is gone.
You notice a pair of large ravens watching you rather intently from
the branches below.
WHAT DO YOU DO
00061
Alex the Octopus and Inky the Noogle stand on a tree branch as wide a
street in the heart of the great white upside-down forest.
A cry of anguish and anger echoes through the forest, and the
branches below you sway and rustle as something rises up from the
depths. You keep catching a glimpse of scarlet between the silvery white
leaves.
The large black ravens perched below you scream in agitation and fly
up past you to the thicker branches up above, where they hop side to
side and loudly scold and protest the disturbance. A single black
feather the length of your hand settles to the ground at your feet,
knocked loose during their flight.
You finally see the fearsome beast crashing through the branches
below you. Its crazed, yellow eyes as large and round as dinner plates,
a great eight-legged rodent leaps from branch to branch as it swiftly
ascends. It is a bloody, crimson red. Its long tufted ears lay flat
against its elongated, grinning skull. Its ribbon-like tail twitches as
it trails along behind it like a river of blood. It cries out again in
anger, showing its overgrown incisors, and grinds and gnashes its back
teeth.
Its eyes bore into you with wild fury and blind madness as it
climbs.
“She’s not herself,” sighs the chipmunk, suddenly at your side once
more. When you look down at the chipmunk, however, it has suddenly
turned into a small featureless black turtle with a sticky sweet roll
instead of a shell. Its smooth little head pokes timidly out of the
roll.
“The Red Squirrel,” laments the turtle. “She’s being ridden by a
ghost. An angry ghost who isn’t from here. Somebody left the door open,
and it blew in on the breeze.” The turtle’s voice trails off until its
final words are barely a whisper.
You can still feel two currents tugging at you and trying to pull you
under. One inward toward your host’s deep, core memories. And the second
pulling you outward toward the Sea of Dreams.
You have but a moment before the Red Squirrel is upon you.
WHAT DO YOU DO
00062
One moment, Inky is half-asleep on their feet in the middle of Branch
Avenue. In the next, they are reclining in a banana boat that resembles
a canoe painted with long stripes of yellow and white with deep brown
swipes. The s’more interior padding is soft, yet with the suppleness of
fruit leather. A few round, matching brown mini-cushions are strewn
across the boat interior. Also in the boat are two silver spoon paddles,
more for looks than cooks.
They don’t know where the boat came from. Things just appear. Like
that Red Squirrel. Inky moves to holler a greeting, but instead
recites:
"sgb rpthqqbk hr qba sgb fgnrsr dktb
sgb qnkkr rwbbs uma rn uqb ynt
sgnt uqs ly fthahmf rsuq ul h sghmb
h rbb vbqhky ly utrohehntr rhfm
sgb kns wur snrra uma sgbm h aqbw
uma cnqstmb ruha hs rgnta db ynt ott"[1]
[1]:
"The squirrel is red, the ghost's blue,
The roll's sweet, and so are you.
Thou art my guiding star, am I thine?
I see verily my auspicious sign:
The lot was toss'd and then I drew,
And Fortune said it shou'd be you. Puu."
~
While Inky boards her banana boat and recites poetry to the maddened
squirrel, Alex springs to action leaping blithely from the branch
towards the squirrel. Beneath him manifests a cockpit, sleek and
futuristic. Around this materializes a large robotic weapon, octopus-oid
in shape. The many tentacles bristle with weapons both fearsome and
deadly.
Alex grabs the controls, in one tentacle he latches onto the banana
boat, that way he won’t accidentally get separated from Inky. With the
other seven a series of feathers appear in every brilliant hue. The
tentacle attached to the boat unfurls allowing Alex to draw closer to
the squirrel. As the gap closes the most intense tickle fight the dream
world has ever seen ensues, bringing joyous laughter to the faces of
many.
“Inky, if we need to get out of here, just jet it! That tentacle will
yank the control pod and me with it!”
Alex basically becomes a Mech pilot, and confronts the Red Squirrel
head on with the Octopod.
You engage in the tickle fight to end all tickle fights!
Its eight arms are more than a match for the squirrels eight legs.
You have the advantage of reach, entanglement, and sucker pads. It
struggles in your grasp, gnashing its terrible teeth, but cannot reach
you. Its long tail whips around ineffectively, battering you softly.
The agitated squirrel squeals and swells like a red balloon. The
mech’s tentacles struggle to contain it. Just as the strain on the
machine is about to become unbearable, the rodent violently deflates. It
collapses in on itself with such ferocity that it turns itself inside
out. The octopod, all tangled up in the collapsing squirrel, is pulled
along as it folds in on itself until it becomes a hungry void the size
of a marble, floating in space and sucking at the air.
Inky watches from the banana boat as Alex and the squirrel disappear
from the Silver Forest. The squirrel portal finally closes in on itself,
severing the banana boat from the octopus mecha at the last possible
second. Inky on this side. Alex on the other.
Alex, you and the wreckage of the octopod are vomited out onto a
sandy beach. Red mist and vapors dissipate from your entry point. Before
you is a vast ocean, lapping lazily at the beach. The shoreline extends
endlessly in both directions. Behind you are endless sand dunes. Though
there is no sun, the sky seems to hover at sunset, all brilliant,
swirling oranges and purples.
A lone humanoid figure can be seen standing atop a nearby dune. It is
tall. It has legs like a goat or fawn, and a paunchy belly. Its long
neck protrudes into a kind of trunk that eventually folds over and hangs
down in front of the creature, about chest height. It terminates in a
smooth, round nub. No face. It wears a small satchel at its hip, its
strap slung over one shoulder and across its chest. Its long arms hand
loosely at its sides. Despite the lack of a face and any sensory organs,
it seems to be watching you. Slowly, it descends the dune and starts
walking toward you. It reaches into its satchel and draws a long, sharp
knife as it approaches.
Inky, you are in the banana boat in the Silver Forest. The turtle
that was a chipmunk has holed up in its shell, effectively just a sticky
bun.
“You wanted to see me,” intones a slightly muffled voice behind you.
A statement, not a question. You turn to see a figure cloaked in shadows
and demons. They wear a domed helmet of black obsidian glass, flashes of
rainbow colored light crackling along the inside illuminating very
little of the smoke-filled interior.
“What is it you seek from Dude 215R?”
WHAT DO YOU DO
00063
“Greetings, Great One.” Inky bows, back parallel to the ground while
they stand on the branch, now a humanoid child in a black uniform and
matching bookbag hanging under one arm. The banana boat is nowhere in
sight. Fuko follows her errant charge and the cloaked figure from a
nearby branch.
“This lowly one wonders if they may be permitted to seek the Great
Spirit’s insight, whose wisdom endures before and beyond.” Inky begins,
staring down the blurry reflection of silver boughs overhead on the
polished toes of their black shoes. They notice idly they do not see
themselves in the reflection.
Straightening from the bow, they look up at the figure and hold out a
plate of taiyaki. After a moment, the child asks haltingly, “There may
come a day when this one will be asked to choose between the chance to
protect many and that which they desire to protect most. Should this one
choose equally? Will the choice matter if both paths eventually lead to
destruction? Could destruction and salvation be two sides of the same
coin?”
You and the Dude are sitting in small upholstered chairs, across a
small half table from each other. There is a large sticky bun on a white
lacy doily on the table. Next to you is a small portal-sized window, and
outside you can see green rolling hills and small copses of trees fly
by. The other seats on the small train car are all empty. The two of you
are alone.
“I cannot give you advice,” the Dude says. “But I can offer you
experience.”
They raise a hand and hold a loosely closed fist out over the table.
The walls of the train become fuzzy and blurry, then translucent, and
finally transparent. They disappear and you have the sensation of
rocketing through space at dizzying speeds.
The track splits ahead you. To one side, bound to one track is that
which you desire to protect most. Bound to the other are the many.
“You can choose safely here. It’s just a dream, after all.” The Dude
opens their fist. The Twenty-one Fiver coin rests in their palm. “Heads,
you steer the train into the many, sparing that which you love most.
Tails, the opposite. You spare the many, and sacrifice that which you
hold dear.” They hold the coin out to you.
The train barrels toward the fork. “But choose quickly, lest the
choice be made for you.”
Alex scrambles from the wreckage of his mech, or what remained from
the gore portal he’d just experienced. The thought of what had occurred
made him grimace, which was an unusual state of affairs for an octopus,
that is until Alex realized he seemed to be back in his own body.
“Sunset, or perhaps rise? It’s hard to tell. Pretty though.. could be
prettier without the creepy knife dude.” Alex mutters to himself while
he rummages through the destroyed cockpit of the mech. He makes quick
work, detaches a side panel, pulls a couple of wires, and a compartment
in the back opens revealing the smooth dark blue metal and wood grain of
an ak74u sub machine gun. Amused Alex pulls the weapon from the
compartment and notices a distinct lack of additional magazines, just
the one large drum attached to the weapon with large red letters
emblazoned on it [INFINITE AMMO]. “Neat.”
Alex pulls himself from the wreck, and jumps down behind one of the
fallen tentacles taking a firing position behind cover, ak74u aimed down
range at the faceless figure.
“I don’t know who you are, but I don’t trust anyone who approaches
with a weapon. Let’s both stand down and talk this through! I’m not
supposed to be here, and I reckon you don’t want me here either. I’d be
happy to oblige and skidaddle if you’d be so kind as to point the way
out!” Alex pauses waiting for a reply.
The tall figure halts a short distance away. It raises a hand and
waves. In greeting? Surrender? In a fluid motion it continues to lift
the same hand and grabs a hold of its trunk, a little less than a foot
from the tip. It squeezes its fist tightly and the tip begins to swell.
It raises its other hand, and the knife, and starts to saw into the
flesh of the trunk behind its fist. The blade cuts cleanly as though
through a loaf of bread. There is no blood or gore.
When the creature lowers its hand, you can see that the center of the
trunk is a solid, bright pink fleshy material like a grapefruit, in the
center of which are two pin-prick eyes and a wide thin gash of a
mouth.
It still holds the tip of its severed trunk in its hand, a thin stalk
and a bulging cap looking for all the world like a large white button
mushroom. Peering up from the stem of the mushroom, an identical pink
face regards you stoically.
Both faces speak at the exact same time, one high pitched and one a
deep baritone. “Welcome, Dreamer, to Ousia, the Sea of Dreams. We are
Kasutva.”
Big Kasutva stoops down to set the small mushroom Kasutva down on the
ground. If they’re both Kasutva, that is. If that’s the way their
biology and sense of self actually works. Mushroom Kasutva wobbles side
to side a little bit and waggles its stalk as it looks around. Big
Kasutva places its knife back in its satchel and takes a few small steps
closer to you.
“We did not mean to offend you,” the two say, still perfectly in
sync. “As for the way out, that depends only somewhat on your
destination. Whatever the answer, we can assure you that it lies across
the sea.” Large Kasutva gestures broadly toward the expanse of ocean.
Small Kasutva lacks any limbs and cannot gesture, but smiles softly at
you.
“But tell us what it is you seek. Perhaps we can be of help.”
WHAT DO YOU DO
00064
Back at the fish market, Marvelo squints into the pouring rain and
swears under his breath, frustrated at the limited visibility.
His colleague is lying on the floor behind him in some kind of state
of deeply altered consciousness, along with an inkling, a toque, and an
owl. In fact, the only waking beings left inside the market are himself,
a fluffy little duck, and a sticky hemogoblin.
“I’ve seen stranger things,” he shrugs and admits to himself.
The duck and the goblin are both fluffed up and huddled up next to
each other softly quacking and chirping to themselves.
He pauses and holds his breath as something indistinct catches his
attention. Years of training have produced an instinct he has learned
not to question. It has saved his butt more times than he can count.
Sometimes it screams at him and the danger is apparent. Like that time
with the Permian Raiders off the southern tip of Harshwind Glade. Other
times, such as this, all he gets is the vague feeling that something is
off. He waits. He’s been here before. His subconscious has spotted
something, noticed some pattern that doesn’t fit its surroundings. He
knows if he’s patient, his conscious mind will catch up and realize what
it was.
He squints out into the pouring rain. There! A flash of red close to
the ground.
“What in the world,” he wonders as a small child wearing a bright red
dress toddles into view. It looks up at him blankly as the rain beats
down on its head and shoulders.
“What are you doing out here, little guy? You’re getting soaked!”
Marvelo, concerned, rushes forward to comfort the child.
Inky gingerly takes the coin with both hands, small digits clamping
onto the straight edges. They look at the Twenty-one Fiver nestled
against the fuzzy outlines of one palm before peering up again at the
figure seated before them. “Thank you, Great Spirit.” Inky says. “If
truly allowed to choose, then, this one accepts the price.”
They toss the coin up into the air. A beat, and they are hovering a
few feet above the tracks, between the fork and the oncoming train with
no walls. Inky watches as the child’s body begins to shrink as rapidly
as the black uniform expands, the entire apparition thinning and
becoming translucent. The shirt continues to grow until the hem brushes
the train tracks and the collar peeks over the invisible tops of the
train, the trousers and shoes having been pushed into the stones and
earth below.
A portal, the child’s voice supplies distantly. At the back of their
awareness, Inky homes in on the coin as it continues to spin. When the
train thunders down upon the oversized shirt doorway-apparent, they
brace for the force of the impact. Instead, all they could feel is a
creeping weariness, like water draining through tea leaves in a sieve,
while being suddenly surrounded by and staring into a deep
reflectionless pool.
Is it two to two, or two past eight, Inky wonders.
The last thing within their consciousness is a gleam of silver as the
coin lands on one of its corners mid-spin, bounces off the small half
table and falls into the shadows.
You sink into the dark reflectionless pool, letting its waters close
over you and pull you under. You ponder its depths from within in its
embrace, mindless of the passage of time.
After a few minutes, or a few days, you notice faint light rising up
here and there from below. Fuzzy, cobwebby human shapes float suspended
in the waters. Some far away, distant as stars. Some drift close enough
that you would be able to discern their features, if they had any.
You realize all at once that these are the dream forms of sleeping
Basmentarians everywhere, and that you are floating in Ousia, a solitary
awakened dreamer in a literal sea of the passive slumbering.
As though responding to your realization, the waters bear you up and
you pierce the weak membrane between water and air. You float
effortlessly and the gentle waves nudge you ever onward toward some
unknown shore. Or merely farther out to sea. You’re not sure.
You continue to see the dreamers all around you. You watch curiously
as you float by two that seem to have bumped into one another and fused
together, their cobwebby bodies sprouting hard crystalline growths and
spreading like creeping vines, forming a lattice and creating a small
floating island.
After a few hours, or a few weeks, you wash up on the beach of a
large island. There is a steep rock, a pillar of a mountain, jutting
straight up from the center of the island some distance ahead. And
jutting from the pillar is a fractal structure of interconnected towers,
all sprouting and branching from one large central tower. The top of the
tower disappears far overhead, obscured by a rippling aurora of green
and pink lights in the sky.
Some distance down the beach, just out of hailing distance, a lone
figure stands gazing at the sea, their back to the tower.
The figure waits.
The tower’s strange geometry beckons.
Kasutva, how can I know that I can trust you? What do you gain in
helping me, and was there really no way for you to communicate with me
without beheading yourself? That seems a little bit distraughting. Like,
do you need a bandage or some headache medicine or something? I feel
like if I yanked my face off I’d need an ibuprofen. I have some if you
want? (alex rummages in a coat pocket and finds a bottle of pain
killers, and offers them to the being).
Right anyways, answers questions. I’m looking for my Uncle first and
foremost. He dropped off the map a few days ago, and I can’t find hide
nor hair of him. Then the murders started. Shit at HQ when wild, hit the
wall literally, and now I’m in some sort of fever dream talking to what
can only be a manifestation of my own subconscious, or perhaps someone
else’s. Look. I need to get back to Inky, we’re trying to meet someone
and we’re running late, and in the scheme of things my problems aren’t
so big if the world’s going to end because some mad hatter is after
these blasted crystal’s we’ve been collecting..
Even as you speak, you notice the edges of Big Kasutva’s “wounds”
start to close until its flesh begins to once more envelop and enclose
its face.
The creature courteously accepts a few pills from you, but simply
deposits them in its satchel.
“No, it doesn’t hurt us,” say the two voices together. “And little
matter if it did. It is necessary for us to speak.”
They listen to your story. Big Kasutva’s voice starts to become
muffled as its skin now grows over its mouth. Only its eyes are visible
as the two of them continue. “If your Inky has come to this place, then
there is only one place they can have gone.” They gesture to the sea.
“And that place is Ephemeris. The Heart of the Dreaming at the center of
Ousia.”
Big Kasutva finally falls silent as it heals completely. It guides
you to the shoreline, where a long pier has suddenly appeared. Mushroom
Kasutva continues to speak for both of them.
“We only ask to accompany you as you go. We wish to see Ephemeris
ourselves. But we cannot abandon our post here on the dunes,” it says
looking at Big Kasutva. “And we,” it says gesturing to itself, “are too
small to brave the sea alone.”
Big Kasutva stops short of the end of the pier. The little mushroom
hops right up to the edge and peers down at the water.
“All that is left is to jump, Alex. And let the waters of Ousia bear
you up and carry you to Ephemeris.”
It hops up to you and extends itself in a clear request, despite its
lack of limbs, that it wants you to pick it up.
WHAT DO YOU DO
00065
Marvelo fetched a fluffy blanket from the piles of blankets and
pillows in the ritual room where the dreamers continue to sleep. He has
wrapped up the child and is drying them off. The sound of rain continues
to drum incessantly outside.
“Poor thing, you’re chilled to the bone. Don’t worry, Uncle Marv will
take care of you. There we go. Fix you right up!”
The child is still and silent. It has not made a noise this whole
time. Nor has it acted on its own to actually do anything besides stare
up at Marvelo with wide, dark eyes.
“How did you end up outside by yourself in the rain, hmm? No? That’s
okay. What about your name? Have you got a name?”
“Rind,” says a voice behind Marvelo. At the sound of its name, the
child’s eyes flick over Marvelo’s shoulder. The mercenary starts to spin
around even as the blanket writhes in his hands, wrapping itself around
his wrists and binding them tightly together.
“Hungh!” he cries out wordlessly and tucks into a roll, turning to
face his assailant and—he hopes—dodging any potential attack from
behind. And also putting some distance between himself and the child to
get it out of harms way.
Marvelo tries to push up to his knees as cords of rope snake their
way out of the shadows and coil around his knees and elbows. He
struggles to pull free of them. A thicker rope wraps around his waist,
and another squeezes around his chest and back. The ropes contract and
pull Marvelo into a ball. He groans and falls to his side. He looks up
into the eyes of a man wearing a bright red sash.
The child has tottled over to the man and reaches its arms up. The
man scoops the child up and holds it in the crook of one arm. The child
puts its arms around the man’s neck and looks down at Marvelo while
resting its cheek on the man’s chest.
“His name is Rind,” the man smiles.
Feeling bedraggled yet dry despite having been submerged under water,
Inky lays on the beach, staring up at the sky before sitting up and
looking around the landscape. They are now attired in a hooded azure
blue vest over red shirt and shorts, and blue shoes over mismatched
knee-high stockings. Their auburn hair is tied back with the drawstrings
from an attached small pouch. A plush toy resembling a certain floofy
duck peeks out from the hood.
They sense a soft weight land on one shoulder, and smile as Fuko nips
at their ear, no doubt partly in reproach for wandering off again
without her, and maybe partly meant to be reassuring. This is followed
several moments later by a low hiss and a series of light taps next to
Inky’s ear with her beak. Inky murmurs, “Is that so … we should call it
a wrap soon. Master Alex would probably be happy having Big Bother to
himself anyway, to grill as he likes.”
After a very long minute, Inky sighs and taking out a piece of paper
and pencil from their suitcase, scribbles a “pome”:
Island tower of towers
Nowhere everywhere the sea
Keep your apples and flowers
Your suitor has come for thee
They roll up the paper and tuck it into a small and clear glass
bottle with a cork stopper. Murmuring the sysorcerer’s name to the
bottle, they lower it into the water and watch as the bottle drifts into
the distance.
Walking along the shoreline and stopping a short distance from the
lone figure, Inky says casually, “Good day, fellow thing-finder.”
The figure turns in your direction and lowers their hood revealing a
long, hooked, black beak and a face covered in black feathers. Beady
black eyes regard you without blinking.
The feathers around its throat bristle when it speaks like a thick
bristling beard.
“Greetings, Dreamer, and welcome to Ephemeris, the Heart of the
Dreaming. What brings you to the Throne of Konsu?”
Well Kasutva, I may as well trust you. I imagine if you meant me harm
there are more direct and interesting ways to harm me than to misguide
me. Give me a moment to collect myself, I’ve never been much for
swimming you see, learned late and was always deathly afraid as a child.
Dreadful stuff really.
Alex steps away briefly to the edge of the pier and looks into the
Azure blue ocean, a swirl of unending blue depth. Still not my thing,
Alex mutters to himself. As he steels himself he notices a bottle
adrift, nearing the pier. As it comes closer, he plucks it from the
water, decorks it and inspects the note inside.
“What does it say” the little Kasutva inquires.
“Oh nothing, just someone trying to get in contact about our floating
pirateships extended warranty” Alex replies bruskly. This definitely
must have come from Inky Alex thinks to himself. They must have found
the way.
“Look Kasutva, this has been great fun, but I really think I ought to
be going, not really sure that a sea of anyones dreams is my sort of
thing and all that. And I seem ot have done not but create a mess of
things” Alex says as he gestures to the wreckage of the Mech. Alex
gestures in the air before him, a small split keyboard appears in front
of him and he types out a few short commands.
cat > /home/inky/messages/urgent <<EOF
Got your message
In a bit of a bind, wrapped up with some weird mushroom guy who wants to go for a swim.
Not sure how to handle it, but I might have to dip back to the real world and let you finish here.
I've made a write mess of things, but I trust you can finish this.
Oh, see attached, if you get into a pinch just use this spell, it'll get you what you need.
grep -A4 AID ~/messages/urgent | sed 's/AID//' | sh
AID
4b1af3fcf4ce005ef86d83c45713ba1a548b4e79da09a6d44632cdb6c5917489
d7d500fa37b986d931b70e114b4e67375b10b373aa6649641e7132e8b3dc7d18
ef6efe98ffd070f486c00b4f50d8bf1448414ef9c2fabe0cacd40bebafba8a02
1d0d1bf0188b842d9ae08b9b37b0f266936ef38b8f07e5c90e4a9351bf018898
EOF
“Right!” Alex exclaims startling the little Kasutva accidentally.
“Time for me to head back to the real world. Anything you need from me
before I head out? Oh also, can I take the ak74u? I think I might need
it.”
“Back … back to the waking world?” Mushroom Kasutva stammers.
“But…”
It looks out at the sea with a look of longing, confusion, and
frustration. “But we were finally going to see Ephemeris,” they say
almost wistfully.
“You were going to take us to Ephemeris!” they shout at you, suddenly
angry.
Mushroom Kasutva screws up its face and roars in rage as it rushes at
you and tries to shove you over the edge of the pier into the waters
below.
But Kasutva is less than a foot tall and quite ineffective at shoving
a human-sized person such as Alex.
Big Kasutva, on the otherhand, is roughly twelve feet tall and quite
capable of manhandling a human-sized person.
You look up in time to jerk back out of the way as they swipe at your
chest with their face-removing knife. It was all a feint though. As soon
as you are slightly off balance from dodging their attack, they reach
out with their other hand and give you a shove.
You trip over Mushroom Kasutva, who has positioned themself in just
such a way to best tangle up your feet. You stumble backwards a few
steps until one of your feet steps out into open air. You twist and and
look behind you as Ousia rises up to meet you.
Kasutva clings to your leg as you fall, crying. “We’re sorry. We’re
sorry,” they say over and over as you are pulled below the waves.
WHAT DO YOU DO
00066
“Thank you. May your search brings you good tidings.” Inky replies
with a smile and nod towards the sea.
“As to what brings me here, another traveller and myself have been
summoned to the Harpoon Club at a Wandering Bazaar. However, despite
uncovering the occasional biscuit tin or cotton candy wheel, my knack
for thing-finding doesn’t really extend to sentient bazaars in pocket
dimensions.” Inky chuckles wryly. “Might you happen to know the
way?”
As they end their question, Inky slips their hands into the pockets
of their hooded vest and is met with an envelope nestled within one of
them. A message from Master Alex. The packet is a bit lumpy to the
touch, as though there is a small round object inside. The sysorcerer
may have decided to spend some quality time with his stalker after all.
Must be lovely to have a dedicated fan. The two wouldn’t mind if Inky
went on a spot of sightseeing.
“Also, did you say the Throne of Konsu?” They glance in the direction
of the large tower and back to the figure before them.
“Ah, you don’t know the story of Lord Konsu?” The ravenfolk beckons
you to walk with him as you talk. “In the beginning, nobody knew how to
dream. There were no real people then. Just beasts and
creatures and horrors.
“So at that point, every creature visited Ousia only twice: at the
moment of birth, and at the moment of death. And all the time in between
was spent longing to return to the sea.”
At the ravenfolk’s side, the world spins under your feet. In mere
steps, you have made it to the base of the mountain jutting from the
center of the island.
“And one day, Konsu did. He dreamed. He was the first. Each night he
returned to the sea, and it swallowed his madness and his wildness. It
evolved his mind. It is dreaming, you see, that makes you human.
“The sea claims everything though eventually. But you know this
already. You crossed the sea. Surely you saw how it can work on dreamers
who have tarried here too long.”
Still the ravenfolk guides you onward until you arrive at the base of
the fractal tower, all purple and yellow stones.
You step inside and find voluminous halls, walls lined with statues
of all subjects. Fawns in revelry, elegant women in repose, terrible
giants in agony, warriors standing at attention, leaping fish, and
roaring lions.
He leads you through a labyrinth of empty halls, up grand stairs,
across yawning vestibules and dizzying bridges suspended between towers
as he continues to talk.
“Ousia works even on Konsu the Lord of All Dreams. Ephermeris is his
throne, it’s true. But it is also his prison. The island is
Konsu, you see. He is no longer at liberty to roam his domain himself,
in his own flesh. But perhaps you have already met one of his avatars?
Morpheus? The Dude 215R? Kilroy? Hmm, yes, I see that you have.
“Well,” he says pulling up short of an archway. You can hear voices
and laughter and the clinking of dinnerware on the other side. “I
believe we have arrived at your destination. I thank you for the
company, and will leave you here.”
The ravenfolk withdraws, disappearing once more into the maze of the
tower.
You look through the archway and see a plush dinner club absolutely
packed with patrons of all possible shapes and sizes. The Harpoon
Club.
You catch somebody waving at you from a table in the far corner.
Blavin Blandfoot. He grins and beckons you forward.
Joining him is a tall, slender cat person. Its facial features mostly
obscured by its jet-black fur. And with their back to you, a wizened old
man. The three of them are in the middle of a round of tumbrot, a
complicated game of wagers—overly complicated, some would say—involving
a special deck of cards, a set of dice, and a tumbling tower of
blocks.
You watch as the cat reaches out and carefully removes a block from
the middle of the tower. It places it on top, and the tower sways. The
group at the table excitedly holds its breath, and when the tower falls,
the cat holds its head in its hands in exaggerated dismay. The old man
whoops and gathers up his winnings and then turns and looks over his
shoulder in the direction that Blavin is waving.
Corraidhín the Sysorcerer grins and waves at you.
Alex pulls at the trigger of the ak and he plummets towards the waves
sending a wave of cold lead towards the bigger Katsuva. “Son of a bitch,
never trust someone who has to hide their face, agent 7, marvelo, always
was right on that one.” Hell, dunno if magical dream guns work on
mushrooms, but to hell with it, Alex thought.
He plunges into the water gripping tightly to his weapon, the little
katsuva clinging to him. As the water wraps around him he kicks at the
little mushroom breaking its grasp on his leg, and begins to swim back
up to the surface. “Like hell we’re doing this your way cavatappi
dude.”
Back in the real world..
Marvelo stares bleakly at the child and his assailant. “Who the fuck
do you think you are? And what the hell are you doing with the kid,
Rind, ain’t nothin good to come from some shady bloke like you. The hell
do you think you’re teaching him?”
As Marvelo hurls insults as demands at his assailant he slyly presses
his thumb and forefinger into the palm of his left hand, breaking a
small resistor embedded in his palm which activates as feint electrical
pulse inside his body. Just enough to trigger a Zabbix alarm, which
kicks off a series out automated correction scripts. A dose of
adrenaline here, a quick alaert to the remaining agents with a broadcast
LAT/LONG details via encrypted twtxt feed, but most importantly
something special Alex had each agent prepare, just in case their luck
ran out, an alarm only the damned could sleep through.
The screech of heavy metal music blares throughout the audio system
of the warehouse, every alarm and speaker comes alive blaring heavy
riffs of guitar and wicked drums fill the air while screaming echos
around the building. Marvelo laughs maniacly as his uninvited guest
reels at the unexpected turn of events.
“Alex! We caught him!” Marvelo yells through his laughing fit.
Gliftwirp frowns as the sirens wail in the fish market. He tightens
the rope around Marvelo’s neck. Deprived of oxygen, Marvelo struggles
and then goes limp.
The hemogoblin in the corner trembles as an overpowering sense of
JUSTICE sings in its veins. It gnashes its teeth and its bloodshoot eyes
become pupil-less pools of red. A single word dances on the tip of its
tongue.
It watches as Gliftwirp stands at the edge of the ritual circle,
looking in. Pillows and blankets creep slowly toward the dreamers like
slugs intent on smothering them.
The hemogoblin launches itself into the air with a cry of “EEEEE!
VULL!” and lands on the assassin’s back, sinking its teeth into the nape
of his neck and reaching its claws around for his face.
Gliftwirp cries out in pain and surprise. His hands shoot back to pry
the thing from his back even as he is propelled forward by the force of
the attack.
Gliftwirp and the hemogoblin cross the circle of salt and ash and
spill into the pillows in a heap and instantly both of them fall fast
asleep.
An observer would almost think they were cuddling each other in their
sleep. If it weren’t, that is, for the goblin’s claws, still sunk into
the side of the warpwefter’s face.
Rind, sired by the melon seller, abandoned by his own mother, and
adopted by the assassin, watches all of this unfold. And sits down and
strokes the duck’s feathers.
~
Alex’s ascent into the waking world is interrupted by a surge that
tugs him sideways and off track. The presence of new arrivals in the
stream, the tenuous connection between the waking and dreaming worlds
held open by the Dream Sigil. Somebody beckoning him, summoning him.
He emerges from the void into an endless, featureless expanse. Plain,
loose, dark soil as far as the eye can see, with only a small rock or
two here and there to break up the monotony. The black empty sky looms
ominously overhead.
Before you is a tall, slender person in voluminous robes of deep
purple. Their soft, smooth face framed by curtains of long, straight,
blonde hair. They wear a golden circlet on their head and a golden eye
in the middle of their forehead. And in their hands they wield a
resplendent longsword.
Shreds of a tattered red cloth lie strewn about their feet.
They lift their head at your appearance. “Alex,” they say. “It is
good that we finally meet. You have done me a great service in gathering
pieces of my essence—including this, the Sword of Y’aml!—so that I may
finally start to return to Basmentaria. You have done so much already,
but I am afraid I must ask more of you still.”
WHAT DO YOU DO
00067
In the fish market, the dreamers continue to sleep soundly through
the ringing claxon alarms with nothing but maybe the twitch of a finger
to indicate that they hear anything at all.
During the commotion with Marvelo and Gliftwirp, nobody but Rind
noticed the thick rusty nail in the side of the candle wiggle its way
out of the soft wax and clatter onto the plate at the base of the
candle, the ringing of tin masked by the ringing of the claxon
alarm.
Still the dreamers sleep.
Rind watches as the candle burns dangerously low. The mummified hand
of the Nyxmaer in the base of the candle starts to wriggle, struggle,
and strain against the softening wax. It stretches and reaches for the
eye in the center of the candle.
Rind continues to soothe the duck and stroke its feathers. The child
looks at the space where Gliftwirp and the hemogoblin stumbled into the
circle, smudging the line of salt and ash, breaking the circle and
severing its continuity. Making a small space for something to get in.
Or out.
“Yo! Little cavatappi dude, where the hell are we?!” Alex’s eyes scan
the room rapidly. There’s no water, aside from what he dragged in with
his abrupt departure from the pier. The dark sky stretches into the
nothingness of the void. Asthe robed figure begins speaks Alex takes
note of his situation.
‘Nowhere to hide, zero cover. A whole lot of nothing actually. It’s
one thing after another with this dream thing.’
As the figure finishes his address Alex nods politely. “I’ll be
honest my guy, I haven’t the foggiest what you’re talking about. Looks
to me you’ve got the whole sword thing, all I’ve got is my trusty AK. I
guess back top side, in umm I guess the real world, I did find a wonky
dagger my uncle tried to hide. But I’m pretty sure that got eaten by a
cute little hemogoblin while I was busy murdering ghost pirates. Anyways
more to the point, I’m not quite sure I follow.”
Alex pauses briefly and then continues, “You say you need to get out
of here? Now that part I follow, me the hell too. I just got attacked by
some freaky sadist mushroom that called itself katsuva. Cut its head
clean off just so it could try and chuck me in the drink. Right
unpleasant fella, but I think I lost him when, well, I got here,
wherever that is.”
“Now I don’t know much, but I’m not much for trust after getting
attacked by a talking mushroom monster. So if you’ll excuse me, I reckon
the exit is right about that way (Alex jabs his finger over his back
away from the figure), and I’m inclined to head out unless you know a
better way.”
You weren’t in the kobit caves with the rest of Retrieval Team 43, so
you didn’t see the reliefs. But every Basmentarian is familiar with the
iconography of the Trine. This figure is dressed in the traditional
rainments of Neddas, god of sages and starlight. Furthermore you
recognize them from your dreams in the Milk Market.
Kasutva the small mushroom meeps and hides behind your leg.
“You know, we each of us loved you in our own way,” Neddas says. “But
of the three of us, I alone gave away pieces of my divinity. I wanted to
see you thrive and grow strong.
“You’ve already found several pieces of my essence. Coin in
the treasure hoard below the earth. Mirth in the shipwreck
under the sea. And lore in the clouds atop Kelsun Peak.
“And of course you found justice,” they say, looking at the
sword. “This one got a little weird.” The frown. “Became a little
sentient, didn’t it?” They press the blade of the sword to their chest
and absorb it into their being. They sigh happily.
“You have found enough of my essence that I am able to start to
materialize again. Not quite in Basmentaria yet. But here, a little
bit.
“There are still two more pieces out there. If you can reunite all
five crystals, I will be able to cross over into Basmentaria again.
“So yes, Alex. You are correct. It is time you head out. Return to
Basmentaria. Find the remaining crystals, so that I may return and right
the wrongs of the past. I will do what I can to assist you.”
Inky waves back once, twice in greeting, before crossing their
forefingers twice, touching a hand briefly to their chest, and strolling
towards the restrooms.
Leaning against a wall outside of the rest area, out of sight from
the main dining hall, Inky pulls out the message from Master Alex and
reads it. Engagement confirmed, it seems. Also in the envelope is a
smooth oval grey pebble with the letters “sh” carved onto it. A mini
dousojin. How considerate of him.
Putting the envelope and pebble into a shorts pocket, Inky holds up a
chewy blood berry biscuit, which they offer to the great horned owl
patiently perched on their shoulder. “What if we just zip out now and
have a walk around the towers? Do you think it will cause offence to the
Grand Master of the realm?” Inky asks her. Fuko looks up from her treat
and gives them a short series of disapproving clicks of her beak.
“He wants more ‘intel’,” Inky says. It isn’t even a question.
On another occasion they would be glad to see Master Corraidhn
animated and well — when there wasn’t a demanding curmudgeon on the
other end of an absurd fishing expedition. The elder sysorcerer’s
presence in the Dreaming, illusion or otherwise, has effectively dashed
any prospect of an early night out.
“Thirteen minutes. Only because Scoops likes you.” Inky tells the
owl.
They look down at their shirt with orange horizontal stripes, blue
knee-length shorts, blue running shoes, and wordlessly declare the
change of clothes suitable for fine non-dining. The noogle’s drawstring
pouch is knotted to a metal hoop on a pocket flap to one side of their
shorts, having let loose a short mop of tousled red hair. A plush floofy
duck keychain dangles next to the pouch.
Emerging from the hallway, the awkward, skinny youth with an owl
approaches the far corner table.
You approach the far corner table, weaving your way through the
crowded tables of the Harpoon Club.
“Inky!” Blavin chorttles merrily as you pull up a chair. The cat
person nods politely at you and starts rebuilding the block tower.
Corraidhín watches the archway behind you as you enter. When nobody
follows you into the Harpoon Club he frowns, tugs on his beard, and sits
up straighter in his chair.
“You’re alone?” Blavin observes. “No matter. Thank you so much for
meeting us here! I trust it wasn’t too much trouble? A little bit out of
the way, I know. But it is so very hard to find a place away from prying
eyes, isn’t it?”
“Get to the point, Blavin.” snaps Corraidhín.
“Quite right!” laughs Blavin, taking a sip of his drink. “Listen,” he
says, suddenly very serious. “It’s time I came clean to you. You deserve
that much. And besides, I think we can help each other. While it is true
that I work for the Benefactor, I don’t actually serve their interests.
You see, I represent another party. A double agent they would
call me in the spy novels.” He waves his hand dismissively, as though
somebody were making a fuss over him and he were embarrassed.
“As I’m sure you already know, our organization is called the Golden
Iris. Like the Benefactor, our goal is to collect the Ginnarak Cystals.
I know you’ve heard all the old stories. Together they could kill a
god, blah blah blah.” He sloshes his drink as the gestures. “But we
think they’ve got it all wrong, Inky. That is, they have it
backwards at least!”
Blavin leans in, his eyes shining. “The Golden Iris intends nothing
less than creating a new god!”
“The Trine has been absent for years. We’re going to restore the
balance. Now you see why the mission is so important, Inky. We need the
crystals.”
“Now I know what you’re going to say! It all sounds too fantastic.
Yes well, that’s why I brought along somebody whose credibility I know
you’ll trust!” He beams at Corraidhín.
The wizard sighs. “As far as I can tell, the hobbit is telling the
truth.”
Blavin grins as Corraidhín continues.
“The Golden Iris is trying to elevate Sitopotnia, the Corn Mother, to
godhood. Which I admit makes a certain kind of sense. She’s the only
mortal to have created life after all. Kind of the ideal candidate for
the job to be honest.
They’ve hitched an odd team of mules to their buggy to help them. And
they’re managing to drag the thing forward despite all pulling in
slightly different directions. The Cyberplasms want new bodies. The Gnu
Zealots want to open source the process so everybody can create new
gods. And I don’t actually know what the BAND wackos want.”
Corraidhín shrugs, “I don’t have a particular dog in this fight. The
Benefactor was able to excise the, ahem, ‘anomaly’ that happened at the
SS RSS. Including the second crystal, which is currently in his
possession, and my body, which is still technically back at the
institute and still under the care of Felixe here.” The black cat gives
another polite nod. Having completed building the tumbling tower, it is
now shuffling the tumbrot cards, face down, around on the table.
“Felixe is Basmentaria’s preeminent expert in preserving entities
that happen to exist between two states. Or that happen to exist in two
states at the same time.. Bah, it’s complicated,” Corraidhín huffs.
“Yes!” interrupts Blavin. “Now! Despite working closely with him all
this time, I am actually none the wiser as to the Benefactor’s actual
plans for the crystals. I just know we need them more.
“Inky, you must retrieve the remaining crystals. And also the one in
the Benefactor’s possession. And deliver them to us so we may usher in a
new age for Basmentaria!”
Felixe the cat deals the cards out to the center of the table, face
down, in a cross. Three across, three high. It sets the remainder of the
deck aside and looks at you expectantly.
WHAT DO YOU DO?
Afterword
I don’t know what I’m going to put here, but I didn’t want this
document to just abruptly end. So here you go: a kind farewell and a
more gentle conclusion.
Thanks for reading.
dozens@tilde.team
Appendix A: Dramatis Personae
Alex
Bio
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.
Retriever: Contractual Obligation, An Auspicious Start, Two In The
Hand, The Triple Lindy
Corraidhín
Status: timestuck in a fork bomb
Bio
They call me Corraidhín, and while my wisened age may seem an
impediment to our expedition I assure you I make up for it with my sharp
wit and intellect! By trade I am a scholar, master of the histories of
this realm, and a dabbler in the arcane and mystic arts.
I believe my skills naturally lend themselves to this expedition. I’m
certain you’ll need someone to elucidate upon the history of these
artifacts, and should trouble come our way I’m ready at hand with spells
a plenty. I’m not the best with a sword, but can hold my own with a bow
staff, but it may be best to leave the fighting up to you younguns. If
we encounter arcane ruins or cryptic texts you’ll find my skills just as
useful as the finest blade in battle.
I think with my share of the reward I’ll buy more books. Lots and
lots of books, a whole library of books! And then I’ll start a library,
yes that sounds delightful. And maybe one of those books will have some
information on ridding me of that accursed demon, but that’s another
story entirely.
Equipment: Sword of Yam’L, Ginnarak Crystal (Earth)
Paths:
Retriever: Contractual Obligation, An Auspicious Start
Soulsword: Bloodlust
Gabs
Bio
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!
Player: archangelic
XP: 0
Skills: Do Anything 1, Stabbing 2
Equipment:
Paths:
Retriever: Contractual Obligation, An Auspicious Start, Two In The
Hand
Glarg
Bio
I am Glarg, an earth elemental who was conjured by a wizard who was
immediately beheaded after summoning me. By some freak accident I was
not sent back home to the earth elemental plane when the spell should
have ended. While I have learned the common tonge in my time on this
plane, I have not developed the ability to speak it, because I have no
mouth. I’m a very gentle soul who is misunderstood because of my hard,
cold exterior.
I’m pretty durable and good with rocks.
With my share of the money, I plan to hire a mage to send me home, or
turn everyone else into earth elementals.
Player: kindrobot
XP: 0
Skills: Do Anything 1
Paths:
Retriever: Contractual Obligation, An Auspicious Start, Two In The
Hand
Inky
Bio
Inkulos Iridis greets you merrily! Some call me Inky the Tiny because
of my slight size (perfectly average for imps, I assure you!) and a
fondness for ink.
I may be small and nowhere as battle-hardened as knights in shining
armour, but I can skip out of a monster’s grasp before you can say
“scram!”, slip through the cracks (often unseen), scout for useful
items, and brew all kinds of ink with special effects for discerning
drinkers.
What do you plan to do with your cut of the money? Buy lots of ink
ingredients, of course! With the money, the very first ink patio with
the best paper nibbles will be opening to serve all from far and wide
very soon!
Player: mio
XP: 0
Skills: Do Anything 1, Persuasive 2, Plantomancy 2, Throwing 2,
Medicine 2
Equipment: Handy Duffer Discette, Fine Feathered Quills, Jade Tea
Set, Mountain Range Glyph Ink, Bead of the Werehare
Paths:
Retriever: Contractual Obligation, An Auspicious Start, Two In The
Hand, The Triple Lindy
A broad-chested, olive skinned human finishes a pint of ale with a
long swig. He greets the group with a merry-looking smile, though it
doesn’t seem to touch his eyes. He seems a touch distracted, as if
something else is on his mind. A feeling of lingering sadness touches
his aura.
“Greetings, my friends! My name is Jarrod. And this here …” he taps a
heavy warhammer leaning against the back of his chair “… is Gertrude.
When it comes to danger, consider us your shield. I will blunt what
dangers may come from ahead and protect those who shelter behind. I’m
more than good in a fight, specializing in up-close battles and …” he
gives a small smirk “… alternative forms of negotiations.”
He leans over and places his elbows on the table, tenting his fingers
and leaning in with his chin touching them as he continues. A thin
leather cord adorned with small charms carved from bone is draped around
his left wrist.
“Other than that, I’m willing to take on cooking chores and spin the
occasional tale around a campfire. My cut of the money goes towards
opening my own tavern when I retire.”
Player: marcus
XP: 0
Skills: Do Anything 1, Oratory 2
Equipment: Fascinating Bangle
Paths:
Retriever: Contractual Obligation, An Auspicious Start, Two In The
Hand
Sneaky Willows
Bio
I’m “Sneaky” Willows (nobody knows my actual name), an elvish
pickpocket with a love for sneakin’, stabbin’ and music playin’! Some
people say I’m no good at music playin’, but then I go sneakin’ and
stabbin’ em!
On this team I think I’m gonna be good at sneakin’ up to those
crystals and grabbin’ em right from under the guard’s noses!
With my money I’m plannin’ to hire a bard to teach me more music, so
I can really impress people with my playin’ and maybe not even have to
stab them!
Player: nico
XP: 0
Skills: Do Anything 1
Paths:
Retriever: Contractual Obligation, An Auspicious Start, Two In The
Hand
Tea Filler
Bio
Who: Teefoon Filler of the Bucket, Knight of the 3rd order of
Balmarlovemeer, Crester of the Golden-Fringed Ridge and 2nd to the
Keeper of the Grimoire Glorious. You may call me “Tea.” (Tea is,
notably, a giant. ~11ft tall).
What: Retired Cleric turned Archeologist.
Cash: A sturdy wagon and 5 head of oxen to pull it. I wish to travel
further than my legs can take me.
Player: eli
XP: 0
Skills: Do Anything 1
Paths:
Retriever: Contractual Obligation, An Auspicious Start, Two In The
Hand
Appendex B: Meta
Welcome to Basement Quest!
We’re gonna play this by ear, and cross each bridge only when we get
to it.
Cadence: I’ll move the story along roughly once a week. Hopefully
that gives everybody time to post something and participate.
Open Table / Inclusion over realism: If you disappear for a while
and then come back, your character will immediately reappear as though
they’ve been there the whole time. Come and go as you please. Open door
policy! Drop in and drop out as you please.
Linearity: Respond only to the most recent email in the thread.
(We might play around with time later, but for now, let’s keep it
simple.)
To do something, say that you do it, and then it probably
happens!
If there is a risk, or chance of failure, we’ll roll dice to
determine the outcome. We’ll use a variation of “Roll for Shoes” because
it’s probably the most simple system there is. Everybody will start out
pretty even skills wise. But you will eventually get really good at
really specific things.
Everybody starts with one skill: Do anything 1
So to attempt to do anything, roll 1d6.
1 - 3: Things go poorly. Gain 1 xp.
4 - 5: Partial success / success at cost
6: Great success!
If you roll all sixes, you gain a new +1 skill which must be a subset
of the skill you just used.
Example:
Player: I kick down the door. I’ll roll Do Anything (1) aaaand,
that’s a six!”
Referee: You now have “Kicking Down Doors 2”
Later….
Player: I bust down the door with a flying kick! I’ll roll Kicking
Down Doors 2 aaaand, two sixes!
Referee: You now have “Doorbane 3”
Player: Siiiick, doors fear me.
Every time you fail a roll, you gain 1 xp.
You can spend xp to turn any die into a six for the purpose of
advancement.
Paths are a kind of skill ladder that players can discover and unlock
through play as their characters learn more about the world by living in
it.
They are the lambda calculus answer to “classes” in traditional
ttrpgs: a kind of anonymous class that everybody has access to, that you
can combine and mix and match to your heart’s content. They are an
all-you-can-eat buffet of skills and talents.
How it works:
Each path has a bunch of skills.
Every skill starts with a rank (a number), followed by a name (in
bold), a trigger (in parenthesis), and finally a description.
You can unlock any skill by satisfying its trigger in-game, provided
you have already unlocked at least one skill of every rank below it, in
the same path. (The exceptions are skills of rank zero, which are the
entry level skills for each path, and do not have such a
requirement.)
Example:
Path of the Goblin Slayer
Favored Foe (Slay 100 goblins): You are now an
expert when facing this foe. From now on when attacking a goblin, a roll
of 5 - 6 is considered a critical success. 4 - 5 is a success. And 1 - 3
is a mixed success.
The path is “Path of the Goblin Slayer”. The rank of the first skill
is 0, so there are no prerequisites. (If it had been, say, 2, then you
would need to have unlocked a skill of rank 1 and of rank 0 in the same
path before unlocking this one.) The name is “Favored Foe”. The trigger
is “Slay 100 goblins”. And the perk is detailed in the description.
Path of the Retriever
The Perks of the Job
Contractual Obligation (Agree to retrieve 5
crystals for the Benefactor): You have access to the Benefactor’s
resources through your handler, Blavin Blandfoot.
An Auspicious Start (Retrieve 1 crystal): You gain
a team of rivals: the Retrieval Team 70 gophers. If you don’t have a 2
dice skill yet, gain one of your choosing.
Two In The Hand (Retrieve 2 crystals): Two in the
hand are technically worth four in the bush. That’s the going exchange
rate, anyway. Gain one 2 dice skill of your choosing.
The Triple Lindy (Retrieve 3 crystals): “Is that
hard?” “It’s impossible.” Turn any 2 dice skill into a 3 dice
skill.
Pareto Roll (Retrieve 4 crystals): A mere 20% of
resources drive 80% of the outcomes. What does that have to do with
crystals? I don’t know, but you have 80% of them now. From now on, you
can spend 1 xp to reroll any 1 die.
HOT TUB PARTY (Retrieve 5 crystals): You win a
visit to the Benefactor’s mansion, including dinner and a dip in the hot
tub!
Path of the Tasseomancer
If that’s your cup of tea…
Reading (Obtain a magical tea set): You can see
omens in the tea leaves left after drinking tea from your magic tea
set.
Ceremony (Perform a ritual tea ceremony every day
for a month): Time for tea! Once a day, you can announce a tea party,
temporarily putting an end to any hostilities for as long as it takes to
enjoy 3 cups of tea.
Steeping (Offer something of great personal value
to the teapot. It vanishes and does not return): Practically anything
can be steeped in your teapot to extract oils and soluables. Drinking
such a prepared concoction will temporarily grant you some aspect of
that which was steeped.
Gossip (Betray the trust of a loved one): During a
tea ceremony, you can compel one creature to answer one question
truthfully.
Blending (Create 24 different infusions): You can
steep two ingredients at once, gaining benefits from both when drinking
the infusion.
Scrying (Detain a guest at your tea ceremony for 24
hours): The precise location of anybody who drinks your tea is known to
you for 24 hours after they consume it.
Caffeine (Stay up all night drinking tea for 3
days): You can boost the stimulant effects of your tea. Perform a tea
ceremony forgo the need to sleep, while also gaining the benefits of a
full night’s rest.
Bottomless Pour (Make a single pot of tea last you
three days): Your teapot always has one more cup of tea in it.
Path of the Were-Hare
You have been cursed to wander this world; half man, half rabbit.
Lepusthropy (Gain the curse of lepusthropy): Every
full moon, you become a monstrous human/rabbit hybrid with an insatiable
craving for fresh vegetables.
Beast Sense (Talk to a rabbit): Rabbits and hares
will obey your orders. You can sense when there are rabbits or hares
nearby.
Hybrid Form (Embrace the curse): You can assume
hybrid form at will. Your sharp, pointy teeth do damage as a 3 dice
skill. You can only maintain this form for a short time, and are left
weak afterwards.
Beast Form (Meditate on the form of a rabbit every
day for a month): You can assume the form or a rabbit or hare. The
longer you maintain this form, the more risk you won’t be able to change
back!
Path of the Soulsword
You have a unique bond with a sentient sword
Bloodlust (Discover and obtain a sentient, magical
sword): Your sword has a lust for stabbing that can only be satisfied
with blood. Your sword counts as a 3 dice skill when attacking, but you
must also roll to resist being overcome by a mindless bloodlust,
striking out at whoever happens to be nearby.
Spell Sword (Cast a spell on your sword after
satisfying its bloodlust): You can cast a spell on your sword to store
it for quick casting later: on your turn, if you hit with your sword,
you can automatically cast the stored spell in addition to doing damage
with the sword.
Path of the Duck Outlaw
When Basket Duck is against the law, only outlaws will play Basket
Duck. And not even the angels will weep when this path eventually leads
to your inevitable death.
Inspired by juego del pato, the traditional, much maligned,
national sport of Argentina. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pato. Credit to ~mio for
kicking off this idea.
Basket Duck (Given the opportunity to befriend a
duck, trap it instead and keep it in a basket): You can whip a crowd
into a frenzy. The very sight of your duck in a basket can provoke a
knife fight.
Gaucho (Right 100 leagues on horseback with your
basket duck): Your horsemanship is legendary. You can achieve feats of
daring, strength, and agility while on horseback. And while you carry
your basket duck.
Pate-au-pato (Fatten a duck for an abattoir): Your
foie gras recipe impresses any guest you invite to dine, increasing the
likelihood a request will be responded to in your favour.
Pecking Duck (Make a sauce 666 times): You gain a
2-dice Roasting skill with a chance of increased effectiveness on beasts
and decreased effectiveness on humanoids.
Duck Trap (Trap 44 ducks each under 44 seconds):
Your Trapping skills have improved, which is to say, they have gotten
worse at trapping ducks and better at trapping other somethings and
nothings. Increased chance of finding other things in any trap you
set.
Dog (Trap 100 ducks): You gain a small but vicious
dog who can help flush ducks out of the bush for you to trap. If you
ever fail to trap one though, it will laugh at and demoralize you.
Pants Is Overrated (Refuse to wear pants for 30
days): For as long as you wear no pants, you can preen yourself to
become waterproof. This effect also extends to any items you carry.
People may not approve of your lack of attire. But you have a long
poncho right?
Feather Fall (Survive a fall from over 20 feet high
with your basket duck): You can pluck a feather from your basket duck
and use it to slow your descent, landing safely on your feet.
Pato (Safely deliver your basket duck back to your
home; along the way, offer it to everyone you meet but don’t let them
take it): From now on, basket duck is outlawed by the government
wherever you go. At the same time, you are a hero of the people and can
muster a small mob to your aide.
Duck Typing (Make an ink from the roasted beans of
the java plant and a quill from a duck feather. Write on a parchment in
javascript 100 times “Thou art a duck”): If it looks like a
duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, then—if you say it
is—it is a duck.
Arrogate (Kill the person who has stolen your
basket duck from you): The angels have turned their backs on you,
leaving you free to claim more than what is rightfully yours. You are
immune to the blessings and curses of any minor miracle worker.
Path of the Murderhobo
You are an angel of death. A dirty, homeless angel of death with no
conscious or qualms with killing the innocent.
Hobo (Refuse to sleep under a roof or on the
ground): You gain a lot of resilience due to being unhoused. You are
partially immune to poison and disease, and can consume rotten food or
drink without any ill effects.
Bully (Destroy something weak and defenseless): You
always have the drop on somebody weaker, smaller, less wealthy, or
otherwise worse off than you.
Pocket Sand (Overcome a foe while blinded
yourself): You always have at least one handful of sand, gravel, grit,
or rubble in your pockets that you can use to attempt to blind your
foe.
In Cold Blood (Kill an innocent person in cold
blood): When it is unprovoked or unexpected, your first attack always
hits its target.
Arsonist (Burn three different structures down to
the ground on three different occasions): You can always produce a flame
regardless of the circumstances. It might because you have waterproof
matches, a special lighter, or a magic candle. Anything you set your
magic flame to will catch fire. It may not stay lit and indeed may
immediately go out. But it will burn.
The Devil’s Luck (Frame an innocent and see them
put to death for a crime you committed) Given your reputation for death
and destruction, they should have locked you up long ago and thrown away
the key. How are you possibly still a free man? Be it fear,
intimidation, or the devil’s blessing, people are likely to turn a blind
eye to your evil actions.
Path of the Sarong-fu Master
You are a master of soft, pliaable weapons.
Sarong-fu (Commit yourself to the Way of
Sarong-fu): Vow to carry and use no weapons, other than your sarong or
sash.
Light-footed (Wear no armor and carry no shield):
You are agile, nimble, and light of foot. You are exceptionally good at
dodging attacks, and are skilled at sneaking.
Whip (Defeat a foe with nothing but your sash): You
can twist a piece of cloth into a dangerous whip that you are proficient
with.
Entangle (Fight dirty): You can use your sash or
another cloth to trip up your foe.
Bag (Mug an unsuspecting victim): Swiftly slip your
sash over a foe’s head and cinch it, leaving them blind, confused, and
disoriented.
Rope (Scale a building and climb in through a 2nd
story window): Twist a cloth into a handy rope. When you’re done with
it, you can un-twist it back into cloth.
Starch (Do not bathe or wash your sash for 90
days): You can stiffen cloth for extra protection when worn, or to
create hard constructs.
Deflect (Win hand-to-hand combat with your hands
bound together): Grip one end of your sash in either hand. When your foe
attacks, you can use your sash to deflect the blow.
Bind (Win a shoe tying contest three times):
Swiftly tie two objects together. Such as a person’s wrists.
Mending: (Wear the same garment until it falls
apart): You can repair torn or ripped fabric with a touch.
Glide (Survive a daring leap): You can use a large
square cloth to safely parachute down from tall heights, or to glide
over a long distance.
Sewing (Win 3 sewing bees): You can fashion fabric
into different shapes and garments and back with a touch.
Disarm (Successfully deflect 20 attacks): When you
deflect an attack, you can attempt to disarm your foe
by wrapping your sash around their weapon and yanking.
Garrote (Strangle a man to death): With a thin
piece of cloth, you can silently strangle your foe without leaving a
trace
Advanced Bag (Bag 20 victims): When you
bag somebody and cinch the bag, you can choose to cut
off their air, causing them to suffocate, leading to unconsciousness or
even death.
Knot (Learn every knot in the Encyclopedia of
Knots): You can tie a knot that cannot be untied except for another
Sarong-fu Master of your level. Similarly, you can swiftly untie any
knot, save for one tied by a Sarong-fu Master whose level exceeds your
own.
Transcendent Sarong-fu (Fashion a small cloth
puppet. Keep it hidden on your person for 90 days. Speak to it every
night.): Fabric obeys your spoken command.
Appendix C: Bestiary
Some of the creatures who inhabit the world of Basmentaria
Aetherwael
A void whale. Most commonly observed in the swimming in the earth’s
atmosphere, where they come to breath air. But they spend most of their
time in the void of space, where they dive to great depths.
aetherwael
Aur
Giant ears with bat wings. Very keen hearing obviously. Usually more of
an annoyance than a true deterent. Unless there’s a Centaur around.
aur
Blahoblin
a little goblinoid with the head of a goblin shark
blahoblin
Centaur
A hundred ears with a hundred wings. The size of a small horse. They can
really ruin your day.
centaur
Cobit
A creature on the cob. The middle life stage of the corn creature,
between Aur and Centaur. It does not have wings. Its flesh is comprised
of thousands of hard microkernels. They travel in herds, and can hear at
the speed of sound.
cobit
Egre
Giant muscle bird. Proud, muscly, vain, fashion forward. Beautiful
plumage.
egre
Gnome
Tiny tinkerers. Highly combustible. Very explosive. Like making
contraptions powered by steam and/or coal
All gnomes are women. All gnomes are engineers. They have bright red
noses, and very long ears. And long nimble fingers.
gnome
Gnu
Bisonpeople. Long beards, long hair, horns. Poor personal hygiene.
Uncompromising idealists. They insist on a world of free and open-source
magic. They refuse to use any magic that they cannot study, modify,
redistribute, and use however they want. Theirs is a political movement
that borders on religion. Or a religious movement that borders on
politics.
gnu
Groll
A dirty mop head on long, stilt-like legs. Solitary wanderers. They love
magic, but have no natural aptitude for it, and so covet magical items
like wands, staves, and orbs. A typical groll is a walking arsenal of
runes and wands.
groll
Harrowkrake
A colossal many-tentacled sea monster with a hard shell. It drags itself
along the ocean floor, carving deep furrows in which it lives, catching
prey with its tentacles.
harrowkrake
Hemogoblin
A fluffy little goblinoid, dripping blood absolutely EVERYWHERE. Oh god,
don’t let it touch that! Ew.
Dispite everything, disgustingly cute.
Sole manufacturers of an extremely high quality synthetic blood, and
thus pretty much single-handedly support the “vegetarian” vampire
community.
hemogoblin
Horkosgrampus
Toothy whales with a single long tusk. They are mostly scavengers, and
are only provoked to violence in the presence of a lie or the breaking
of an oath, in which case they go into a frenzy preying on the liar or
liars. They can smell blood from a great distance, but can hear a lie
from much further.
horkosgrampus
Kobit
Subterranean scaly ratdog creatures. Big luminous eyes, long droopy
mustaches. Extremely rarely, they may grow leathery wings, in which case
they are revered and elevated by the other kobits.
kobit
Merbear
Top half bear. Thick, hairless, leathery skin with a thick layer of
blubber to keep it warm. Bottom half fish.
merbear
Noogle
A cat with owl wings. They wear a propeller hat, which helps them
hover in mid-air, as well as a bell and a cloth pouch with slips of
fortunes around their necks. When they are standing still, their default
facial expression makes them look as though they are either asleep on
their feet or aghast at the sight before them. However, a smirking
expression directed at a non-bird is a sign of trouble for their target:
the latter is about to become catnip.
While not rare, noogle sightings are uncommon. They sometimes appear
to lost travellers or people seeking an oracle for counsel. A fortune
can be obtained from a noogle in exchange for a good deed, large or
small, usually to be completed by the requester within a year of
receiving the fortune. If the counsel seeker neglects to fulfill the
deed, or completes it with ill intentions, a significant misfortune may
befall them.
It is said that dreaming of a noogle on the first night of a new year
will bring good fortune to the dreamer for the year.
noogle
Tardigrade
A water bear. It has eight jointless legs, each tipped with four sharp
claws. It wriggles and wobbles like jelly as it gesticulates.
tardigrade
Toque
Wild men of the mountains. Their long, sloping, vertically-creased
foreheads and their bulbous, floppy skullcaps make it look like they
wear chef’s hats. But no, that’s just what their heads look like.
toque
Torque
The twisted people. Their bodies literally twisted and warped by magic
into gruesome forms, these wretched creatures are hated and reviled
across the lands.
torque
Zephynos
Juvenile cloud dragons. They have wide heads and lidless eyes. Multiple
pairs of filamented stalks behind their head help them fly. They have
six underdeveloped limbs with long, thin fingers that they use to
manipulate cloudstuff into solid objects.
zephynos
Appendix D: Setting
The world of Basmentaria
Geography
Map
Map
Basmentaria is a group of islands 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 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.
In a fantasy setting where there objectively are deities who walk the
earth and interact with humans, “atheism” is sometimes erroneously used
to signify an indifference to the gods. This is more accurately called
“transtheism”:
Transtheism refers to a system of thought or religious philosophy
that is neither theistic nor atheistic, but is beyond them. … [A system]
is theistic in the limited sense that gods exist but are irrelevant as
they are transcended by … a system that is not non-theistic, but in
which the gods are not the highest spiritual instance.
That is, gods are sufficiently powerful enough to mold the earth and
shape the destiny of man, but are no different from man in that they are
fallible, flawed, and able to die.
They may be greatest power, but are not necessarily the highest
spiritual or moral authority. Nor are they endlessly enduring or
lasting.
THE TRINE:
Neddas – Wise god of sages and starlight.
Androgynous, clad in purple robes, depicted with a golden third eye in
the middle of their forehead. They are often shown stoically bestowing
gifts upon the inhabitants of Basmentaria [1].
Nullar – God of time and tides. A bespectacled
male figure with a golden third eye on his forehead. He is dressed in a
dapper vest and bow tie, and is adorned with small cogs and gears. He is
depicted looking up at the stars from a mechanical contraption he is
working on [1].
Liandt – Goddess of war and flame. A primal,
elemental deity, she is depicted as a fiery warrior with a golden third
eye. The relief shows her on the battlefield during the Artifice wars.
The wars which reduced Ginnarak to the wastes of cinder and ash that
they are today. The wars which drained Liandt’s divine energies so
thoroughly that she fell into a deep sleep and has been absent from the
mortal realms ever since [1].
In the days of old, the Artifice Wars ravaged the lands of
Basmentaria.
They reduced the once fertile lands of Ginnarak to ash and
embers.
Appendix E: Barefoot Quackery
Being apocryphal and supplemental material posted to the Barefoot
Quackery thread on tildepals, including depictions of loose pages
torn from books of the Runesocesius Library during the assault by the
Cyberplasms, as well as original works of fiction and other
diversions.
Cease and Desist
To: durrendal
From: LABATT
Subject: Cease and Desist Order
To whom it may concern:
It has recently come to our attention that a personhood has withheld
important document(s) which affect the structural nature of a sensitive
publication, namely the [REDACTED] zine.
Please cease and desist immediately. You may comply with this order
by submitting the aforementioned document(s) to the designated drop-off
point as instructed on the imprint accompanying your submission form by
midnight Coordinated Basmentaric Time (BTC) of Day 22 of Member 12 in
the year 2202.
Continued infringement represents an escalation and will result in
sanctions, including but not withstanding a remote cursery execution
(RCE) on your monitoring and calendar infrastructure.
We reserve the right to pursue other corrective actions through
temporally-attuned means to protect the release timeline integrity of
key cultural assets.
Sincerely,
Luminati Association of Bears as Time Travellers (LABATT)
Dear sir and/or madame and/or bear and/or time travel NSA agent,
We’ve read your cease and desist, and while we understand its intent,
we’re unable at this time to comply, not through any inability of our
own, but rather through our inability to stop writing run on sentence;
you see we never truly learned how to grammar goodly and now we just go
on and on, ad nauseum, so on and so forth; truly it is a depressing and
persistent problem, if we were ever to find the correct punctuation to
prevent these run ons from happening we might be able to cease,
potentially even desist, but probably both at the same time, or neither
all at once, we’re really uncertain at this point; all that is know is
that nothing is truly known once you’ve gone this far down the
grammartical, and metaphorical, rabbit hole; to speak metaphorically
that is on a subject that is somewhat subjectively objective while
simultaneously being an objective objection to your subjective summation
of our grevious misgivings, truly one must infer that the meaning of
these metaphoric subjectively objective objections are subjective in
their own right, potentially reaching the height of metaphysical
incanatation; one could say this run on sentence is one giant
invocation, a charm of warding against cease and desist notices, to
protect the poor photographer from his abject abandonment of his own
promises; though some may object to my absolute misuse of proper
punctuation and grammar to the point where said people stopped reading
long again and began readying pitchforks and torches, likely they’re on
their way to Maine now ready to burn my witchy incantating self for the
hum dinger of a grammatical curse I sit here writing, but to these
people I say NAY, nay sir I object to your cease and desist, and to
their objection to this abject horror of a sentence, and I abject my
throne as well, for you know I once was a king, not a very rich king,
but a king in my own right; why yes, indeed I was, king of stream of
concious ramblings without respect for grammar, punctuation, or any of
that high falootin nonsense that the yonder rich kings hold dear, and
which I hold to be a dreadful and dire curse upon us all, but with that
I really must bid you Good Day madame, though let this not be an ending,
but the begining of a wonderful and delightful sort of cease and desist
based relationship,
To: durrendal
From: LABATT
Subject: Re: Cease and Desist Order [#20221221-1946]
To whom it may concern:
Please be advised that any evidence you provided in your response may
be used against you in the event an injunction is filed against your
personhood should you fail to comply with the order. This includes any
admission of culpability or liability stemming from failure to submit
the aforementioned document(s) in a timely manner.
LABATT is a renowned non-profit organisation dedicated to the
preservation of historical continuity of cultural works in the fabric of
space-time. We deplore the designation of “NSA agent” and invite you to
learn more about our mission and vision on our website and free seminars
one of our offices across Basmentaria.
Sincerely,
Luminati Association of Bears as Time Travellers (LABATT)
On the Origins of Santa
Claws
125
On the Origins of Santa Claws
Maximus N. Grinchescu
It should heretofore be common knowledge that the Santa Claws of
present day is the stuff of fantasy and make-believe, a story fabricated
on the spur of the moment by some exasperated mother who could not for
the life of her induce her children to behave. The very notion of reward
in the form of toys and presents, or punishment in the lack thereof of
aforementioned items, is no doubt appealing to many parents who are
themselves motivated similarly and thus can only appeal to their
offspring at the most superficial level. The lifelong goal in the
pursuit of consumption has been drummed into these unfortunate
children’s heads from a young age, with thinly-veiled threats of a
thorough mauling for those who dare to deviate from the well— and truly
down— trodden path. It is the means by which the cycle of ignorance and
conceit perpetuates among the unwashed masses — young mops bragging
about having the largest present under the tree, to become adults
boasting of receiving the most expensive gifts from a spouse or
ever-widening court of suitors. The myth of Santa Claws is a gross
distortion of facts disguised as a moralistic narrative that promotes
annually renewing contracts of obedience in exchange for short-term
material gains. Astonishingly, nary a word of doubt would be heard from
the parents on the merits of accepting gifts from an obsessive stranger
who prowls the streets at night watching their children sleep, in
addition to claiming knowledge of the children’s every move rivalling
their own.
It is regrettable that the image of Santa Claws in the eyes of many
has been reduced to that of a jolly dangerous delivery worker. Little do
they know that the real Santa Claws came from a long line of frockin —
wandering folk who don a cassock and dedicate their lives to aiding the
hungry, desperate and needy. On occasions for gifts, they gave to all
regardless of whether they were perceived by friend or foe of the
recipients to be good or evil, for such is the willingness of the
frockin to set aside their quarrels on the Day of Bountiful Blessings.
They travel across Basmentaria in fortles which house a multitude of
rooms and supplies required to sustain their livelihoods. Inside the
fortles were workshops in which carpenters, woodworkers, drafters,
tailors, various craftspeople as well as farmers and cooks plied their
skills.
One frockin in particular became known for rescuing ransomed young
maidens and poor indentured servants who faced torture by the oil vat at
the hands of cruel employers in the nick of time that they became known
as Nick, Blessed of Neddas, or Nick of Mairas as they gained grateful
followers and admirers. Despite this, the frockin was modest in manner
and rarely took credit for their acts of generosity. Because of this
trait and the loss of the few, limited first-hand accounts of those with
close dealings with the frockin in a fire shortly before they assumed
the care and upkeep of a pair of fortles, little is known of their
childhood circumstances or early life. Enrolment records at an
vocational institution in Vay’Neddas confirmed that they studied for
several years in the city, and inherited their uncle’s position of
managing the activities within the fortles sometime after their return.
Other historical biographers contend the frockin’s name was in fact
Nikolas Klaus, which later became Claws in children’s stories as to make
them most palatable to impressionable young readers.
Questions as to the nature of their appearance are generally of
little import save for lining the pockets of picture book publishers and
mass producers of wax figure collectibles. Those who have had the
fortune to glimpse their person described a wizened countenance of long
hair, fulsome beard and whiskers gleaming white and silver, amid which
nestled a pair of warm amber eyes, a nose slightly rosy from the cold
and an affable smile. A genial face rested atop a large stocky frame, as
was common among those with the blood and strength of noble mountain
lions. As in the period of their ancestors, they wore a dark
126
brown cloak with a hood over their cassock to ward against the cold
weather, though this changed after one occasion when they narrowly
avoided being run over by a semi-autonomous cart. The abominable thing
had zipped by in front of Santa at a beard’s distance away as they
emerged on the roof of a house through its chimney.
At this juncture it should be duly noted that the idea of Santa Claws
typically making their entrance into homes by clambering down chimneys,
even preferring it as a method of entry, is as preposterous as the
worthless rags that circulated such claims. No one of sound mind would
shimmy through filthy, narrow, often half-crumbling chutes — carrying a
large sack, no less — if they could safely enter through the front door.
For the latter was exactly what Santa and their predecessors did, and
still do to this day in some villages, in a time when people were less
leery of their neighbours and either left their doors unlocked, or
placed a spare key under the doormat so the household next door could
tend to the plants or the children’s pepper pigs while they visited
relatives farther away.
According to a later account by one of the crew on Santa’s fleet,
translated and transcribed for the frockins’ annals by a chronicler,
what had actually transpired was this: on that night while nearing the
end of their rounds, Santa found signs of flooding at one of the houses
pointing to a burst pipe, the water having seeped out under the front
door and turned to ice in the frigid temperatures. Tender of heart,
Santa retrieved their fleet repair kit that was kept for emergencies and
ventured into the house to repair the broken pipe, in lieu of simply
leaving the presents outside on a stump where a tree once stood and
riding on. It was then that an obstacle presented itself. The house
owners, having gone away for the holidays, had a magical apparatus set
on the door that would raise an alarm and curse if opened by an
intruder. No house key was found under the mat after defrosting the ice
over it enough to pull off the cover. The windows were likewise sealed
shut and latched. This ultimately necessitated Santa entering and
leaving through the chimney. Doubtless some fool stumbled upon the
moment Santa exited the chimney opening, nearly flattened by the aerial
hazard of a self-navigating cart, and got it into their head that Santa
Claws was one for chimney-climbing as sport.
When the good Mrs. Claws found out about the near mishap, they were
so worried about their partner venturing out on missions that as a
precaution, they had Santa promise to wear a bright red outfit for such
occasions. The thick overcoat had a white faux fur trim that reflected
the moons’ light, matching hat and trousers and a shining gold belt
buckle so that the carts’ sensors can sight him even on the darkest
nights. Completing the outfit were gloves with open seams at the base of
each finger to reveal their claws without taking off the gloves
completely. The whole ensemble was made by Mrs. Claws themselves, and it
was said they had gotten the inspiration for the white trimmings from
their partner’s flowing mane. Members of the fleet were also offered a
similar change in clothing and the flying multibeast was re-painted in
accordance with the new colours that are now festooned in the streets
and shops all over Basmentaria each year as the Day of Bountiful
Blessings draws near.
A brief word on the aforementioned fleet: much remains unconfirmed
about the origins or evolution of the transport employed by Santa Claws
to cover long distances, and the arcana that powers the current fleet
remains a subject of heated speculation. Based on surviving annals that
were once on public display, before the twin fortles vanished one night
were never seen again, it is generally thought that the earliest fleets
were small fortles guided by a crew of twelve members excluding Santa
Claws. In time the fortles were retired and replaced with aerial
multibeasts for lighter weight and potential for greater velocity.
Contrary to popular jingles, the multibeast is not pulled by reindeer,
which are neither known for speed nor stamina, but are headed by rain
horses specially raised for both as as well their ability to withstand
much of
Sunrise over Kelsun Peak
that night we ride up the mountain
deep within a Saldin Sea of mist
our way up becomes cloudy, uncertain
crying, heavy air turns to water
the cage starts to shudder and shake,
a venerable old man in a seizure
you clung to my arm as a bear cub
to its mother in the darkness,
the lone candle snuffed out in a huff
of a petulant wind throwing a tantrum
I grip the handle hard enough,
vowing to be strong for both of us
when we are called from fitful slumber
by twin rays of warming distant light
promising more, brother and sister
a cold breakfast or a hot chocolate
lastly and first, the sight of you
eyes open, hair tousled, immaculate
the rusty gondola creaks a little
under our combined weight, groaning
at our youthfully excessive flair
but we did not care, with our hearts
facing the sun, far lighter as one
than the corporeal sum of its parts
a new day breaks, yolk radiant orange
reveal the finest tempera brushed over
neat rows of tea plants at the grange
a gleaming dewdrop at the tip of a leaf,
we dangle on the cusp, an infinite moment
in the sky, we dare to hope, to believe
40
How to Grow Fortified
Pumpkins
How to Grow Fortified Pumpkins
by Oles Macdonald
So you wanna grow fortified pumpkins, huh? Well, first things first,
you’re gonna need a fort. You got yer self one, right? An’ I don’t mean
those blow-up bouncing bollocks for kids, those take up room and don’t
do jack. No sirree, you need to get yer self a rock fort. The real hard
structure, not mouldy cheese. Snow’s not gonna cut it, fun for the young
‘uns maybe but kills yer plants with frostbite fast. Sand just gets
washed away in a storm. An’ don’t get me started on pillow forts, them
things should be banned. Blocks sunlight, flaps like the village gossips
with a bit o’ wind letting in rain every which way, feathers inside them
pillows take too long to dry when wet, I can go on an’ on about it all
day but we’re talking about growing the best fortified pumpkins so let’s
stick with it.
Bottom line is if you ain’t got one then build one from rocks, it’s
what it says on the tin. Just make sure to choose large dry ones,
flat-like, you wouldn’t wanna get sick from cave mold before you even
get this sucker off the ground, and flats will save you time cutting all
them sides. Build your fort on a sunny part of yer land away from trees.
Pumpkins love to suntan, even shows on their skins in some varieties.
Stack up some rocks like yer building a brick wall or grill. The fort
wall should be about a hand’s thickness fer insulation an’ at least
twelve by four-an’-twenty by six feet on the inside. Spread fisherfolk
nets over the top to let in the sun, rain and bees to do their thing for
yer pumpkin plants but keep them birds out. You can throw cured tarp
over it an’ anchor it to the fort wall if a big storm comes along. Don’
forget to leave an opening so you can fit a door later. Lets you get in
an’ out easy, but not so easy that the rats an’ other rodents get to yer
pumpkins first. Door-wise there’s no need to be a fusspot about it, put
in something sturdy with a clever latch or a ward if you can get a hold
of one so the raccoon cats can’t pick the lock with their claws.
Yer gonna need three feet of the height right off the bat for a
raised bed, specially if you don’t know fer sure if the land below yer
feet is cursed or not, or can’t tell horse sh—t apart from dark clay to
check yer soil is good. Line the inside of the fort with sheet metal
where you’ll load up with good soil in a bit, an’ make sure you can get
to all sides. No sense growing a bed full of pumpkins if you can’t reach
over to grab ‘em later. You can also use wood but they will rot
something nasty if you don’t find the right wood that takes to water
well an’ have a habit of overwatering loads, then the whole thing falls
apart under the weight. Sheet metal like the stuff used fer roofs will
do the job, just bang a few together like a box with no lid no bottom
an’ yer in business. If you’d rather be safe than sorry, you can make it
even sturdier on the inside with a steel bar or two across the width of
the bed. Fill a third of the bed with straw, ol’ wood, alfalfa or stuff
like that you got laying around, then the rest of the way up to about
the third knuckle’s length away from the top edge with good quality
compost. Every farmer worth their weight in potatoes knows good quality
compost is the real gold. As I always tell new folks lookin’ to set up
right, go big on compost or go home.
Once you’ve filled up the bed, dig a few rows of shallow trenches in
the soil about a half-an’-a-feet or two apart an’ two knuckles deep at
yer pinky finger. Soak yer seeds overnight and plant ‘em in a feet apart
in the rows. Cover ’em up and mulch that beauty of a bed. Give ’em a
good thorough watering every other day, or every day if it’s like an
oven hot out there, an’ Bread’s yer butter. Halfway through the season
if they’re lookin’ a little starved, fortify ‘em by making some compost
tea to freshen ’em up. You can use hemogoblin blood too if you got that,
it’s just a pricier way to do the same thing with the same results, an’
who likes payin’ more when you can throw a few fish bones together, boil
the whole lot, leave it to rot an’ get free plant tea? Not me. Now when
they start flowering, nip off any extra flowers on the same vine so the
pumpkin gets more nourishment an’ grows bigger. For a lot of newbs it’s
a chore, but wait ‘til you see the size of these pups. If you don’t
wanna mess about staking up vines, let ’em run around a bit and that’s
hunky dory too. Just be sure they aren’t sittin’ in a swimming pool,
that’s a one-way ride to mushy pumpkins an’ root rot. An’ dangnabbit do
I hate mushy pumpkins.
An Overview of S.T.A.G
Drones
This guide is meant to introduce the operate (you) to the
functionality of features of the S.T.A.G drone. For in depth usage and
extensibility please review the source code which can be found at your
local GNU guild.
S.T.A.G - (S)py (T)ransmat (A)utonomous (G)izmo
As the name implies, the S.T.A.G drone is a capable and compact
automous gizmo capable of relaying video, audio, & gps information
to its operator. Unlike most convention drones it requires no input to
operate, simply supplying it with an object is sufficient. The on board
(A)mber (I)mp handles the actual control. It is important that you
retrieve the A.I. from the drone in the event you choose to discard, or
risk the S.T.A.G. in any way, remember Imp’s are sentient beings.
Once an operator has deployed a S.T.A.G drone they’ll recieve
information back from it in the format of a twtxt feed, and open source
plain text format which is easily parsed. GPS coordinates are reported
as JSON strings inside of this feed, audio is transliterated to text,
and video is relayed as a series of ascii characters. All an operate
needs to do to view these feeds is to cat the return text to a terminal
and it should render. If the operater does not have access to a
terminal, or is not a practice sysorcerer, the video feed can be
consumed by retrieving the S.T.A.G drone and holding it close to your
ear. The A.I have been trained in number Basementarian languages and are
happy to dutifully describe the scenes they’ve seen.
Each of these feeds can be subscribed to separately
The aggregate feed can be accessed via:
@<stag_arn uri://stag/arn>
Simiarly these feeds provide filtered results by name:
The gremlin stretched in his padded ergonomic chair and stifled a
yawn. He had just finished beating the final Heroic Fantasy game for the
twelfth time, when a flood of identical alerts flashed across his second
screen:
Outgoing connection blocked on port 443 from 10.10.12.26 He
reached into the machine, looked up the process and found two unfamiliar
entries bouncing in and out of hottop’s list for most computering units
being consumed. The new intern had probably downloaded some application
with an auto-updater and left it installed on the workstation. He zapped
the processes.
killall -9 ysosirius
killall -9 yunoluvirus
That should do it. He watched hottop closely on the monitor. A beat
passed. Two, then the processes returned. Grr. These weren’t regular
rogue procs, but forked demons. His stubby fingers sprinted over the
mechanical keyboard, clacking loudly in the dark office as he fired off
a series of spells:
G—ck. How is that possible? The gremlin scratched his head with his
Mebekey for a minute. Immutable flags?
sudo chattr -i /etc/systemd/system/ysosirius.service
/bin/bash chattr: not found
What. Did the intern somehow mistook it for a messaging client during
the initial audit phase and removed it from all the workstations? He
really needed to have a word with them when they turn up on Monday, but
for now—
There, stupid demons terminated. Must have been one of his colleagues
leaving him a gaff holiday gift, but he started a malware scan anyway
just in case. Smiling to himself and pushing up his Googol glasses, the
Tier Two support wizard looked away from his screen to grab his mug,
which was then he noticed it was empty. Frowning, he pulled up the COFE
dashboard on his terminal. His expression fell at the “0%” next to a
little icon of an empty fuel gauge in the status field. That was the
last pot — he was sure of it because he had brewed it himself four hours
ago after ransacking the kitchenette for more. He had managed to scrape
out a few stale tablespoons from what was left inside a large can that
had been shoved to the back of a cupboard. He had ran out of coffee.
After checking his secret stash, which was also empty save for more
discarded wrappers, he sighed and got to his feet. He gave the screen
another glance and hoverboarded to the vending machine down the hall,
before catching sight of the empty black racks from a distance and
swerved back towards the lift doors. After some elevator-cruising, he
found another vending machine a few floors down that still had drinks, a
few tiny bags of corn chips and trail mix bars. Someone had already
emptied its shelves of Cherry and regular Koke, and Diet Koke was never
a viable alternative. Then he saw a single can of Red Kobit sitting
tantalisingly on the rack. He paid with a tap of his meal card, figuring
his luck wasn’t too bad after all, but at the last moment the vending
machine changed its mind and held onto both his credits and the can with
a round, wiry claw. He yelled at the machine, threatened to summon
maintenance, shoved it back a centimeter where it was already standing
against the wall, pummelled its bulletproof glass chest with his fists
and kicked its legs, to no avail. The vending machine had likely seen
through his bluff and knew no repair person was coming on a Friday night
graveyard shift. Taking the machine apart will land him in Big Trouble
again, and it wasn’t worth the three-hour CowardPoint presentation he
would get about robot respect or the warning letter for damage to
corporeal property. The gremlin resentfully tapped his card again to
secure the last two cans of Red Horse, which rolled down into the
flapped receptacle with a ba dum tss like a bad joke.
When he returned to his desk and settled back in his rolling chair,
open can of raw energy in hand, he began to feel a prickly, crawling
sensation on his skin. A rising dread overcame him, as the apparition of
his lifelong-sworn enemy rose up from the deepest runlevels of init hell
once again, and without a new season of White Mirror dropping
anytime soon, he knew he was in grave danger. He gripped the edge of his
keyboard, exhaled slowly and greeted his old nemesis, Boredom.
Pirate Gold Fondue
420
Pirate Gold Fondue
Ingredients
3 Pirate Gold potatoes
1/2 cup chickpea paste
1 cup coconut oil
1/3 macadamia milk
2 tbsp. cornflour
1 1/2 cups mulled apple wine
1/4 cup hemogoblin blood
1 garlic clove, flattened
2 tbsp. ground cocoa
1/2 tsp. paprika
2 tbsp. lemon dill
Method
Peel potatoes and boil until soft. Let cool, then add to a large
mixing bowl with chickpea paste.
Dissolve cornflour into the macadamia milk, then pour the milk
gradually into the bowl, mashing the mixture until no lumps remain. Add
coconut oil, 1/4 cup at a time until folded completely into the mixture
and set aside.
Toast the paprika in a saucepan. Add mulled apple wine,
bemogoblin blood and garlic clove. When the liquid is heated, add ground
cocoa.
Pour the saucepan contents into a caquelon, or a double boiler
with water simmering below the bowl. Add the potato mixture slowly in
small batches, stirring continuously. Remove garlic after a 1/4 of the
mixture has been added, and resume stirring until all the potatoes have
been added.
Garnish with lemon dill and serve.
Lady Runesocesius
My Lady, I come to visit you
will you show your dainty face, gladly I
let you tease me as I ascend, step closer
so you can hide behind your cloudy veils?
My Lady, I kneel at your feet
will you embrace me in your fulsome bosom
let me breathe in your perfume, a heady wine
taste drops of your creamy white nectar?
My Lady, I bring you snow lilies
to tuck behind your ear as I whisper
sweet everythings into that tender shell
so you can extract a promise for my return?
My Lady, I long to see you
to kiss your fair golden tresses and take
my vow with Nullar as witness, an Elixir to
savour once more your everlasting beauty?
Appendix F: Bean
Note: This story by mio was originally published in
issue 6 of the tilde.town zine, and is included here with the author’s
permission.
Several months ago he spoke of a tabletop game
that involved growing cats from beans, inviting others to try it and
share their actual plays. As it happened, someone read the message and
played the game, but the narrative that was supposed to accompany the
results never materialised, having fizzled out in a desolate
post-apocalyptic landscape before it had barely started.
Here instead is a story about growing, cats and beans, not
necessarily in that order. Discerning readers will observe its setting
is loosely based in a different game, the wonderful Basement Quest of which
~dozens is the amazing author and thoroughly adept game host. He has
also kindly given permission to reproduce my tiny tale of tomfoolery
under the CC-BY-SA
license. The story would not have existed without his support and
the patience of fellow players, though any lapses in judgement for
churning out complete drivel are mine alone. Gratias
maximas.
mio
Deep within the bowels of the bustling city of Vay’Nullar was a
building like every other and none other. The unassuming brick structure
stood to one side of Cofe Street, so named after a giant automaton that
had once occupied an empty plot of land for the sole purpose of selling
coffee and the wonders of mechanical ingenuity before it broke down one
day and the lot, overrun by weeds, was turned into an apothecary. There
was no sign above the entrance to announce itself to the world, the
windows shuttered and the wooden door bolted from within. It could be
said that there was nothing remarkable about the building except for a
colourful row of marching kidney-shaped beans painted in bas-relief than
ran along the base of the tiled roof. The beans’ faces were contorted in
various expressions of merriment, from hopping up and down with silly
grins to flipping on their backs, eyes screwed tight and mouths wide
open in laughter.
No one actually knew for sure if it was a shop, or what it sold,
because the doors had never opened for business. Passers-by can be
forgiven for thinking it was probably an ill-fated foray into fame and
fortune by some enterprising young upstart that had floundered at the
last moment, and the place had long since been abandoned to the cobwebs
of aurs and dust bunnies. However, the neighbourhood’s residents knew
differently. If anyone had cared to ask, they would have recounted in
tense, hushed voices of eerie sounds emanating from the building at
night. Some said they heard loud whooshing noises; others swore someone
or something was lighting crackling bonfires inside, though they had
neither seen light nor smoke from a fire. Still more spoke of a sound —
the more musically-inclined might liken it to a note blown from a long
horn, lowered then abruptly dampened. The children — the ones who were
old enough or secretly sneaked out past their bedtime — would have
simply described it as if a crowd had gotten together in a room and
farted at the same time.
None of the residents had ever heard nor seen the landlord; as far as
the eldest grannies could remember, the building had always appeared the
way it did. When the city finally sent an inspector to assess the
property after multiple complaints from the most vocal residents, the
man had returned so shocked by whatever he had seen that to this day he
could not utter a syllable, his entire body frozen in fear whenever the
subject of the bean building was brought up. Cursed, was the conclusion
of a guild of wizards three districts over, though one that seemed to
evade their scanners. A few of the bravest and more curious among their
ranks offered to investigate, but never returned with their findings.
Children were sternly warned by their parents to stay away and behave,
or they would be snatched up and eaten by the monster that lived within
its walls.
One afternoon, a young girl who was studying the painted relief along
one side of the building heard scratching, mewls, then a whimper coming
from somewhere nearby. Following the sounds, she rounded the back of the
building and spotted a grey kitten with light charcoal stripes slumped
against the wall, paws on their furry tummy, with a pinched expression
on their face. As she came closer, she could hear a low gurgling sound
coming from somewhere near its tummy. “Oh!” She exclaimed, her face lit
up in understanding. “Stay here, kitty.” she told the kitten.
She returned from a nearby shop with a glass bottle of oat milk, two
small dishes and three skewers of tofuna balls. She set the items in
front of the kitten, removed the skewers from the first dish and filled
the other with milk. “Go on, it’s for you.” The girl smiled
encouragingly at the kitten, who stared at her with wide eyes before
pouncing on the tofuna balls. When the kitten had emptied the plates,
they licked their face and paws, then looked up at the girl and mewed
once before disappearing into a small hole in the wall of the building
partially covered by a loose board. The girl tried to peer into the hole
but it was too dark within to see anything.
The next day and the day after, the girl returned to the same spot
with food for the kitten, who seemed to be expecting her, mewing once
again before retreating back inside the hole in the wall after the meal.
On the fourth day, the kitten was nowhere to be seen when the young girl
arrived. She bent down to fill a saucer with more milk, and found a
single brown bean in it slightly smaller than a cherry potato. She
waited but there was no sign of the kitten. Eventually she left the
offering of food near the hole and went home.
As the girl lay in bed that night, she examined the bean by the light
of her bedside lamp. She held it up between her thumb and forefinger,
rubbed a thumb against its smooth contours, then clasped it gently
between her palms, gradually warming it as she peeked at it from between
her fingers. After whispering to the bean for some time, she carefully
tucked it under one end of her pillow, and yawning, turned down the lamp
and went to sleep.
When she next opened her eyes, it was to find herself inside a
gigantic storehouse with a high ceiling that seemed to stretch on and on
into the horizon. One side was lined with glass partitions, some of
which were obscured with thick curtains, while others had curtains
parted aside to reveal the activities of the occupants within. On
another side, separated by a path the width of two streets, was an open
grassy area dotted with large translucent domes, like hazy soap bubbles
on a summer day. The entire area was bright and well-lit even though she
couldn’t make out any significant source of light aside from the little
caddy lamps twinkling from the desks inside the partitions, or the
campers’ lamps inside and around the domed tents.
A cat wearing bright yellow boots, blue overalls and a construction
hat was beckoning her over. She recognised them as the kitten she had
met in the alley earlier, though now they appeared as tall as her. Just
as she was about to call out and ask where they were, the cat suddenly
appeared in front of her and said eagerly, “There you are! Come along
now!”
Everywhere she turned, there were now cats in all shapes, colours and
sizes — short, large, skinny, tiny, chubby, striped, spotted, black,
calico, white, brown, grey, and so on. Many were patting rectangular
panels with various tiny buttons on the desks. Some were on all fours or
sitting in various positions in front of stools with small boxes that
made whirring, clicking sounds. After each click, the cats would shift
positions, as if striking poses for some invisible audience. One cat was
mixing and matching several new outfits in light colours. Another was
hugging stuffed toy chipmunk while sorting mushrooms at a picnic table.
A few were holding a burger with an oversized cheese wedge between their
paws.
Some who were walking around the partitions were also holding mugs,
the aroma of coffee wafting through the air as they passed — except for
one cat whose paws were wrapped around a glass of a clear brown drink
topped with cherries. A cat sped by on a contraption with a handle and
two thin wheels, which emitted tinkling sounds from a tiny, nondescript
box attached to a basket in front of the contraption. They passed a
group of six cats gesturing to a black board covered in numbers and
symbols; one of them chanted something that confused the girl and pushed
a button on one edge of the board, which sprayed water over the surface,
erasing the chalk writing. After wiping the board dry, the cat began
rapidly filling the board with more symbols. When the girl looked over
her shoulder, the board had already washed out the writing, and another
cat had taken up position in front of the board.
Outside one domed tent, a metal arm was mixing a vat of pink and
yellow cream while a cat sat beside it reading aloud from a scroll. At
the next tent, two cats huddled over a thin, grey bulbous metal stump
placed on a tiny wooden table. The cats seemed to be engaged in a
serious conversation at first; then the girl blinked and they abruptly
dissolved into laughs, thumping the table with a paw and barely
grappling onto the table edge with the other to keep themselves from
tumbling and knocking over the metal rod. A cat reclined against the
frame of a bubble opening and seemed to be intently listening to
something, while a stockpot bubbled merrily on a stove and spewed out
dumplings into a large crusty bread bowl behind them.
A few steps from the path, a cat hung up pictures onto a pie-shaped
box under the glow of a lamp affixed to their tent. The lamp slowly
changed colours, each new colour followed by strings of words floating
and fading in mid-air like intangible poetry. Behind them, half-hidden
by big rows of vertical posts made of paper tubes, a cat perched atop a
stack of ten thick black writing pads and was writing in a notebook at a
furious pace, only occasionally stopping to bite into a slice of pie
with a light yellow filling. A blue panel displaying several lines of
indecipherable characters flickered occasionally from below. Remotely
she could barely make out another cat stacking containers of different
sizes neatly as they spoke to a sliding black case on a table covered in
tools and fossils. Inside another tent, a cat was moving a small stack
of old boxes with lights blinking blearily through the tent walls and
shuffling them inside an animated green cabinet in the shape of a
possum. As the girl stared, some of the cats grinned at her, and others
waved.
At random intervals, a group would gather around a large pipe made of
dark grey metal at the base, which gave way to a translucent material at
knee height, towering up before disappearing into an opening in the
ceiling. Venturing closer, she realised the translucent pipe was
actually made of many transparent small pipes with beads of light
passing through them at impossibly fast speeds. As the lights spun
faster, a low purr emanated from the pipe, which became louder and
louder in a roaring crescendo as the group fixed their gazes upwards at
a spot where pipe met ceiling, some clapping their paws to a soundless
rhythm that was nonetheless familiar to them all, until the noise was
abruptly cut off to barely a whine and a chuff once more. The crowd of
cats dispersed as if nothing had happened.
Further on, another group wielding oversized sporks was shovelling
piles of pea-sized, dark brown beans at a glass pane the size of a large
smoke screen, behind which an ornate fireplace was set over a well-used
hearth. The beans seem to pass through the glass, to be devoured by the
giant blaze that flared and snapped briefly each time it received more
tinder. Some of the cats looked on with somber expressions, and the girl
had the feeling that whatever the fire did was as important — if not
more so — than the stream of lights in the pipes. As the flames
gradually changed colour from blood orange to pale lavender, the group
seemed to relax into relieved smiles and slowed their shovelling, only
halting when the fire had turned a vibrant purple. Her guide gave the
group a thumbs-up before ushering her along the path.
When they had walked a few score feet onward, the young girl suddenly
noticed almost all the cats in their immediate vicinity had a small
rectangular apparatus on them — whether held in their paws, hanging from
a waist pouch, jutting out from a back pocket, strapped to their caps or
arms, or placed within reach on a nearby desk or table. In that instant,
a resounding chime like a bell rolled across the area where they were
standing. The cats glanced down at their apparatus, which were lit in
varying levels of brightness. Some of the cats looked up at one another
and sported identical grins on their faces. Then, as though following an
unannounced but practised cue, the cats applied light pressure on their
apparatus. For a moment it was quiet, before the hall erupted into a
very loud raspberry. It was as though a giant balloon had deflated over
their heads and air was coming out of it in one big gush, only there was
no strong burst of wind to blow them all off their feet. Distantly she
heard the answering giggling of babies and children somewhere around
her, though there were no infants or other children in sight. The cat
with the yellow hat turned to her with a chuckle and said, “Snazzy, huh?
Let’s keep this a little secret between us, okay?”
Before the girl could reply, she awoke with a start in her own room.
It took a moment for her to ascertain where she was as her eyes focused
on the shelf by the wall filled with toys and books, and the morning
sunlight streaming in from the bedroom window. Recalling the cat in
boots, she felt around her pillow for the bean, but her hand only met
soft bedsheets. She shook out her pillow while pushing aside her
blankets, checked the floor and peeked under the bed, but the bean had
disappeared. As she looked around her room, she noticed the mug adorned
with tiny butterflies that she used as a brush holder had been moved
from its usual spot on her desk. She got out of bed and padded barefoot
over to the desk. Instead of one baby potato-sized bean, the mug was
filled with a number of small red beans. Shaking them out in handfuls at
a time, she counted 43 in total.
The girl smiled. When the time came, she and the beans will be
ready.
Appendix G: Teale
This story by mio, while technically part of the Barefoot
Quackery compendium, stands on its own enough to earn its own entry
in the appendix. I hope you enjoy it as much as we did.
~
I.
It had been an accident at first.
Inky had just returned from the market with two bags of produce and
was halfway up the back stairs when one of the radishes tumbled from its
paper bag and rolled down the steps to land on the ground somewhere near
a first-storey window below. Setting down the bags on the second floor,
Inky went downstairs to retrieve the missing radish, which they found
easily amid light from the open window and a brass lamp next to the back
door several paces away. As they straightened from their crouch with the
vegetable in hand, a movement from the window caught their
attention.
Illuminated by lamps hanging from the rafters, a large turtle was
rolling on the floor of what appeared to be the restaurant’s kitchens.
As the imp watched, the turtle turned in multiple directions over and
over, gradually stretching out the dough while moulding different
textures onto the surface through the various glyphs and markings on his
shell. Inky was intrigued — they had never seen empanadas prepared this
way before. It reminded them distantly of a retired ceremonial bull
fighter turned pub owner they had met who would sometimes form
cornucopia rolls with his horns to impress the tourists, but still
generally preferred to use his hands or a rolling pin to roll out dough
for other breads. Over the next several days, Inky would pause briefly
to look through the kitchen window before ascending the stairs.
Eventually they were able to watch the empanada-making process from
start to finish, and on some late evenings, observing the way the chef
would frown at a small sample of partly-eaten pastry on a plate,
followed by a sigh, as though dissatisfied with the contents.
One night, Inky passed through the Milk Market at a later hour than
previous days. The lamps had by then been extinguished, but someone had
left a window open and when Inky glanced in, the kitchen had been
cleaned, a thin sheen of water evaporating quickly on the floors from
the warm air outside, and the wood counter tops shone where they were
worn smooth in some spots. The surfaces which would by day be occupied
by trays of pastries were bare. In that moment, an awful idea took hold
in Inky’s head. Clambering nimbly through the window, Inky entered the
kitchen, carefully avoiding the area where the pastries were rolled out.
They checked the racks of pans and utensils hanging below the cabinets,
the ovens, the iceboxes, then inspected the pantry. After giving
themselves an impromptu tour of the kitchens, including a peek into the
brewing room and root cellar, Inky went out the way they came in what
was to become the first of multiple unannounced visits. The following
night, Inky returned with a small plate of tapas — just a slight twist
on simple fare that could be paired with the ale being sold at the shop.
The plate was left on a table to be later discovered when the chef came
in early to begin preparations for the day.
The flavours of the tapas gradually increased in complexity, though
not straying too far from the earthy undertones of the shop’s signature
ale. Inky didn’t know if Enrique would even like the little tapas,
though they supposed they could find out one way or another. In a way it
didn’t really matter; the snacks would serve as inspirational aids for
the chef to pick out flavours and combinations for his own pastries. At
worst, if the tapas irritated him immensely, he would likely be too busy
trying to catch the intruder red-handed to be sighing over his efforts.
Inky decided the giant turtle looked better with his annoyance directed
elsewhere. Either way, if the turtle truly wanted to be rid of the
tapas, he was going to have to “up his game”, as the dillball kids in
the neighbourhood would say.
~~
A small turtle wearing overalls, a smock and rain boots is sitting on
the grass next to a muddy puddle of water, forming a wet ball in his
hands. Sunlight spills into the forest clearing, illuminating the
turtle’s smock and boots which are covered in dirt and mud. Inky walks
over and sits across from the turtle.
“Hi, I’m __ , what’s your name?” Inky asks.
“Enrique,” replies the turtle.
“That’s a great name. Hi Henry!” Inky greets their new friend.
The turtle frowns. “My name is Enrique, not Henry,” he says.
“It is now. Why are you making mud pies, Henry?” asks Inky, pointing
to the slightly lumpy pies stacked neatly a short distance from the
turtle.
“They’re cool, and it’s Enrique,” the turtle replies, a little
defensively.
“They are,” Inky agrees, “What’s in them?”
The turtle gives Inky a funny look. “They’re called mud pies. Of
course there’s mud inside.”
“That’s not a pie! That’s a crusty …” Here child-Inky struggles to
find words, “crust,” they finish weakly.
Enrique looks at Inky, unimpressed. “What else would there be if not
mud?”
“Loads! Fruits, lots of berries, nuts, custards and jams,” Inky
exclaims, picturing the table spread for tea-time. After some thought,
they add, “There’s also mushroom pot, but I don’t know where to get that
yet.”
“Mushroom pot? There’s no such thing,” the turtle says,
sceptical.
“There is, I’ve tasted it,” child-Inky insists. “Want to go find
mushroom pot together? We’ll get some blackberries, redcurrants and
sunflower seeds for your pies too.”
“Fine,” the turtle replies eventually, after thinking it over. “But
you’re wrong about the sunflower seeds. Nobody puts that in their
pies.”
“Then you’ll be the first to do it, Henry!” Inky laughs. “Race you to
the giant oak with the big nose!” With that, they hurtle off through the
trees.
“It’s Enrique!” the turtle huffs, but trots towards the direction of
the oaks.
II.
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“Because it’ll ruin the surprise! He’ll know in a pinch something’s
fishy,” child-Inky wails a bit in desperation. Lowering their voice,
they finished imploringly, “I got him a pair of mittens after he said he
lost one last week, but I want to make him something he can eat too.
Like food cooked on a real fire. Mud cookies really aren’t very
tasty.”
The large matronly turtle chuckles, a deep, throaty sound. “No, I
don’t suppose they are,” she concedes. Tapping a claw on her chin in
thought, she blinks a few times then smiles. “But I know just the
thing.”
~
“Another five minutes should do it,” Enrique’s mother tells Inky.
Inky peers into the cob oven at the tapas sitting on a wooden board
with a long handle. “Thank you, Mrs. T.” child-Inky says politely.
Over the past few afternoons, Enrique’s mother instructed child-Inky
on making a basic bread tapa with three different topping combinations
based on her son’s favourite foods, while Enrique had gone with his
father to visit one of the barley farms that supplied the brewery where
Mr. T. was chief brewer. The results were now bubbling a little as the
enticing smell of tostadas and pepper sauce slowly wafted out from the
oven.
The lady nods. “It’ll be good for Enrique to have a friend over to
celebrate. He takes after his father, being too serious for his young
age. He’s already learning beercraft from him when he ought to be
outdoors playing with his fellow schoolmates.”
“Is there anything else I can help with?” Inky asks.
“It’s all right, dear, I’ll manage. Why don’t you wash up and wait in
the parlour? Enrique and his father should be back from the brewery any
moment now.” She sounds put-upon at the last words.
At Inky’s curious look, Enrique’s mother explains, “Our birthday boy
wanted to try the ale.” She sighs. “I’d put my foot down but he looked
so disappointed when I objected. Well, I did make his father promise not
to let him get too drunk. Besides,” she adds with a wink, “We spent all
this time baking him a cake and snacks, we can’t have him falling asleep
on us before he’s had any of it, can we?”
~~
Inky was avoiding the kitchens downstairs.
While it had been amusing at first, and Inky was fairly sure they
wouldn’t be caught (it helped that the chef’s routine was awfully
predictable and the staff were even worse, especially that surly
hobgoblin who always sneaked off three hours early on Primedays), they
didn’t really want to end up in Enrique’s bad books or banned from the
shop if he found out. The blood pudding had been a sobering reminder of
the consequences of meddling in other people’s business.
Still, they could not bring themselves to stay away from the shop
entirely, just as they had been drawn to the weathered sign over the
door and the aroma of bread fresh from the oven mixed with the malty
undertones of robust ale within the first few days when Jarrod had
invited other members of the party to his newly-acquired premises. There
was something almost homely about it, which was strange since Inky
rarely made empanadas (in the strictest sense of the word, though some
breadpunks would argue anything edible with a filling counts) and did
not particularly favour most alcoholic drinks (ink had a wider sensory
range and none of the hangovers, in their opinion) and only imbibed when
an occasion called for it. This feeling carried into the kitchens, with
its wooden counter tops covered in scratches and stains, shelves stacked
a little precariously with sauces and spice jars, and even the gaping
maw of a big stone oven next to the more conventional mechanical oven.
It had to be the most common sight of every bakery on the continent and
yet, there hadn’t been any place quite like it ever since Inky had left
a small town for life in the city.
So it was in the evenings when Enrique was most likely busy in the
kitchens or in storeroom taking stock of supplies for the next day that
Inky would visit in the guise of a tea seller, either to put in a larger
order for whoever of their party was around upstairs or have supper in a
shadowed corner of the restaurant. At the latter times, Inky would
request different items from the previous day, partly to not draw
attention from the kitchen, as well as to keep things more interesting
for a little game they liked to play which involved coming up with
various inks to complement the evening selection in the time it took to
eat it. Sometimes, when mulling over new produce from the market, Inky
would also try to rearrange the current dish in their head, replacing
ingredients and preparations until it resembled nothing like the crispy
delectables of the original. Inky wouldn’t really do that to the
empanadas with actual ingredients, but it was funny to picture the
turtle’s annoyed expression at the very thought anyway.
When Inky was satisfied they had an answer for inks depending on the
most recent harvest and season, they would sit for a while, back to the
wall and glass of kale juice in hand to idly survey the room or
half-listen to the breadpunk gang debate the merits of quick rise yeast
over traditional starters. The staff (whose names and shifts Inky had
long since obtained for security reasons and definitely not because they
were a little obsessed) were probably used to customers of all sorts,
including reticent ones, and mostly left Inky to their meal. Leaving a
decent tip (and on one occasion, a tea-based poultice for a waitress who
had been holding her left arm at an awkward angle the entire time, with
pictorial instructions for its application sketched on a sheet of fine
notepaper), Inky would depart with a small bag of treats for their
marketing manager before the shop’s proprietor emerged to check on the
dining area and chat with his regular customers.
Said marketing manager also became Inky’s quality assurance tester,
and was rewarded with an extra sample of each tapa recipe that met the
duck’s discerning taste. Only recipes that had the duck’s stomp of
approval were delivered by hare mail to the Emporium. It didn’t see a
need for the recipes to be put through the post — the shop was right
below their feet! — but Inky had gone to the post office each time and
even spoke in rabbiton to one of the delivery workers there.
Gradually, however, the duck noticed something strange — the more
Inky had dinner at the shop downstairs, the fewer and farther in between
the recipes came, until they eventually stopped appearing altogether.
Initially it had tried to remind Inky by stomping its foot and nudging
their hand with its beak, but Inky had only smiled wanly and said they
didn’t have any good ideas right now. The duck began to suspect this was
patently false when, while following Inky around on a trip to the market
one afternoon, Inky had opened to a page in their notebook to jot down a
few words. Hopping up onto a wooden crate to get a better view, the duck
saw the notebook was almost completely filled with ingredient lists,
preparation steps and extensive notes.
It looked up to admonish Inky, and saw the rabbit imp was staring
wistfully at a barrel of pimientos. When the duck looked back again, the
expression had vanished, as did its owner, who had already crossed to
the other side of the road and was walking at a brisk pace towards a
juice stand. The duck gave an indignant quack and hastily waddled after
them. How is a marketing manager to keep up when the recipe developer is
twelve steps ahead of the process?
III.
“How did you do on the writing homework?” the turtle asks the
imp.
They are sitting at their favourite spot in the forest clearing — or
rather, Enrique is leaning back against a tree with his knees partially
drawn up, while Inky is sprawled on their back on the grass gazing at
the clouds overhead, the schoolbooks next to Inky’s head momentarily
forgotten.
“I don’t know. I only know you wrote that you plan to be an ale
brewer.” Inky replies airily.
Enrique looks down at the imp. “How did you know?”
“It’s written on your face, Henry. Literally. There’s still hops pulp
on your forehead. I’m sure you’ll get a good grade though, most of the
teachers like boring bottle answers like that.”
The turtle glowers at the imp’s chuckle and swipes at his own
forehead.
“What did you write?” he retorts.
Inky does not immediately respond.
“Well? What did you write?” he asks again.
“Invisible Ninja Kookie Yulestarter.”
The turtle blinks, slowly. “What— what’s that?”
“I don’t know.” replies the imp.
“You don’t know?” Enrique echoes, perplexed.
“I just made something up. How would I know what I want to be in
two-score years? It’s not like I’ve met and had tea with future
two-score-year me. Next year I’ll be an Intergalean Neuestar Kickback
Yorkie for sure.” Child-Inky nods at Enrique sagely.
“You really are something.” The turtle shakes his head in
exasperation, though a small smile appears on his face.
“A terrible infant? That’s old news, Henry.” laughs the imp.
“Telling the truth never gets old.”
Inky pouts. “Ouch. You win. But only because it was a quote from your
mother.”
“Finish up your homework. I’m going back to the brewery soon to check
on the new batch.” Enrique gets up and brushes off his clothes.
The imp gives him a pointed look. “Yes, Hen-reek.”
~~
“Henry—” Child-Inky pleads.
The young turtle looks extremely frustrated, almost angry. “For the
umpteenth time, it’s Enrique! See, that’s your problem. You have no
respect for other people’s wishes and boundaries. Everything is a silly
little game to you. Can’t you be serious for once?”
“Okay. Are we seriously going to the play—”
“No.” says the turtle firmly.
They are standing at the dark iron gates leading into the brewery.
Enrique has finally exited a huge building after Inky had stood for half
an hour outside repeatedly yelling his name. But no matter how
child-Inky wails and pouts, Enrique has still refused to accompany him
to see the new garden play being performed in a field of scorpion
grasses up the road from the forest.
“Why not?” Child-Inky asks, head tilted to one side, not
understanding.
“Because I have things to do at the brewery. A new dryer has arrived.
Father is going to show me how to use it and I need to get the moisture
levels right.” The aspiring brewer seems to be at the end of his
patience.
“But we haven’t done anything fun together for a whole fortnight!”
Child-Inky protests.
The turtle wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. “I don’t
have time to trawl around the forest anymore.”
“You’re saying that now, but I’ll come by tomorrow and we can go see
it then,” child-Inky says anyway.
“No.”
“The day after tomorrow?” asks child-Inky hopefully.
“No.”
“The tomorrow after tomorrow?”
“No means no. This isn’t the time for fun and games.”
“What if I don’t come back tomorrow? Will you go see the play with
me?” Inky asks, eyes watering and expression wobbly.
“That’s not how it works. Go home, __. I have to get back inside to
check on the boilers.” The turtle turns and walks along the path back
into the building.
“Then I’ll come the day after the day before tomorrow!” Child-Inky
calls after him.
“You didn’t say no, is that a yes? Henry!”
~~
Blurriness, gradually coming into focus in the form of an elderly
man’s face with thin eyebrows, kind brown eyes, round spectacles and a
concerted frown on the unfamiliar features.
The man spoke slowly. “I see you’ve finally woken up. What’s your
name, little one?”
“I—I …” The imp winced as a sharp prickling pain in their head made
itself known at the sudden movement, followed by confusion and alarm
when they attempt to answer the man’s question and drew a blank.
“It’s all right, easy now, nib.” said the elder as he helped the imp
sit up with some rustling of bedclothes. “How are you feeling?”
“A bit sore but … okay? What … happened?” asked the imp.
“We found you two days ago on the river banks right outside of town.
Some of the fisherfolk say there was a flash flood from a big storm a
few hundred miles up the rapids which washed collapsed buildings and
other debris downstream.” The man explained.
“Then where … where am … ?”
The old man smiled. “Welcome to the township of Waterlan.”
~~
“I’m sorry, Mr. Iridis. I haven’t recalled anything yet.” The imp
said sadly to the ink craftsman as they sat at the small table over
dinner. It had been almost a week since the elderly man had taken in the
imp and assured them they could stay as long as they wished.
Mr. Iridis was unperturbed by the news. “Hmm, well, we should still
call you by name in the meantime … how does Inkulos sound?”
IV.
“Uggghhh!! That group of flaming owes were such noisy slobs. Dropping
chunks of bread everywhere on the floor, squawking at a hundred decibels
a minute, then accidentally scorching the table. Why can’t we have more
customers like the Swanson family?” Marnie groaned, tail twitching in
irritation as she rubbed her temples.
“Or that tea seller,” added Gil sympathetically.
Enrique hadn’t heard from old Takao in a long time. The elderly,
jovial tea merchant who previously came with his partner and parakeet on
weekends had retired a few years earlier to his ancestral home in
Rana’For Valley. Maybe they had returned to visit relatives in the
city.
“Tea seller?” He turned to his head waiter, a portly frog named
Gilgamesh.
“Yeah, they’ve been coming almost daily for the past couple o’ months
now when they didn’t disappear for a week or two in a row. Don’t talk
much but tip pretty well for a street vendor. Even left us free samples
a few times. Marnie said the pepperwood blend did wonders for her
headaches. I’m not a tea drinker, y’know, but she made me a cup once and
it was definitely the real deal. Not the horse piss those shady asses
over at Normington Mews try to pass off as tea.”
It wasn’t Takao, but someone new in the district. Months? How had he
not noticed before?
“How does this tea seller look like?” he asked.
“Short imp, dark eyes, kinda young? Wears a brimmed hat, carries
around a tea flask and a wooden box. One of my neighbours saw them a few
weeks ago at a market and thinks they’re half-rabbit, but he says stuff
like that about half the people he meets anyway.”
Enrique frowned. He knew all his regular patrons, young or old, and
was sure he would remember seeing someone who fit the description.
On further questioning his wait staff, he found out a few more things
about them: they usually came around the same time most evenings when he
was in the kitchens; had no particular menu preferences that Gil or
Marnie could name (which was unusual, even the most adventurous of his
customers reverted to a few personal favourites after some time); sat at
the same corner table, the one he himself made use of occasionally on
slow days where he could have an unobstructed view of the room and out
into the street; and sometimes ordered enough for a gathering of
associates, who did seem to have more distinct selections.
He had seen his share of tight-lipped customers who were only there
for a hot meal before or after a gruelling day of work and he was not
one to pry. However, word of this new tea seller had piqued his
interest. Maybe he’ll buy them a round and have a look at their
offerings. While ale would always remain his pride and joy, he did enjoy
a good steaming cup on some of the coldest days of the year.
Time for tea and a new acquaintance.
~~
The tea was excellent.
It was easily the best tea he’s had since Takao and Kaiya had moved
away from the city and were unable to find a successor before they left.
He ended up procuring more than he may have originally expected after
sampling five different teas, including two recommended by the vendor,
and found them all very pleasant, one even lightly invigorating. The tea
seller, who went by the name Inky, was mild-mannered and polite as they
described each blend in turn and answered questions about its origins.
However, the imp had declined payment for the teas and when pressed, had
mumbled some excuse and looked as though they wanted to leave.
Eventually Enrique got them to accept some ale from the shop with a bit
of haggling.
Enrique had begun their conversation by introducing himself and
inquiring about the meal earlier, whether his new regular had anything
they liked in particular from the menu. Inky had responded positively,
but seemed genuinely confused by the second question and only repeated
“everything”. After tea tasting, the topic had turned to the daily
running of the shop and the effects of the late barley harvest this year
on the breweries and their products. As a brewer himself, he was always
keen to talk about his ales and beercraft in general, and was only a
little startled when after some time, Gil appeared at their table to let
him know the staff were done with cleaning and bid him goodnight.
To his surprise, Enrique found himself a little reluctant to chase
out his new frequent customer so he could close the shop for the day. He
turned back to his guest apologetically, but the tea seller had gotten
the waiter’s hint and was already on their feet with their flask and
box. The imp thanked him, gave a quick little bow and was out of the
shop in two blinks of an eye.
The turtle stared after the closed doors for a moment, then returned
to clearing away the tableware. Rinsing out their glasses, he collected
the bills left on the table, counted them, and mentally shook his head.
Little wonder his wait staff were so amenable to the tea seller’s
presence — it was enough to pay for a nice full-course dinner for two.
Normally he would bristle at a potential insinuation that he was not
paying his staff properly, but was oddly calmed at the sight of the
boxes still sitting innocently on the table, almost as though he’d just
had another cup of peppermint tea. Ridiculous, he told himself, and
turned off the lights.
~~
“Why do you keep calling me Henry?” Enrique eventually asks as they
walk though the forest on the way to his house. The imp is facing him as
they trot backwards along the path, but at his question they turn and
skip ahead a few paces before replying.
“Because.”
“Because … ?” The turtle prompts.
The imp says matter-of-factly, “Either your name’s Henry or it’s too
long. Would you like to be called Too Long?”
“No, but learning to call someone by their name properly wouldn’t
hurt.” Enrique says evenly.
The imp spins around and comes to stand in front of him, hands
clasped behind their back and leaning right into his personal space.
“Yes, it would, Henry. How would you like people calling you ‘Julienne’
all the time?”
“I don’t see anything wrong with that. Julien is a good name,” he
replies honestly.
The little imp wrinkles their nose. “It’s irritating. They never
pronounce it correctly. I’m not a bunch of little matchsticks.” They say
peevishly and take a short step back, arms crossed.
“Is that why you keep changing your name every other week?” the
turtle wonders.
His friend swings their arms to and fro as they resume walking, this
time on tiptoe. “I haven’t changed it yet. It’s just written
differently,” they reply, bottom lip jutting out slightly and looking a
bit thoughtful.
Enrique recognises the expression as one that would appear whenever
the imp was about to say something outlandish, and is proven right the
next moment when the imp suddenly smiles.
“Aren’t you going to ask how?” The imp hops from side to side, as
though jumping across invisible holes in the dirt.
The turtle sighs internally. “All right, how is it written this
week?”
“J-o-u-l-e.” His friend recites proudly.
“That’s … different.” Enrique says consideringly.
“Obviously.” The imp seems pleased with their announcement as they
shift into step next to Enrique along the path.
“Didn’t you say you were only changing the way it’s written?” Enrique
points out, and is rewarded with a cheerful reply.
“Nope. Changed my mind just because you asked. You’re welcome.”
~~
Over the course of several months he got to know more about his new
tea supplier, partly from the imp themselves and mostly through rumours
and hearsay from his other regulars, though what he’d learned only
brought more questions.
He knew Inky occasionally departed the city on some business, joining
a caravan with other travellers that went up and down the countryside to
restock as well as hunt for new items and products. This Inky had told
him once after they had been gone for almost two weeks and returned with
a particularly zesty blend of citrus maghrebi. The imp had been adamant
that it was a gift, and although Enrique had protested mildly at first,
he was grateful nonetheless.
When the tea seller was in the city, they would peddle on the streets
during the day around various districts including some of the poorest
neighbourhoods, though from what he was hearing from other diners, they
were succeeding at handing out more cups of tea than they were at
selling them. They didn’t have a shop or trading office that he was
aware of — he had tried asking for directions or an address where he
could request a new supply, but the imp assured him with a quirky little
smile they would come around regularly to take orders for their special
tea enthusiasts.
The lack of an address was bewildering. Surely with tea of such
quality and the right customers they could afford rent for a small nook
at the docks, or even near the shopping districts if they were serious
about their trade? Moreover, what kind of tea seller gives away their
wares freely like that? The imp’s attire, while clean, was worn in
several spots and had clearly seen better days, yet they had no
compunctions about any of the menu items nor problems settling the tab
afterwards. Maybe they were some type of mercenary who dabbled in a side
business. If a customer did not wish others to be privy to what they did
out of the city, he would leave it be.
Their menu selection was another puzzler. Enrique looked forward to
the tea seller’s arrival and had made a point of getting some of his
next-day preparations out of the way a little earlier so he could talk
briefly with the imp on less busier evenings. However, after months of
conversation he was still no closer to finding out what this regular
customer of his liked. Inky seemed to order anything with no discernible
pattern in the way some diners would always order a herb bake on
Liandays, only that they never ordered the same dish to the day before,
and rarely the same dish more than once a week.
He did often have customers who relished variety, and this had been
an impetus for Enrique to endeavour to come up with novel breads and
recipes that would draw a new crowd and occasionally offer a bit of
excitement for his repeat customers. Lately he had been trying out
variations of the little elf’s most recent recipe, but something was
lacking. Offhandedly he mentioned his problem of the missing ingredient
to the tea seller one night as the latter made their way through one of
his carrot and cucumber loaves. Inky had merely looked at him and said
“shishito”. At that moment he was called away with another customer’s
request, but after all the patrons had left, he remembered their
conversation earlier and went back to his recipe, this time adding the
suggested peppers. The resulting flavours melded wonderfully — he had
hit upon a winning combination.
The next evening he prepared a small plate of his new empanadas for
the tea seller to try, but the imp did not appear.
V.
It had been some time since he had heard from the little elf, as
Enrique had taken to calling them in his mind. The tapas had stopped
appearing, replaced with delightful recipes by mail from wherever it was
helper elves went between visitations (the letters had no return
address). Meanwhile the brewer busied himself with expanding his
selection of empanadas through the recipes, even adding a new kale
telera in a stroke of inspiration.
More concerning was the fact that it had been at least several weeks
since he had seen or heard from the tea seller. All manner of strange
folk passed through his shop from time to time, so he shouldn’t be
surprised the tea seller may have decided to move on to another city
altogether. Still, he did feel a pang of disappointment at losing good
company, or the way the imp had left without so much as a farewell.
There was something about the tea seller that he couldn’t place that
came with the ease with which they would talk of various subjects, from
beer-making to the pilgrims who would stop in at the shop
occasionally.
On his way back from the market on one of his few days off when the
shop was closed, he passed by the post office and was struck by a sudden
thought. He went inside and showed the rabbit postmistress on duty the
last message he had received (he had taken to carrying one or two of
them on him for new ideas whenever he went to the market) and inquired
about the sender. The postmistress was initially reluctant to answer on
account of customer confidentiality, but after hearing his concern over
the plight of his little elf friend, eventually relented. She recognised
his shop address and was able to recall the appearance of a half-rabbit
whose description matched the tea seller. Enrique walked the rest of the
way back from the post office to his shop, thinking hard.
Stunned bemusement soon gave way to vague worry — it was unlike the
tapas chef to go silent for long without a leaving message, usually
accompanied by a recipe. If the tapas chef and tea seller were the same
person, it was possible they had gone with one of those caravans and
something horrible had befallen them on the journey. He sighed and threw
himself back into his ales and pastries with a single-minded focus,
trying not to dwell on the possibility the imp might not return.
~~
“Enrique,” his mother called.
When he appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, his mother hesitated
before she said, “I have some upsetting news, dear.”
“Mrs. Sapaverde came by earlier. She said one of the mill workers saw
a small imp at the bottom of the hill from the brewery on her way home
before the storm. The worker tried to warn the imp about the storm, but
the child insisted they had to meet someone at the brewery.”
His mother was looking at him now with concern in her olive-coloured
eyes. “We think it may have been your friend looking for you, not
knowing the brewery was closed because of the weather.”
Enrique stilled. His father along with the other brewery employees
had been anticipating the storm and had stayed late the day before
carrying out preparations — elevating crates and barrels, tying down
equipment, stacking sandbags, checking the waterproofing and other
tasks. Before they left for the night, the employees were advised not to
come in the next day due to possible flooding and mudslides. They had
later learned the area around the hill had been flooded for the better
part of two days. Fortunately the brewery sat atop of the hill and was
mostly spared from damage aside from a small amount of rainwater in
several rooms and some spoiled dry stock. Everyone had been aware of an
impending thunderstorm and would have done the reasonable thing and
stayed home … or so he thought.
“Thanks … for telling me, Ma.” He managed after a moment, and was
instantly brought into his mother’s comforting hug. His mother
eventually let him trudge back to his room with a mug of cocoa and milk
roll in hand.
The first night he didn’t have to return from storm cleanup at the
brewery and immediately fall asleep from exhaustion, he dreamt of an imp
at the gatepost, and of teatime, bears and tuckleberry jam.
~~
“QUACK!”
A small yellow duck was standing in the open doorway of his shop and
looking directly at him while he was checking on the ale taps, almost as
though it was beckoning him. As he came closer, the duck hopped out of
reach and onto the street, looking from him to a spot next to the shop
and back again, staring at him. When he was standing just outside the
building, the duck nipped at his tunic, then padded towards a set of
stairs that led up to the Milk Market on the second floor. It turned
back and looked at him.
Thinking perhaps his affable landlord wished to speak with him and
had sent a messenger, Enrique followed the duck up the stairs into a
spacious landing with a corridor with a series of rooms along one side,
and another that led to what appeared from a distance to be a larger
area with big vats. The duck waddled down the corridor into a room at
the end of the hall.
The brewer walked into what looked like a cross between a small
office, a shisha den and a bath stall. At one end of the room was some
sort of wooden tub filled with water attached to a mushroom sprinkler,
and a thick towel laid out on the floor. Next to the tub in the corner
was a short chest of drawers with all the drawers pulled out, like a
staircase leading nowhere, and stuffed woollen carrots, toys and other
objects peeking out. A chia plant with some of its leaves chewed off sat
atop the chest. Croutons, a bag of candy worms with its contents
half-spilled onto the floor, crumpled notes, an oval wicker basket,
cushions of all shapes and sizes on a tartan rug, a writing block with
notepaper, a quill case, an uncorked bottle of ink and a small stack of
books were scattered about the room.
In the midst of the carnage sat the imp, hatless, cradling a cup of
tea and looking dejectedly out the open window at the foot traffic
passing through the alley below. The sight brought back a distant image
of rainy afternoons and a child’s face pressed against the window of his
old bedroom, as though they could will the rain to stop if they stared
long enough.
He would recognise that sulk anywhere.
The eyes that turned to him in surprise (chased by a slight edge of
panic, though it was gone before he could be certain), outside the dim
recess of the shop and lit by broad daylight coming from the window,
were a startling deep blue. A colour he had many memories of in a
different place and time.
“Joule?” he called out disbelievingly.
“Hullo Enrique,” his irritating, impish friend replied sheepishly,
casting their gaze downwards, though not before sending a tiny look of
betrayal at the duck’s retreating form.
Relief, amazement, annoyance and a myriad other emotions flashed
through him and for several beats he was at a loss for words. He
eventually settled for rightful indignation.
“You!” he groused. “Why didn’t you send word that you had returned?
Even Gil thought you’d tripped over a rock and broke your neck out in
the country somewhere! Have you been right here above my shop the entire
time?!”
“Not the entire time, I just got back last month and …” the imp’s
attempt at an explanation trailed off under Enrique’s reproachful
glare.
“And if you had the gall to break into my kitchen, you can sure as
well have the guts to show your face and own up to it.” Enrique bit
out.
They remained silent for a long time, the turtle’s bulky frame
filling the room as he stood with folded arms and a heavy frown a few
steps away from the entrance, and the rabbit imp on the floor looking
thoroughly chastised with a half-empty teacup and legs tucked beneath
them.
Enrique finally spoke. “You’re a terrible adult.” There was no heat
to the words. When the imp didn’t respond, he continued, “Come down
downstairs to the back when you’re done here, and bring some of that
pepperwood if you have any. Marnie’s been hankering for more, and I
suppose I wouldn’t mind a cup myself after this.” He gestured with one
arm around the room. “If this is your trading post, I can certainly see
why you don’t invite your customers here.”
“It’s my marketing manager’s office.” Joule, or Inky, as they were
now known to the locals, had started picking up stray bits of paper and
books and was clearing a path through the litter from window to
doorway.
“You have a marketing manager?” Enrique asked.
“QUACK!” The duck had re-appeared at the door and was looking at Inky
expectantly.
“Five more minutes, okay?” Inky said to the duck. To Enrique, “It
wants its bath and basket chair back.” The candy and croutons had been
scooped up into a small pumpkin-shaped metal bucket and set next to the
chia plant.
Enrique stared at his friend in bewilderment after the duck wandered
off again. “Your marketing manager is a duck.”
“Yes?”
“How do you have a duck as your marketing manager?”
Inky shrugged. “It followed me back and we made a deal.”
The turtle was unconvinced. “You mean you roped it into following you
back.”
“Have it your way if you must insist on rewriting history, but for
the record there is no forced labour involved and it gets all the
benefits and perks.” As they talked, Inky opened the writing block lid
(actually the tea seller’s wooden box now that Enrique had a closer
look), pushing aside items inside before extracting two bags of fine tea
leaves which they tossed at the turtle, who fumbled a bit but caught
them. With Inky’s teacup, books and quills packed away, they left the
room to a mildly disgruntled duck who waved at them before strutting
inside for a well-earned nap.
Enrique looked around the hallway leading to the stairs. “Is your
office also on the same floor?”
“No, don’t need one.” said the imp as they descended the stairs.
He frowned, but before he could ask, Inky answered his unspoken
question. “I don’t sell tea, Enrique.” The ale brewer was about to argue
the point when the imp’s words abruptly came back to him: Please
consider it a gift. He turned to Inky and found his friend already
watching him from the bottom step. Waiting.
A grin slowly spread over Enrique’s face. “That’s a pity. I was just
thinking my tea seller might want to try my new line of empanadas on the
house after making the deliveries.”
The imp only rolled their eyes. “Great. So your diners won’t have to
turn into skeletons to get their bread after all.”
The giant turtle chased the laughing imp all the way back to the
kitchens.
Epilogue
Enrique looked up from checking on the walnut bread in the oven when
Inky walked in accompanied by an unfamiliar face. A toque, newly arrived
to the city by the looks of it, he guessed.
After depositing a small box on one of the worktables, Inky settled
atop an icebox and waved the visitor to a wooden stool nearby. Enrique
greeted them both before closing the oven door again and stepping
towards the worktable. “What brings you into my kitchen today?”
Inky gave the chef a serious look that was immediately undermined by
the humorous tenor in their next words. “I bring you a problem.”
Enrique snorted. “Just one?” he asked, but a small smile quirked on
his face nevertheless. He opened the box to preview the contents and
found one of his favourite blends. He set it to one side of the table
for later.
“For now. This one,” Inky gestured to the toque next to them looking
around at the loaves cooling on the racks with barely concealed
excitement, “has never had an empanada in their life. And they have the
gall to call themselves Bread!”
Enrique shook hands with the toque. “Hi Bread, I’m Enrique.
Unfortunately the troublemaker is right, you must try them. Made by hand
as they have always been from the first day, every one of them!”
informed the chef with a definite note of pride in his voice. He handed
Bread a pair of enticing golden brown pastries wrapped in a paper sleeve
from a tray kept warm on a broiler.
To Inky, he said, “So you wanted me to give them a quick demo?”
Inky grinned as they replied, “Even better, have you thought about
taking on an apprentice? Bread here is a sturdy hand, hard worker and
keen to learn.”
The empanada chef stroked his chin with a thumb and fore claw
thoughtfully. “Well, I suppose I have, actually. The nut breads we
talked about have been flying out the door so fast I can barely keep up.
At this rate I’d need another one of me to get more out there!” He
chuckled.
He looked at Bread again, assessing. “When can you start? We’ll be up
early to get the dough going and all the ingredients prepared for a long
day. How about we begin with the basics, see where you’re at, and go
from there?”
~
Inky had left with Bread shortly after the latter had further
introduced themselves and they had arranged for the toque to return the
following week. Although Enrique had reiterated it would be on a trial
basis initially, he had a good feeling about the new hire. Maybe it was
the way the toque’s eyes lit up at their first bite of empanada. The
fact that this was someone Inky had casually dragged in should set off
all of his mental alarms. Still, despite his friend’s often flagrant
disregard for anything inedible, they could be very observant when they
wanted. Clearly they had seen something in the toque’s character to
recommend them personally.
He was already going through lesson plans in his head, and was so
engrossed in making a list of things to gather for his new apprentice
that when he turned around to grab a pair of oven mittens, he had to do
a double-take. There, on the icebox that the imp had recently vacated, a
small green turtle stared back at him from where it sat on a
cocoa-coloured pie slightly wider than the turtle. On closer inspection,
the ensemble appeared to be a cake decorated with cream and dark
chocolate buttons for eyes, set on a round wooden plank lined with
parchment. Under the plank was a note in the now-familiar crisp blue
lettering: “ENJOY YOUR TERRAPAN :)”
Enrique huffed out a laugh. He already knew what he would find on the
other side of the note without turning it over. Pocketing the slip of
paper carefully in his apron, he went to get a knife and plate to help
himself to a slice of delicious mud pie.
