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

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

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

CLEARANCE: INFORMATIONAL
REQUEST ENCLOSED.

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

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

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

CLEARANCE: TOP SECRET
REQUEST ENCLOSED
PACKET ENCLOSED

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And the other matter?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some time passes.

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

And then you wake up.

~

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

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

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

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

WHAT DO YOU DO

The nibs had disappeared.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ritual Details

Ritual Steps In Brief:

1. Find a volunteer to be the Dream Host.

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

3. Draw a circle of salt.

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

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

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

7. Find the Bazaar’s pocket dimension.

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

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

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

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

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

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

— Later that day

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

He grins his wide toothy grin.

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WHAT DO YOU DO