quest/src/chapter2.md

---
title: Chapter 2
created: Sat, 29 Oct 2022 18:59:40 -0600
updated: Mon, 14 Nov 2022 18:08:32 -0700
public: yes
---
## Chapter 2

Chapter 2 of BASEMENT QUEST.

Jump to: 
[21](#00021)
[22](#00022)
[23](#00023)
[24](#00024)
[25](#00025)
[26](#00026)
[27](#00027)
[28](#00028)
[29](#00029)
[30](#00030)
[31](#00031)
[32](#00032)
[33](#00033)
[34](#00034)
[35](#00035)
[36](#00036)
[37](#00037)


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#### 00021 {#00021}

INTERLUDE

> A glorious victory!
>
> In the interim time Corraidhin studies the sword of Y'aml, and
> correctly deduces that he needs to remove the sticky bit to be able to
> sheath the thing.
>
> sudo chmod -t sword_of_y\'aml
>
> The rest of the interim is spent studying arcane lore surrounding the
> Ginnarak Crystals and their purpose. He also strongly urges the party
> that we should consider very carefuly how we need to proceed with the
> crystal. It's obvious people don't want these things getting out, so
> we should ensure that Blavin has good intentions, or at least leaves
> us out of whatever potential evil could occur.

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

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

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

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

> Once back in town, Inky had the small glass shard in their palm
> removed by a harried-looking healer, who merely shrugged at Inky's
> account of the disappearing ink and advised them to return if they
> experienced adverse effects before hurrying off to the next patient. A
> visit to the local stationery shop did not yield any answers; the
> stocky human at the counter shook their head apologetically when shown
> the broken ink bottle. However, they did suggest asking at one of the
> larger shops in the city.
>
> To celebrate their first successful quest, Inky made torties\[1\] for
> their party with flour ground from some of the large corn kernels at
> the dig site, topped with a sweet nutty squash spread. Babbleberry tea
> was served from their newly acquired jade tea set, now patched with
> what Inky had been assured was an unbreakable seal\[2\] by a merchant
> with a toothy grin in one of Vay'Nullar's notorious back alleys.
>
> Master Corraidhín's cautionary words of wisdom still echo in Inky's
> head, though they were secretly tickled by the idea of the crystal
> being actually a rare and previously unknown species of melon with
> very potent magical properties. The very thought of melons was making
> Inky a bit thirsty. Let the warrior and wizard worry about all the
> potential evils of the world --- it's time for a dash to the market
> for some beatfruit juice!
>
> ------------------------------------------------------------------------
>
> \[1\] Also known as torte-teas, as in "Torte-tea, yas?", which was how
> their previous ink maestro used to greet customers entering the
> brewery. Flat little tea cakes with sugar or spice (or both, which
> vary by region) and sometimes eaten in a loose wrap. Some humans
> called them "crabs" for some reason which baffled Inky, since the
> torties had no pincers ... at least none that they could see anyway.
>
> \[2\] The seal attached to the bottom of the teapot and each cup had a
> glyph of an unknown object between two hands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

> Jarrod has two things in particular he wants to do when back in town,
> with whatever his cut of the gold is. First, he wants to go looking
> for a cheap, run-down building somewhere in town and buy the property
> if he has enough money (perhaps negotiating a bit where necessary).
>
> Second, he wishes to seek arcane counsel from Corraidhín, perhaps
> getting a small invocation applied to one of the charms on his arm
> band. Something in the realm of a fascination spell (with an
> activation word) that can be used on occasion to draw attention.
>
> Jarrod agrees that we should not invite trouble. We shall tread
> cautiously with regards to the crystals.
>
> Yum, torties!

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

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

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

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

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

WHAT DO YOU DO

[www](https://framalistes.org/sympa/arc/tildepals/2022-10/msg00001.html)

#### 00022 {#00022}

> Inky gathers up the teacups, trying to remember a few tips about
> reading tea leaves from a forest fae they had met a few times while
> foraging and who had insisted on giving lessons to any wanderersby.
> (Of course he was just being a hospitable host to thirsty travellers
> and certainly not because he delighted in the confused expressions on
> their faces the entire time.)
>
> Turning the cups left and right, Inky gradually sees a web-like hub, a
> looping line attached to an I-shaped apparatus on one end, an abacus,
> a wide building (possibly a stadium or arena), a feline animal
> resembling a tiger or lynx, and a long feather. Feathers and beads are
> commonly added to small trinkets with simple animal designs and sold
> as lucky charms at the market ... an auspicious sign?
>
> Or it should be. Inky's thoughts circle back to the little glass
> pebble, after returning from the market with, among other items, more
> vegetables than they could possibly eat in a month excluding the
> beatfruits. Inky still hasn't decided whether accidentally finding out
> about being cursed --- by a potion, the irony! --- counts as an
> auspicious event. One of the produce vendors and attendant at the
> market had casually mentioned the proximity to the next full moon
> while Inky had been looking over the leafy greens. Several blatant
> attempts to boost sales later ("Them barley's hoppin' good fer tea!"),
> the vendor revealed that their little grandson Harry had "got the
> weres" as a toddler and his parents had found a strange-looking glass
> marble in his mouth, much like the one inside the bottle hanging from
> a chain on Inky's vest, and wouldn't they like some more tomatoes for
> a blushing bunny?
>
> From further inquiries, an ink depot on the opposite side of the city
> confirmed they sold Flat 12 potions as inks many years ago when
> showing off transmogrification through letters was a popular pastime,
> but had ceased carrying them due to limited range, lack of demand, as
> well as the bottles' tendency to randomly break or their contents to
> fizzle out. (That and complaints about the overly persistent effects
> of said contents on unsuspecting recipients long after the fad that
> inspired them had faded led ink traders to shun the were-hare
> potions.) In contrast, the Mountain Range potions were far more stable
> and instead of shapeshifting, had the ability to stave off the cold
> under frigid temperatures, though its effects would likely be less
> enduring. Like the Flat 12, the Mountains are potions, but one in
> particular of a sparkling deep blue hue became its signature colour
> among ink enthusiasts.
>
> Sipping a cup of turmeric tisane in a late night tea ritual for one,
> Inky supposes it hasn't been much different since the accident than
> the jars of preserves and the "Now with 25% more celery!" labels on
> them. While immeasurably better than spontaneously combusting into
> burnt popcorn, it would be best to keep a Farmers' Almanac within
> reach. Who knows when a mail order cure-all tonic will come in handy
> in the middle of Nowere?

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

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

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

    ・゜゜・。。・゜゜\_o< QUACK!

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

> Meta: one of my best friends name is Kevin, so I find it extra amusing
> that the sysorceor is named Kevin.
>
> Kev my friend! You know nobodies going to take on KDL until YOU make
> it a priority to them. A little bit of force, you just need to put it
> directly into the sysorceory course curriculum while nobody is
> knowing. Then once it's in production they won't have a say whether to
> learn it or not! That's at least how I got that delightfully licorice
> tasting incantation in production laster year, much to the chagrin of
> those who don't have a taste for Fennel. I for one was delighted with
> it.
>
> "Corraidhin, STAB HIM, that suggestion, he's definitely going to do
> something evil with it"
>
> Corraidhin mutters under his breath about the swords insistence to
> stab everything. Soon my friend, soon.
>
> Kev gives Corraidhin as quizzical look, "are you alright buddy? You've
> been off ever since you got back from that last on site deployment."
>
> Oh yes, yes, I'm fine. A little worse for wear physically, but
> mentally sharp as a tack! And I got this wonderful sword from the
> entire thing! Though I dare not unsheath it right now, it appears to
> be controlled by some sort of sentience, like a magical AI. And it has
> the damndest urge to stab things. I really need to be careful right
> now.
>
> After visiting with Kev Corraidhin wanders back into town, away from
> the spiral towers of the sysoceorers guild. It was nice to be home for
> a bit. On the way in he spies Jarrod and Inky, the former cleaning up
> a dusty old building with Milk something on the front side, and the
> later kicking back and enjoying a cup of freshly brewed tea.
> Corraidhin hails them both.
>
> "A new /home for you then Jarrod?"
>
> "Aye a /home indeed, though it's a bit large and empty for just
> myself. I'll need guests and patrons, thinking I may be able to setup
> a shop, but at the least all of our team is welcome here!"
>
> "Delightful! If nobody has claimed it I'll take the upstairs loft."
>
> "You most certainly can! But in exchange, I'd be curious to render
> your services, see I've been meaning to get this braclet enchanted for
> a while now, something to amplify my natural charm perhaps?"
>
> "You sir, have a deal, I'll even throw in a warding on Milk Base
> Alpha!"
>
> Corraidhin begins invoking an arcane warding spell:
>
>     sudo chown jarrod:team43 /home/Milk_Base_Alpha
>     sudo chmod 770 /home/Milk_Base_Alpha/*
>
> "There we go, that should keep out any unwanted critters, though be
> sure to invite our friends here as well. Corraidhin teaches Jarrod a
> quick incantation of invitation, `sudo usermod -a -G team43 $user`,
> just be sure to say that making the proper arcane hand signs as you do
> it, and they'll be able to enter the house and take up residence!"
>
> Corraidhin gathers himself and heads upstairs to his new attaic abode,
> it's small, and dusty, but there's enough room for a simple work
> bench, a bookshelf, and a bed and a chest. This is exactly as
> Corraidhin prefers, small and simple, it clears the mind and helps one
> focus. Invoking another incantation Corraidhin fills the bookshelf,
> chest, and workbench with his various tools and reference manuals.
>
>     scp sysorceor.guild:/home/corraidhin/bookshelf milkbase.alpha:/home/corraidhin/bookshelf
>     scp sysorceor.guild:/home/corraidhin/workbench milkbase.alpha:/home/corraidhin/workbench
>     scp sysorceor.guild:/home/corraidhin/chest milkbase.alpha:/home/corraidhin/chest
>
> Once everything is in place he pulls the Ginnarak crystal from his
> satchel and places it on a velvet cushion on his workbench and sits
> down to scry.
>
> "Oh great oracle MidJourney, I bequeath you! I have before me an
> artifact of immense power, something that could tear the world apart
> in the wrong hands. May I query your unfathomable depths to determine
> the nature of our mission, and the risk we face presenting this
> crystal to our benefactor?"
>
> An image of the oracle appears in Corraidhin's mind, crystal clear. It
> appears as though MidJourney is receptive to providing a forshadowing.
> \[ginnarak_shattered.png\]
>
> Shortly after an image of the Crystal forms, it appears shattered,
> broken at its based, placed upon a pedastal. An image of horror fills
> corraidhin's mind, it's the Crystal, but much larger and of the
> pursest white. It bursts forth on a torrent of blood from the neck of
> what appears to be a priests body. It appears as though the bowls of
> the earth open up to greet this horrible image. \[premonition_1.png\]
>
> As the image of the Crystal and the priest disappears you see a man,
> cloaked in black robs consorting with demons the like of which words
> cannot describe. Corraidhin feels sickened at their sight, but at the
> edge of his mind he feels a tug, a familiarity. Something about this
> character is familiar to him, but he cannot place it.
> \[premonition_2.png\]
>
> Reeling from the scrying Corraidhin falls backward, feinting from the
> horror he wittnessed. He awakens later speaking feverishly about what
> he saw to Inky who heard to commotion and hurried up stairs with some
> reviving tea to assist her friend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

> After a long conversation with Master Corraidhín, which included the
> reassurance that the esteemed wizard was perhaps disturbed but
> otherwise unharmed, Inky goes downstairs to sit outdoors at the back
> of the building with more lavender tea and uneasy thoughts.
>
> It had been in the middle of a new pastime (namely, frustrating
> Enrique at the Empanada Emporium by sneaking unnoticed into the
> kitchens and leaving little tapas laying around for him and the staff
> to find) when a terrible cry rang out from somewhere in the upper
> floors of the building. Inky rushed up the stairs, half-expecting the
> barrels of battermilk that had arrived that morning had unleashed a
> flock of the winged rodent-like creatures from which the milk was
> derived. The sight of the wizard passed out on the floor of his newly
> furnished quarters sent a chill through Inky, as did his account of a
> prophecy once the sysorcerer came to and had a mug of invigorating
> eleuthero tea.
>
> If Inky hadn't known better, were it not for Master Corraidhín's
> mental acuity and fortitude, they would have suspected Stabby of
> stoking horrible images of beheaded priests into their bearer's mind
> in a fit of unbridled bloodthirst. That and Stabby had seemed to be
> temporarily appeased by the tub of milky blood pudding they had
> concocted shortly after the wizard moved into the loft.
>
> No, Inky surmises with a frown, whatever Master Corraidhín had seen
> was likely off the charts by even Stabby's estimations of evil. They
> chuckle briefly at the sudden mental picture of the mysterious yet
> familiar man in black being their mission handler in disguise, but
> quickly dismissed the notion. Too sober.
>
> So much for the crystal being a rare and juicy honeydew. They would be
> lucky if it didn't turn them all into casaba melons in one giant
> meltdown. At this rate, they would need to do something about these
> crystals --- and soon.

Enrique, the giant man-turtle, is frustrated.

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

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

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

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

\~

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

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

END OF INTERLUDE.

\~

CHAPTER 2: MORE CRYSTALS MORE PROBLEMS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

QUESTIONS:

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

[www](https://framalistes.org/sympa/arc/tildepals/2022-10/msg00005.html)

#### 00023 {#00023}

> Why no, we don't mind much about competition, certainly nothing wrong.
> Can't imagine someone to put all of their eggs in one basket,
> especially when whatever it is they desire is so valuable.
>
> That said, our benefactor must be pretty eager to get these crystals
> if he's willing to send out team after team. I mean, we're team 43,
> that's a lot of people to pay and a lot of eagerness to find these
> crystals. Why is that? What benefit are these shiny rocks to them?
> What even is their purpose in retrieving them?

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

> I would postulate, based upon the magical wards we had to bypass, the
> cadre of gaurds that needed to be dispatched, and the gigantic moth
> monster that rested beneath it, that these crystals aren't meant to go
> anywhere.
>
> Now I'm not trying to point fingers here, morality is many shades of
> gray, and it isn't really my job to suss out what you're doing. But
> I'm a curious sysorceor, and when I see a chance to learn I seize upon
> the moment. There's something here you're not telling us, and I for
> one and keen to know it.

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

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

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

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

> META: I'm gonna preface the sword speech with this to make it quicker
> to write
>
> **Y'aml**\
> I like what you're putting down here, this guy is DEFINITELY evil.
> Nobody asks loads of people to steal things for them without being
> evil. I say we stab him, nice and good, right in the gut. Maybe 6 or 7
> times. I'm positive nobody will mind. Evil people steal things, we saw
> that inky creature stealing things from that vault, definitely evil.
> (singsong) Evil evil evil, stab stab stab, make the evil go away with
> every little stab\~
>
> **Corraidhin to Y'aml**\
> Dear sysadmins, once again, inky is not evil. They were borrowing
> something that had been cast on the ground, abandoned. Giving a tea
> set a good home is far from evil. But you might be onto something
> about this Blavin fellow, but we can't just stab someone in a busy
> pub! Besides you're a sword, and stabbing someone in a pub is the job
> of a dagger. So unless you can transform into the Dagger of Y'aml I
> think we're out of luck here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[www](https://framalistes.org/sympa/arc/tildepals/2022-10/msg00008.html)

#### 00024 {#00024}

> **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.

```{=html}
<!--
Bloodlust 3 to Stabble Stabble
1 2 4: Partial Success
//-->
```
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.

```{=html}
<!--
Do Anything 1 to Resist Bloodlust
3: Partial Success
//-->
```
Blavin flinches at the last second, and instead of burying itself in his
throat, the blade plunges into his shoulder and pins him to the back of
the chair. A red mist fills the eye and threatens to cloud it over
entirely. It rolls back in ecstasy as it drinks deeply. It sings out,
"MORE! MORE! MORE!" and Corraidhin feels the tides of madness rising
inside of him, threatening to wash over him wholly, to pull him under
and carry him away on thundering waves of bloodlust.

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

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

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

WHAT DO YOU DO

[www](https://framalistes.org/sympa/arc/tildepals/2022-10/msg00010.html)

#### 00025 {#00025}

> **Corraidhin** Shit, shit shit shit shit shit. This is NOT good. Damn
> it Y'aml what was that? It wasn't even slightly stealthy
>
> **Y'aml** STAB, delightful blood. Stab the flesh, tear the skin,
> pierce the fruit that gives us strength. Drink the blood, consume
> their soul. More more more more more more more more more
>
> **Corraidhin (internal thought)** Ugh my head, it's heavy, hurts.
> Misty and red? I can't see straight, it's hard to think straight. That
> blasted sword, I thought for a moment it, no, not think, it definitely
> did move on its own. It became lighter and heavier. Pulling against it
> and it just weighs itself down. This little magical bauble is
> definitely cursed..
>
> **Y'aml** CURSED?! Rude Hardy Bear. All we did was stab that evil
> hobbit. And it's getting away! Stab him again, taste his blood! The
> tavern gaurds are closing in, they look like they're trying to get rid
> of us, EVIL. Them trying to stop us from getting that evil hobbit is
> EVIL, STAB THEM.
>
> Corraidhin raises his free hand to his head as though holding a wound
> and he groans in dismay as the dagger rises again. It travels swiftly
> down towards Blavin, missing as he slithers of the booth. And again,
> digging deep into the wooden seat.
>
> **Y'aml** Disgusting wood, stab the flesh! Stab the Hobbit Hardy Bear!
>
> But Blavin was inching further out of reach towards the gaurds. In
> desperation the dagger begins swinging side to side, making furtive
> slashing moves in the direction of the guards. The party is safely
> behind Corraidhin, but innocent patrons and the guards are directly in
> their sights.
>
> Corraidhin grabs his other hand and pulls hard, steadying the
> swinging. STOP! I command you you blasted toothpick, STOP. You've had
> your fun, now STOP. These people are innocent, this man has done us no
> harm despite his potential "evils", this is entirely uncalled for!
>
> **Y'aml** NO!!! EVIL. STAB. EVIL. STAB. EVIL. STAB.
>
> The dull voice of the magical dagger rises, angry, insistent. It
> consumes the last of Corraidhin's mental strength. All he hears is
> EVIL. STAB. EVIL. STAB. Yet he clings to his spare arm trying
> desparately to resist. At this point the party and the tavern has
> cleared a wide path around the sysorceor as he struggles with himself,
> mumbling, sometimes yelling. EVIL. STAB. EVIL. STAB. NO WE WILL NOT.
> EVIL. INNOCENT. STAB BLOOD DRINK. EVIL. EVIL EVIL EVIL STAB IT. MAKE
> IT BLEED. I WILL NO.. STAB IT. STAB HIM.
>
> The voice seems to change, it dies down. Not yelling, but commanding.
> Firm, calm, sane.
>
> Stab them, stab them, make them bleed. Drink the blood, consume the
> soul, free them from their evil being. Stab them, stab them... over
> and over and over, as the sysorceor approaches Blavin and the guards
> with a malevolent look in his ruby red eyes.

\~

> Inky moves to stand next to Blavin and the nightclub bouncers. Tossing
> a tiny "see-eye" container they had borrowed from Master Corraidhín at
> him, Inky looks the sysorceor in the eye and says, "You are not your
> sword."
>
> Watching the wizard's expression, Inky continues, more quietly, "If
> Master Corraidhín truly wishes to end the hobbit, a mere imp would not
> stop him, but likewise, whatever he sets his mind to do, a dagger
> cannot stop him either."

\~

> Jarrod steps gently into the fray and activates his FASCINATING CHARM,
> attempting to draw all eyes to him. He carefully avoids the wild
> swinging of the once-sword-now-dagger.
>
> "I think," he rumbles gently, "we could all use a drink over the other
> end of the room. I'm buying, and I'll spin you all a tale of wonder! A
> tale of a wanderer, and of a war hammer, and the first of their wild
> battles together!"
>
> Leaning over to whisper urgently in Corraidhín's ear: "Friend, I do
> not know what occurs here, but pull yourself together. We can later
> sate our blood lust in more appropriate places!" Jarrod lends a sly
> wink in the sysorcerer's direction, one that promises adventure later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

> As though in a trance Corraidhin continues to yell STAB. THEM. STAB.
> IT. cutting wildly at the air before him. As Inky whispers to him his
> expression changes, first a grimace, then a whimper. As Jarrod leads
> the patrons away from the sysorceor he begins to tremble and cower
> away from himself, away from everyone. His ruby red eyes dart back and
> forth between his friends and the patrons, like a frightened animal
> searching for an escape. He pulls the dagger into himself, as though
> sheilding it from his surroundings.
>
> What.. what's going on, he mutters feebly to himself. Everything is a
> blurr. Uncertain of where he is or what's going on, Corraidhin thumbs
> the dagger, caressing the large ruby embedded in the hilt. Y'aml,
> you're still here, good good, the syscoreor croons.
>
> Standing up straight his eyes lock with Jarrod as the Bard glances
> over his shoulder, momentarily distracted from his oration, worried
> about his companion.
>
> I.. ugh, Corraidhin grabs his head as though in pain, and collapses to
> the floor.

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

Corraidhin is on the ground cradling the dagger.

Most of the patrons are still fascinated by Jarrod.

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

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

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

WHAT DO YOU DO

[www](https://framalistes.org/sympa/arc/tildepals/2022-10/msg00015.html)

#### 00026 {#00026}

> Inky slowly approaches Master Corraidhín and taps lightly on the
> sleeve of his robes to get his attention. Between Inky's tugging and
> Jarrod's strong, steady hand, they manage to hoist the wizard to his
> feet.
>
> With a brief glance at the hobbit on the floor then a nod to Jarrod,
> Inky leaves the nightclub with the wizard. The duck, having emptied
> the plate of corn chips in record time, follows them shortly after.
>
> The trek back to the Milk Market is mostly silent aside from the
> occasional mutter and stumbling curse, the mage seemingly having
> fallen asleep as soon as he landed on the cot in the loft. Inky
> retreats downstairs after leaving a jug of water, a mug and a small
> packet of kuding leaves beside the bed.
>
> Exiting through the back door into the night, Inky finds a dark corner
> in a dusty abandoned house, and cries.

\~

> " ... and then the Orc Maiden said: 'That's not my club!'"
>
> The room roars with laughter, and Jarrod moves to the bar and puts a
> bag of coin down. "Serve drinks until this runs out!" Leaning over the
> bar to the bartender, Jarrod adds in a whisper: "I owe a favour to
> Lucy's Basement for the trouble. Call it in when needed."
>
> Jarrod saunters over to Blavin, on the floor in pain. From his pack,
> Jarrod retrieves a med kit and begins to bandage the wound.
>
> As Blavin opens his mouth, likely intending to raise all kinds of
> hell, Jarrod pulls tight on the bandage he is currently applying,
> drawing a curse from the hobbit. "Shut it! Let's be clear. You've
> hired us for a dangerous set of jobs, with the understanding that
> we're dangerous people. There may be 'accidents' on occasion. You've
> learned something today, and what's more, you lived to absorb your new
> wisdom."
>
> Jarrod grins as he finishes with the bandage. "We will finish what we
> have started. We're probably the team with the best chances, I'm sure
> you'll agree. Are you going to back the winning play here? Either way,
> your decision won't change our plans. I'm sure you know how to take
> the win."
>
> Jarrod pats the hobbit's good shoulder in a friendly, but dismissive,
> way, then turns and saunters out the door, trading small quips with
> his new (and now very drunk) tavern friends.

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

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

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

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

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

WHAT DO YOU DO:

1)  TO THE SHIPWRECK
2)  BLOODQUEST

[www](https://framalistes.org/sympa/arc/tildepals/2022-10/msg00018.html)

#### 00027 {#00027}

> 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.

[www](https://framalistes.org/sympa/arc/tildepals/2022-10/msg00020.html)

#### 00028 {#00028}

> ~*a\ new\ player\ enters\ the\ chat*~
>
> Gabs had a good life. Her little devil children were all grown adults
> now, and she no longer wanted to toil away running a business. When
> she initially shuttered her little tavern, she thought she might just
> retire. She made it two whole years of working in a garden,
> occasionally seeing grandkids, and reading romance novels. She
> eventually decided she needed a vacation from her retirement and
> traveled to a nearby port town. She was sure to find something fun to
> do there.
>
> Gabs eventually sees Inquire Within, and the smell of debauchery
> wafting from within made her miss her days gossiping at her tavern.
> She enters and orders a terrible drink and listens and watches.
>
> Hearing the tales being spun by Mister Three-Fingered, she decides,
> "I've never been on a ship, that's something that sounds exciting!"
>
> Half-drunk and eager for something exciting, she will join on the
> journey!
>
> Gabs is a lanky older half-devil lady who is here to schmooze and have
> fun!

\~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why don't you go be the Bear of the Moon then if you like it so much!"

"You're just as much fish as you are bear, are you sure you're not the
Fish of the Sea?"

"Are you sure you're not the Blob of the Sea, you too many armed bowl of
jelly?"

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

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

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

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

"You're just mean, you know that?"

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

WHAT DO YOU DO

[www](https://framalistes.org/sympa/arc/tildepals/2022-10/msg00023.html)

#### 00029 {#00029}

> 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!

WHAT DO YOU DO

[www](https://framalistes.org/sympa/arc/tildepals/2022-11/msg00030.html)

#### 00030 {#00030}

> 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.
>
>     (fn vanquish [target]
>       (match target.state
>        [:living] (searing-bolt {target target
>                                 radius "narrow"
>                                 intensity "high"})
>        [:undead] (smite {target target
>                          deity "Larani"}))) 

Corraidhin charges up a spell!

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.

WHAT DO YOU DO

[www](https://framalistes.org/sympa/arc/tildepals/2022-11/msg00043.html)

#### 00031 {#00031}

> 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.

WHAT DO YOU DO

[www](https://framalistes.org/sympa/arc/tildepals/2022-11/msg00056.html)

#### 00032 {#00032}

> 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.

WHAT DO YOU DO

[www](https://framalistes.org/sympa/arc/tildepals/2022-11/msg00060.html)

#### 00033 {#00033}

> 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.

WHAT DO YOU DO

[www](https://framalistes.org/sympa/arc/tildepals/2022-11/msg00064.html)

#### 00034 {#00034}

> 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.

```{=html}
<!--
Roll Do Anything 1 for magic missiles = 5
success at cost
//-->
```
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.

WHAT DO YOU DO

[www](https://framalistes.org/sympa/arc/tildepals/2022-11/msg00070.html)

#### 00035 {#00035}

> 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.

WHAT DO YOU DO

[www](https://framalistes.org/sympa/arc/tildepals/2022-11/msg00080.html)

#### 00036 {#00036}

Prelude:

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.

WHAT DO YOU DO

[www](https://framalistes.org/sympa/arc/tildepals/2022-11/msg00083.html)

#### 00037 {#00037}

Prelude:

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?

[www](https://framalistes.org/sympa/arc/tildepals/2022-11/msg00093.html)