Daniels abruptly snaps out of his fugue, eyes refocusing on something that isn't empty space. "I only just convinced it to go back in there, I doubt it'd enjoy me cutting into it again. Singing it is!"
Sing a lullaby or something or other to the juggler to soothe it while it burns.
((My apologies, I genuinely thought I posted an action.))
[Killing Me Softly With His Song: 3]
The juggler taps a two-bodied rhythm on the oven door. This seems to be mostly to help you keep your own pace, as it seems to notice you flagging a bit after ten minutes or so as you completely exhaust your working knowledge of lullaby-sounding things. You're halfway through a particularly breathy down-tempo "Sweet Child O' Mine" when you wonder if this is particularly working at all.
You turn to the cooks. Their advice? Don't run away to join the opera. Yeah, the other one says, they already lose a lot of employees that way - there was this one scullion, see, now
that kid had a set of pipes. Shame he only knew one song though... oh, you wanted to know about the juggler? Uh, one of them says. Well, the other one adds. Hm, they both continue.
They
do guess it's a bit worrying that being exposed to extreme heat over long periods of time doesn't seem to be killing it. If they had to guess, it'd be that the thing is pretty committed to this sentience malarkey. Probably unsalvageable as a snack food, one of the cooks shrugs. Unless you've got very specialized tastes.
There's a pounding at the oven door as the juggler appears to wonder where you've gone off to. Fortunately it looks like it likes you, a cook points, or is at least subtle enough about its murderous impulses that it's difficult to detect. Go by intuition, the other one advises, it's always best to follow your heart when it comes to family. Oh, the first one says, you can take it along to the feast! The cap'n will love it, they're sure, at least if you can teach it some table manners.
A trickle about realism in effect was starting to tug at the back of Thomas's mind, but the practical was coming up first. Had he eaten yet today? It was hard to remember for some reason. "Let's grab what we need and go. Sticking around here is a bad idea; load up and we go to the top."
Grab the easy usefuls and let's go up the ridge.
[The Loot of the Day: 4]
When you give the go-ahead, your fellows waste no time in trailing after the vanquished tribe and tearing into their tents, coming away with a good deal of clothing, tools, something that Lily is reasonably sure is medicinal and Helen can vouch for giving a pretty good kick, miscellaneous odds and ends. Seems like the others that fled did not try to take their supplies with them. Loaded with a fair bit of goods, you make your way to the top of the ridge.
[I Can See For Miles And Miles: 6]
From the top you see a great deal, as the day has become rather clear and beautiful. Tabernacle and Silver flank you on either side as you peer at the forests and plains of the vast and unfriendly north stretching out below, the cliffs on the other side of the hill looking gentler than the ones you climbed up on, if not necessarily by much. At least the more vertical parts are much shorter on that end than this one, with a few fortified-looking positions now laying empty in what must be very hard-to-see locations from lower down.
Out in the unspeakable distance you see towers - that you can see them from this far off speaks to their immense size. Elizabeth, Tabernacle points out. Not far now, maybe two days if you get down without problems. You turn to him - does he know much about the area on the way? You must say that the people here weren't very accommodating. Anybody friendly on the way?
Simply put, no. But there are some landmarks he's heard about from the occasional wanderer that the bears and the Spiders didn't manage to get. Right over there, he points to the faintest trace of a clearing some three miles off, that'd be the old monastery. Full of ghosts if you believe the stories. Clansmen stay away though, which is good, 'cause right around here is where the woods get right unfriendly.
Even the road, Silver points toward the highway, still visible off to the north. Especially the highway, Tabernacle nods. On good days it'll be infested with Spiders, and on bad days you'd be running into the Dragons or Storks.
He mentioned something about unfriendly woods, you steer the conversation. Yep, he says. Not many people come through those, but they talk about clansmen, animals and
things. Business as usual around Elizabeth, he's heard. Something about the city drives the forests wild, apparently.
Aha, you say, and what'd that be, you point over to a streak where the forest appears to clear some distance off to the southwest. Tabernacle shrugs - hasn't heard anything about that. Looks like a dell, maybe a gorge? Hard to tell from this distance. Take a bit to figure out where you'll be steering this train, he shrugs, he'll go and get the others from the cliffs so you can make it somewhere before nightfall. Don't want to be exposed out in the woods at night, no sir.
Now that memory theater is up and running lets review few interesting cases; for example those mysterious and important star patterns I saw in Lee's dress at some point and somewhere else too. Actually, let's also arrange personel to ensure that from now on, everything I perceive is recorded, double checked against corruption, and doubly archived. Some security too, check if Heimdallr would do honors. Can't go along forgetting things so often and easily.
[Cache In The Memory Bank: 1]
They say people don't actually remember things, they just remember remembering them. You never held any truck with that kind of sophistry. No, you remember remembering things by remembering the thing you use to remember them with, in this case Heimdallr and his rather fanciful horn, who appears to be unemployed now that Bifrost went and collapsed. Now he can blow his horn several times every day (much to the chagrin of the gods, who are rather used to horns being blown in times of emergency as opposed to habitually) to assist you with something you were hoping to recover. First off, you guess you should take a look at those star charts.
BWOOOOT, responds Heimdallr with his horn, clearly excited to have a job again, and goes to man (god?) the projector, which shows you what for all you know is probably an accurate picture of the night sky. Look, there's the polestar. And also the Big Dipper somewhere off to the left. You're not very good with constellations, you quickly realize. Better commit them to memory.
Heimdallr, you call! BWOOOOOOOT, he responds enthusiastically. You order him to go ahead and record all of these memories you have on hand. He nods with a very professional kind of bwoot, and proceeds to very accurately commit your memories to your memory, double-checking them against your memory for any signs that your memory might not correspond with your memory.
You decide to leave him to it. Sounds like a very formidable undertaking and probably a very boring one, exactly the kind of thing you can forget about until you need it again.
This place is pretty weird, Morag says from behind you. Things don't move when you're not looking at them, but you can see this kind of tension about them, like they're ready to burst into action as soon as you turn their way.
"Well, this has certainly improved my opinion of pawnbrokers! I'll be back when I want something."
Find the way out and see about tying that cart to anything sturdy-looking enough. Maybe knot some burlap together to make an impromptu tether if the rope's not long enough?
Or have a look at that third shop if it isn't at the top of the hill at the moment.
Your praise is met with a warm breeze. As you turn around, the rows of display cases have parted as the bizarre architecture of the pawnbroker's shop gives way to a straight shot toward the exit, which takes you out of the faux-daylit corridors of the shop back into the miserable dark streets of the Tell of the Setting Sun, where you turn your mind toward matters of engineering.
[To Catch A Handcart: 1]
The teamster is unfortunately not present, and neither is his cart. Not to mention that you have doubts that something as generally spirited as that cart would be restrained by something so elementary as a mere tether. What you need is something a bit more clever, certainly. Perhaps there's a shop here that has what you need, you think as you wander down the main street of the merchant quarter to look for whichever shop it is that smells rather good in the distance.
[A Dash Of Cologne For That Smell: 5]
Perfume appears to be only the most intense part of the bouquet you are exposed to as you come over to the metastasizing sprawl of the perfumer's shop that has spilled back, forth and sideways into several nearby establishments that proved to be more sensitive to the passage of time, a mini-mall reeking of acetone, strong alcohol, formaldehyde and hydrocarbons of varying ripeness beneath a heady mix of floral and fruity scents. The air becomes thick as you step into the center of this street, littered with the bodies of the tell's citizens (and a couple of functionaries and street sweepers) that appear to have been completely overcome by the smell. The chug of machines and the boil of strange chemicals comes from open windows and unlocked doors in the compound.
Hullo, comes a shouted call from one of the top windows, followed by the caller slamming right down with it some seven feet to your right. You jump at the sudden smacking of her bulk and cracking of bones against the cobblestones and rush to her to check if she's all right before she waves you off and sits up, taking a moment to rearrange her bones in roughly the way they were supposed to be.
She looks definitely well-preserved on a chemical level, and her features have the look of careful sculpture over many years. Her dress looks obviously very well-laundered (as does her skin, in a disturbingly literal sense) until it hit the cobblestones. It's no trouble at all, she says as she stumbles to her feet. Scratches and scuffs on her appear to have been painted many times over, and some bits have well-disguised patches on closer examination. Her elbows, however, visible due to her rolled-up sleeves, seem to have worn away their skin completely and now only constitute a layer of bone painted roughly the same color.
Sorry about that, she says as she gets up and locks her knees in place through an unseen mechanism, wobbling into a stable posture. You surprised her! Shouldn't,
hic, do that, you know, she was fixing up an experiment when you came along. Care for some,
hic, tea? Rare that such a,
hurk, charming young man comes along to her emporium!
"So, uh, what have you rounded up for us this morning? Seems like it was a very impressive specimen of... whatever it was."
Oggie is more than happy to tell you all about it. She's had an eventful night.
[A Hunt At Sundown: 3]
When you went to bed, she hoped to find the innkeeper. It would not do to let her inform the other stoatfolk of the encounter she had. She had left a trail, a minor one, and Oggie hoped to track her so that she would not be a problem in the future. She located her up the road, and threw a large rock at her - this unfortunately seems to have missed from what you understand, and the ensuing encounter resulted in the innkeeper fleeing into the woods for cover. Oggie gave good chase, and though she was unable to catch the stoat in the end, she is confident that the innkeeper is now deep enough in the woods and sufficiently rattled, not to mention unable to make any kind of shelter before nightfall. All of these together, she is unlikely to make it out of the woods any time soon.
There was still time before morning at that point (you ask if Oggie sleeps, and she seems confused at the question), so what she then chose to do was look for some kind of local animal that would serve as adequate food. Several alternatives presented themselves, but most were too nimble. The one she brought back tried to hunt her, which proved to be a terrible mistake on his part - it appears to have been an exotic cross of a tiger and a centipede in all the worst ways. Many legs, but surprisingly easy to outmaneuver. Arboreal and very poisonous.
You pause in your half-hearted eating. Poisonous, she says. Oggie raises her hands - no problem, do not misunderstand. She has means and ways for fixing that, even if ingredients are second-rate above-ground. Fungi are sub-par in particular, but close enough to help. Had to pulp the good bits (not many of those), filter, mix with some other things, boil three times. Oggie's explanation about this is by far the longest part of her tale, and indeed appears to have constituted the greater part of her nightly activities.
Try the bones, Oggie gently nudges you. They are best part. You have one, and note that she is quite correct after you nearly break your teeth on cracking them open and suck out the slight amount of marrow, which tastes only mostly objectionable rather than wholly repulsive. It takes you quite a bit of concentration to keep getting through this, and the conversation experiences a distinct lull.
She would like to say something, Oggie mentions a little more uncertainly. She is, she hesitates, looking for a word, sorry for some of the things she did, the handling of the innkeeper. She thought intimidation would fix the situation. Or merely snapping the woman in half, this would fix more things and be eminently more pleasurable. But it did not work, and she is sorry for not respecting your judgment. So she made breakfast.
Yes, you say, your verbal skills mildly deteriorating at the sensory assault that is this stew.
Oggie looks like she's about to say something more, but her attention suddenly turns to the doctor, who seems to have got through most of her morning routine as she comes downstairs, stretching her arms as she bids good morning to you and then, considerably more hesitantly, to Oggie as well. She does not take well to the breakfast either, and to her credit does somewhat expertly deflect attention by asking where you all intend to go today (and, in an unspoken sense, how you intend to go about it). Kingsbridge is not far off and you could make it before the late afternoon, certainly, so you could go there and maybe try to blend in, she says in a tone that suggests she's kind of hoping you have a better plan than that.
Leif Erikson, Miner and Lush
- Sealed alchemist's brass box
- Half-basket of apple-like mushrooms (hallucinogenic)
- Paper party crown (worn)
- Moth-robe (worn)
- Itchy Woolen Britches (worn)
- A Word: INEVITABLE
- A Word: APOCALYPSE
- A Word: DRINK
- Body Count: 228
- Mead of Poetry (4 shining revelations remaining)
- Enders' Friend: The Grave of Red Clouds Parting
- Inscribed Wooden Stylus
- Iron spear
- 0.03 gp
- The Box: ?
- Induced Lucidity: A Map of Things Real and Imagined
- Compatibility: Minding
- Tricks of the Mind: Perception, Memory
- Tricks of the Mind: Engagement, Negation, Abstraction, Prestige
- Tricks of the Mind: the Self, the Other
- Gods of the Underground: Did You Just What
- A Visit From The Stork: Is What You Yes
- The Voracious Dark: Two Deals Made
- The Voracious Dark: The Promised Sixth
- Moth's Flight: Honorary Clansman
- A Night That Burns Forever: Juicy Gossip
- The Miracle of Life: Wayward Rabbit
Eileen Minett, Vinyl Collector
- Distilled alcohol (in flask)
- Spirits of salt (in clay jar)
- Soaps of elk, bear, bat and snake
- 4 flasks of lamp oil
- Oil lamp (lit)
- Linen stoat shirt (worn, plasma-scorched)
- Stoat trousers (worn)
- Comfy slippers (worn)
- Never-made scimitar (blackened, slightly dull)
- Tooth-handled hunting knife
- Black leather boots
- An assemblage of amber and amethysts
- Silver thread-necklace
- Onyx spiral earrings
- 2 oaken rings
- Rusty, bloodstained knife
- A Word: HUNGER
- A Word: SYNTHESIS
- A Weapon: Explosive Cysts
- Grenade Jumping: A Solid Technique
- The Good Doctor: Secret Histories
- Sword of the Sand People: Cleaning Supplies
- Sword of the Sand People: The Services of a Minder
- Higher Tonight: There And Back Again
- The Old Mistress: Like A House On Fire
Jack Daniels, Karate Man
- Wounds: 1
- Red and gold vest and breeches combo (worn)
- Leather boots (worn)
- Rubber mattress (filled with water)
- 14031 gp (in sack)
- Poor Unfortunate Soul: Forever Captive
- The Queen's Guard: Actual Asset
- Powers of the Beyond: Gardener of Thoughts
- Garden of Thoughts: the Stoat-Magistrate
- Dusty Wooden Speaking-Trumpet
- Crossbow Bolt (in throat)
- A Word: REND
- A Word: SILENCE
- A Word: EXECRABLE
- A Weapon: Murder-Thought
- Uncoupled: Strength
- Wooden Door
- Induced Lucidity: The Silent Garden
- Elongated Affairs: Enemy of the New State
- A Place In History: Vastly Unreliable
- 2 rats, crushed
- 1 rat, strangled
- 1 rat, live
- Doomstones: So High Up But Such A Bitter View
- The Majordomo: A Great Divide Between Us Now
- The Voracious Dark: Decreasing Demand
- The Voracious Dark: More Specific Requests
- The Vault of Heavens: Special Treatment
- Scars of Time: Practiced Acquaintance
- The Night Sky: A Useful Fellow Is He
- Petty Crimes: Minded For Safety
- Fires, Pines & Day, Minions At Law: On Retainer
- Body Count: 3
Thomas Minstep, Insurance Agent
- Wounds: 2
- A Word: ABSENCE
- A Word: GOODBYE
- A Word: WORM
- A Weapon: The Sword They Fear
- Insurance contracts, signed in triplicate: 13
- Gamble
- Nobody Cares
- Helen Clampitt
- Lily
- Undine and Prosper Eke
- Silver
- Tabernacle, treefisher scout
- Treefisher elder
- 4 treefishers
- Make A Man Out Of You: Battle-Tested
- The Grip of Tharn: Insurance Against The Storm
- Ranging fork
- 2 feet of sinew-thread
- Tooth-needle
- A Bowl, Black and Knobby
- Tight Leather Pants (worn)
- Incredibly Tight Blue Dress (worn, mutilated, mildly provocative)
- The Queen's Guard: A Reward Well Earned
- The New Queen: Lasting Gratitude
- The Box: Absolutely Delightful
- Bloody Well Kicked Off: Defeated
- Body Count: 12
Oscar Wilde, Chemistry Teacher
- A Word: REVELATION
- The Wicked King's Missive On Economic Reform (in massive silver scroll case)
- Wounds: 2 (alleviated)
- Traces of Mischief: Glowing Facial Rift
- The Serpent's Egg: Dissemination
- Body Count: 4
- Cornerstone Helm (worn, collecting light)
- Bottle of aspirin
- Time-ender's measure (wrapped, processing? stopping?)
- 10 m of rope
- Half a candle
- 1 rat, skinless and smoked
- 6 gp
- Lock of Hair (unidentified)
- Iron nail, unused
- An Inauspicious Key
- Burlap Foot Wrappings (worn)
- Burlap Hand Wrappings (worn)
- Moth-Eaten Hat (worn)
- Respectable Brown Skirt (worn)
- Old Brown Waistcoat (worn)
- Bright Yellow Tunic (worn)
- A Wealth of Burlap Ribbons
- The Winding Path of Inspiration: The Less Dangerous Friend
- The King's Court: The Greatest Gift of All
- The King's Court: The North Wind's Gift
- The King's Court: The East Wind's Gift
- The King's Court: The South Wind's Gift
- The King's Court: The West Wind's Gift
- The King's Court: A Gift For The Wicked King
- Wizzards Bargins: A Spool of Copper Wire
- Wizzards Bargins: A Roll of Your Finest Sticky Tape
- Wizzards Bargins: A Hunk of Exquisite Graphite
Author
Topic: Our Salvation: It Is Written (Read 262397 times)