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You crinkle the umbrella between your thumb and forefinger and look up into the lizard thing's saucer eyes: one gold, one iron. It dips its head and retreats to the nice chair. You breathe in lizard-cocoa steam.

We don't have to talk. I just wanted to keep you company.

"While I'm..." You flick your eyes out the window, which glows red. "...disassembled?"

It's lonely on the operating table, isn't it? And cold.

You cradle the mug in your lap. It does admittedly look like regular cocoa: you can't see any bugs in it or anything. They could be dissolved bugs.

Drink some. Warm up.

"I will," you say tentatively. "I just... I don't understand what's happening..."

The lizard-thing clicks its claws together. Aren't you a detective?

You look down.

Go on.

>[A1] Detectivate. (What do you think's happening — where did you fall to? What's with the eye? Where are you now? Write-in. You don't have to be 100% correct about everything, just give enough of an honest try that the lizard-thing appreciates it. It could be useful to reference previous threads.)
>[A2] God, you're sick of people(?) who know more than you do being all sly and cagey about things. Either it'll tell you or it won't, but you're damn well not playing along.

>[B1] Ask the lizard-thing's name.
>[B2] Apologize for how you were acting last night. It wasn't, um, characteristic of you.
>[B3] Ask if it's actually a lizard, or if it's a monster that just happens to look like a lizard.
>[B4] Ask why it's back. You thought it said it had somewhere to be?
>[B5] Ask why it's in the nude. You know it's a lizard(-thing), but it just doesn't seem proper, what with it being sentient and vaguely female and whatnot.
>[B6] Just hang out in silence. Maybe go look out the window.
>[B7] Write-in.

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>Announcements
Welcome back to Drowned Quest Redux! I have spent the past week-and-a-half wishing I could be writing instead of studying, so I'm thrilled to be back. I expect few IRL complications this thread, so hopefully steadier updates.

>Schedule
One a day, occasionally more if the first one was short. There may be sporadic half-updates (no options) if I start writing too late in the evening, sorry in advance. I am in the PST timezone.

>Dice
We use a 3d100 roll over degrees of success system with crits. The base DC is 50. Modifiers may be applied to the roll or to the DC as relevant. The # of rolls that match or exceed the DC determine the result. Probabilities may be found in the Dice and Mechanics pastebin.

The degrees are:
0 Passes = Failure
1 Pass = Mitigated Success
2 Passes = Success
3 Passes = Enhanced Success
0/100 = Critical Failure / Critical Success [regardless of other rolls]

>Mechanics
The MC has a pool of 14 Identity ("ID"), which may be considered both HP and the measure of her current sense of self. It may be lost through physical, metaphysical, or emotional damage. It may be regained through write-ins, designated options, and at reasonable narrative points, including sleep. It may be spent on a flat +10 bonus to rolls, as well as on more elaborate metaphysical effects. Dropping to 0 ID is bad.

>Archive
https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=drowned%20quest%20redux

>Twitter
https://twitter.com/BathicQM

>Pastebins
https://pastebin.com/u/BathicQM

>Ask the characters (or the QM), get a drawn response eventually
https://curiouscat.live/BathicQM

>"Redux"?
This quest is a loose sequel to the original Drowned Quest, which ran for eight short threads in 2019. Reading the original may help with context in very early Redux threads, but ultimately is not required.

>I have a question/comment/concern?
Tell me!

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>LAST TIME ON DROWNED QUEST REDUX
Having accepted Richard as your quasi-father, you finish hugging him, but continue to feel a little weird about the whole thing. Back in real life, Pat interrogates you about your "exploding Headspace" plan, and you settle on Step #1: interrogating Rudy Donahy, the Headspace project lead who allegedly lives in Hellsbells.

Dragging Gil with you, you locate Rudy, who's a bizarre recluse; pretty soon you and Gil determine he's not the actual guy, but a mirror-copy similar to Fake Ellery. You commune with Fake Rudy, which drops you into the mind of *Real* Rudy, inside Headspace... but all you can do is watch him go about his business. You observe a fragment of a meeting, but your presence affects Rudy badly; Richard extracts you and demonstrates proper technique before letting you back in.

You observe a Headspace dinner (nutritious mush). One of Rudy's coworkers speculates that Management is just about to wrap everything up, "terminating" all the employees, but a trio of actual Management stopping by shuts the conversation down fast. Rudy returns to his pod and attempts to communicate with you; you respond by violently possessing him, rifling through his memories, invading his manse, and bailing before you're caught.

Back in your own body, you reassure a worried Gil and Richard, abandon the puddled Fake Rudy, and go find the gang, whom you debrief on the Rudy/Headspace info. With their input, you flesh out the "explosion" plan: you intend to smash the Headspace manse into the ex-Namway facility to allow a route of escape, and you will possess an employee for as long as you can to gather intel. Richard is enthusiastic about that last point, waxing on bizarrely for a bit before lapsing into confusion. Earl asks if you wouldn't mind going on a "job" with him that night, and you agree.

You engage in "social interaction" for some time, then return to Earl's place, warn Gil that you're heading out, and sleep. Earl awakens you and leads you to the heist meeting spot, where you encounter Felicia (bitchy fish from the last heist) and Wayne (some guy). Wayne is nearly as chuuni as you are, but more pretentious, and allows you to join the heist squad so he can observe your magyck's power level. He's searching for a "seal" in the Mud Flats' archeological dig, and hands out familiar gold masks as disguises.

Earl uses blood magic to become monstrous and slow-witted, though friendly and obedient. A short time later, you both have become separated from Wayne and Felicia: you are hiding out in some ruins from patrolling mud-skimmers. You opt to use your EARTH POWERS to figure out where everybody is, fail, and are sucked into a metaphysical vortex(?). You're spat out... somewhere red, where you, your words, your red stuff, and your safety rope are all made literal. When you make your sun literal, too, you awaken a gigantic eye, which SEES THROUGH you-- disassembling you and sorting you into your constituent parts.

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>TO-DO (Completed goals and solved mysteries: https://pastebin.com/3Q3nPDis)

Immediate goal:
- Complete the heist

Short-term goals:
- Use, extract, or otherwise deal with the Wyrm stuff you got going on
- Possess a Headspace employee to gather intel (& contact the resistance?)
- Ask Us for permission to smash Headspace into the ex-Namway facility
- Update Real Ellery on the current bombing plan

Long-term goals:
- Blow up Headspace
- Resurrect Annie
- Regain your missing memories (...if possible)
- Find the Gold-Masked Person and their snake; reclaim the Crown
- In the meantime, continue collecting and storing Law (4/16)
- Make friends??? More friends? You don't know if Gil counts now

Mysteries:
- Who or what is Namway Co. and Headspace Corp.'s “Management”? What did they want with the clone of a snake?
- What kind of company(?) does Richard work for? What is its endgame? What does it want with you?
- What is the meaning of Jesse's spiral tattoo?
- Who is Horse Face investigating, and why?
- Who is the Gold-Masked Person? Why did they want your Crown? Where are they now?
- Why was Henry going on like you knew the all the cult GS already?
- Okay, seriously, why is everybody talking about the apocalypse now?
- What is the lizard-thing? What are you supposed to be forgiving yourself for, exactly? (You haven't done anything wrong!)

Ongoing assignments:
- Inform Eloise about anything you discover about Namway Co

--

Don't forget to scroll up and vote!

>>5657191
>A1
According to my incredibly spotty memory, I think this thing showed up and talked about fixing some of the changes Richard had made to our body, so I'm guessing it's doing that. Might update this after referencing previous threads.

>B1, 2, 4

>>5657191
>[A1] Detectivate. (What do you think's happening — where did you fall to? What's with the eye? Where are you now?
Same logic as >>5657516, really, the lizard thing is decidedly anti-snake, or at least working towards a different end than Richard is.
>[B1] Ask the lizard-thing's name.
>[B3] Ask if it's actually a lizard, or if it's a monster that just happens to look like a lizard.
Add-in if that's its true form.
>[B4] Ask why it's back. You thought it said it had somewhere to be?
>[B5] Ask why it's in the nude. You know it's a lizard(-thing), but it just doesn't seem proper, what with it being sentient and vaguely female and whatnot.

>>5657191
>>[A1]

>>[B1]
>>[B3]
>>[B4]
>>[B5]

>>5657516
>>5657579
>>5657663
>[A1]

>>5657516
>>5657579
>>5657663
>[B1]

>>5657579
>>5657663
>[B3]

>>5657516
>>5657579
>>5657663
>[B4]

>>5657579
>>5657663
>[B5]

>>5657516
>[B2]

Called for [A1], [B1], [B3], [B4], [B5], and writing.

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>Whodunnit

You drive your thumb into the chip in the handle and watch the light dye the cocoa's surface amber, except for under the umbrella, where it's rich mahogany. The lizard-thing's nice chair is dyed mahogany, and its eye is amber. Under the cocoa-steam, the parlor smells of lemon— of wood polish. The amber is the color of the eye outside, which is the color of the sun.

The cocoa is auguring nothing for you, despite your best attempts to swirl it clockwise. You are portentless. Bereft. Your brain is hovering in space in wafer slices, or particles, and to tell the truth it's a bit aggrieving to be challenged under such a condition. Would the lizard-thing like it if you caught its spiny neck, bent it backwards, and bashed its own skull into particles? Then straddled it, dumped its presumably bug-riddled cocoa onto its brain mush, bent down, and asked it if it were a detective? Surely it could solve some simple mysteries for you? It wasn't busy with anything, after all, just laying on the floor.

I wouldn't press you if I didn't think you were well capable. The thing's unbashed neck settles into a loose coil. I levy no judgment. I could not judge you if I wanted to, Lottie. I—

You swirl the mug counterclockwise, forming a narrow cocoa vortex. "You sound like Nice Richard."

I suppose I must.
I have on some level grown to understand the way he was.

You're further aggrieved to be drawing conclusions, brain in wafers or no. You feel as though you ought to be allowed a break from the whole 'thinking' business. "Sorry, you know Richard? My Richard. The snake."

In a sense.

The lizard-thing is entirely expressionless, and its body language is too foreign to parse easily. It could very well be telling you what you want to hear. "...So Richard knows you."

In the abstract. As an abstraction.

"Um, okay." You watch the light play off the lamp fixtures as you try to piece a narrative together. "So are you... are you, like, the anti-Richard? Nega-Richard? Since, um, you're white all over, and he's black, and yellow, and he's a man snake, and you're a... um, you sound like you're a girl... lizard, and you're real nice to me, while he hates me— I mean, hated me— but he only stopped 'cause he died. So maybe you've come now, since he's not here, and you're going to— unRichard me, I guess—?"

UnRichard you.

"Yeah." Isn't it self-explanatory? "I didn't use to be... I mean... I didn't use to see in the dark, or have fangs, or scales— and I used to have two good eyes! Honestly! I guess I don't know he did the eye, but I can't remember who did, which I feel like is indicator in-and-of itself... can you give me my memories back?"

No.

"Please?"

They're gone, Lottie.
And I'm not... I'm not the 'anti-Richard.' He's not important enough to need a counterpart.

You tilt your bad eye at the lizard-thing, trying to match the angle of its head.

(1/4)

Er, I know he's important to you.
I mean in the grand scheme of things. He's nobody. He's interchangeable parts.
Also, he never hated you.

"Maybe you're just Richard," you mutter. "In disguise. Or one of his dumb snake coworkers, also in disguise, and you—"

No.
I know you've found jumping to conclusions to be unusually effective, but I don't think you're trying very hard here.
I do think it would be kind of you to forgive him, though. When the time comes for it.

You scowl at the lizard-thing, which has returned to lapping. Your cocoa is getting cold. If you don't want it, I'll have it— I'll at least have your umbrella.

That does it: you pluck the pink umbrella out unceremoniously and take a tiny sip of your lizard-cocoa. It tastes like regular cocoa, which is to say delicious, albeit lukewarm. You decline to share this information with the lizard-thing, instead wiping your lips and setting the mug down. "If you're not Richard, supposedly—"

Who am I?

It extends its neck to its full height, the tops of its head-spurs brushing the ceiling, and casts a shadow like a palm tree. I thought you'd forget to ask.

"Geez," you say.

The lizard-thing makes a doorhinge sound— a laugh, maybe. I am the Herald of the Bright Epoch.

"Oh," you say, and decline to tell the lizard-thing/Herald that you find that to be a fairly awesome nickname: it doesn't need to get any smugger. "And you're a lizard? Are all lizards named things like that?" (If they are, where can you go meet them?)

Am I a lizard?
I don't know. I expect I'm a lizard in the way this mug— It indicates said mug. —is a mug.

This time, your 'trick statement' detectors go off before you open your mouth. Indeed, though, the Herald's mug looks like a mug. Your mug.

It does look like a mug. It feels like a mug, it behaves like a mug.
But mugs are ceramic— It squashes its mug between its closed claws, then reopens to an empty, scaly palm. —and that quote-quote mug was thoughtstuff. A sturdy illusion, nothing more. Malleable.

"You could've just said you weren't real," you say, discomfited.

As if you've never indulged in the figurative.
But yes. I am a lizard because the Herald is a lizard. If it wasn't, I wouldn't be. I am... It tastes the word. ...malleable.

You're taking darting sips of cocoa whenever it isn't paying attention, though with no pupils that's difficult to gauge. "So are there other lizards? Other Heralds of whosy-whatsit—"

It gives you a twisting look. You retaliate with a question you've been keeping in reserve. "So are other lizards usually in the nude?"

...What?

"You're—" You gesture politely. (It's not as though there's anything horrid to see: female-sounding or not, it's all just close, pearly scales. It's more about setting a standard.) "—er, unclothed. Everywhere."

(2/4)

I... The Herald remains expressionless, but its neck is doing quite a lot of bending down on itself. I, uh... oh, dear. Sorry! Sorry. I hadn't— it's all been, um, happening rather fast, and you're really not thinking straight, when you're— then you're— could you close your eyes? Please?"

You'd meant to jab at the Herald, not to fluster it, but you can respect a fellow adherent to good morals. (Even if you can't fathom how one would forget to wear clothing.) Rather than ask about the eye-shutting— you recall Richard ordering similiar things of you— you just do it.

There. How does it look?

The Herald is clothed when you open your eyes again: in red and gold and fine fabric and stifling fur, like a book-print of a a lady or a queen. Each of its head-spurs are capped off in crystal. "Wow," you say, having expected something more lizard-y: this is garish, but in a manner you privately admire. Then again, the Herald can (apparently) read your mind, so you may as well out with it. "I, um, like the cape."

I knew you'd like the cape, says the Herald, and swooshes the cape as best it can with its limited arms. I do too. If only I had more time to enjoy it.

This sparks a dim memory. "...Didn't you say you had something to do? Yesterday?"

The Herald stops swooshing. Yes.

"Did you take care of that?"

...No.
No. Admittedly I have been delaying my arrival.
I am needed. I am waited upon. But I...
I may be candid with you. I am frightened to do it.

You have little idea how to respond to vulnerable admissions when they're not coming from spiky 10-foot lizard-thoughtforms. "Oh. Sorry. Have you... have you tried thinking positive?"

That doorhinge sound. Yes.
I will continue with my best efforts to do so.
Until then, I may... linger.

"In my head."

On occasion. It is possible. The Herald flicks the end of its tail around the leg of the nice chair. If I don't see you again, know I wish you well in all things. And forgive yourself, Lottie. In the end forgive yourself.

-

The last thing you see is the Herald in perfect forward view, eyes metallic, spurs arrayed like a sunburst, before you're collapsed— an accordion, a folding portmanteau— out of your parlor, into your body, which sways and squiggles with kinetic energy. You are in one piece, everything where it began, as if by diagram. Richard's spidersilk rope digs into your waist. You still taste the cocoa.

(3/4)

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Below you, you have been SEEN and you have been appraised and found— if not satisfactory, at least worthy of improvement. Not immediately vaporizable. You know this because the information's been stamped into every one of your brain-wafers, which, when reassembled, have formed a kind of 3D-carved block-letter missive that juts unignorably into your regular flow of thoughts like a sea cliff, or something. You're more than a tad woozy. The missive, if you were to analyze it, isn't so long as what you just said. It might be something more like this:
CHASSIS.
IMPERFECT.

Somehow that connotes the above, though, bolstered by the fact that you are not, in fact, vaporized. You're still just hanging above the eyeball, red stuff crawling on your face. Blech. Up your nose, even. Are you supposed to be doing something?

Is the eyeball supposed to be doing something?

Is Richard, far, far above? There: the faintest of jerks at the rope. You ascend half an inch. Richard just needs to get into the groove, you reassure yourself, and you'll be cruising upward, back to real reality and your real body and Earl, who hopefully isn't eating anybody. He isn't eating anybody. Positive thinking.

Until such a time as the groove, though, you're still here. Still being looked at the most you're ever going to be looked at. And worst of all, you have the awful feeling you're the one supposed to be doing something. Would wordlessly bailing out be... rude?

Oh, dear.

>[1] Best not to play around with giant eyeballs. (That's one of your mottos.) It wants to, er, improve you? That's fine. Easy. You like improving. (Specific options in morning, so please check back. For now, feel free to write-in if there's something in particular you'd like to "improve.")
>[2] Best not to play around with giant eyeballs, but in the opposite direction. Bail wordlessly, and hope it's nearsighted.
>[3] Write-in.

>>5658308
Maybe we can improve our bad eye.

>>5658308
>tfw we never got specific options

have it improve our brain
install an anti richard defense system
powerful security
no longer can he shut us up on a whim

>>5658622
>tfw we never got specific options
I woke up, like, an hour ago and I'm still brainstorming. (Balancing is tricky.) That being said...

>install an anti richard defense system
This is a good idea, but you don't think the eyeball would be a fan of it.

>>5658601
>Maybe we can improve our bad eye.
This is possible.

>>5658601
>>5658622

>NOTHING IN LIFE COMES WITH NO COST.


>[1A] EARTH EATER. Your digestion is inferior. Improve it. (You may consume dirt to regain ID and SV. You may consume other things for other, potentially permanent, effects.)
>[1B] SPOOKY ACTION AT A DISTANCE. Your eyesight is inferior. Improve it. ([COMMUNION] may now be activated in line of sight, without physical contact needed. Other restrictions still apply.)
>[1C] HEART STOPPER. Your venom is inferior. Improve it. (Your venom may be used to paralyze nonliteral things-- conversations, ideas, relationships-- provided you work out a way to inject it.)
>[1D] ADVANCED ADVANCED GASLIGHTING. Your gravity is inferior. Improve it. ([ADVANCED GASLIGHTING] may enact physical change on the universe. Like before, this change is temporary, and still requires a difficult roll.)
>[1E] Write-in.

>[2] Best not to play around with giant eyeballs, but in the opposite direction. Bail wordlessly, and hope it's nearsighted.

>[3] Write-in.

>>5658653
Would it be possible to fool the eye into giving us the brain defense, by saying we need it for cases where Richard is under the influence of external forces and not acting in his right mind, and/or to defend against other beings of a similar nature?

If not I'll go for
>1B

also >wow sleeping in until noon on a monday wow

>>5658678
>Would it be possible to fool the eye into giving us the brain defense
While I like your line of thinking, the eye just, er, broke down and analyzed the totality of your being. Even if you were a good liar (you're not), you're not pulling a fast one on it!

>spoiler
it's summertime baybee

>>5658653
>[1D] ADVANCED ADVANCED GASLIGHTING. Your gravity is inferior. Improve it. ([ADVANCED GASLIGHTING] may enact physical change on the universe. Like before, this change is temporary, and still requires a difficult roll.)

Double down bay-bee. Can't wait to try to use this with LAWS. Or ORDERS? OPEN I'm talking about OPEN.

>>5658653
>[1D] ADVANCED ADVANCED GASLIGHTING. Your gravity is inferior. Improve it. ([ADVANCED GASLIGHTING] may enact physical change on the universe. Like before, this change is temporary, and still requires a difficult roll.)
First we gaslight, then we gatekeep, and then, finally, we can girlboss.

>>5658653
>>[1D] ADVANCED ADVANCED GASLIGHTING. Your gravity is inferior. Improve it. ([ADVANCED GASLIGHTING] may enact physical change on the universe. Like before, this change is temporary, and still requires a difficult roll.)

>[1D] ADVANCED ADVANCED GASLIGHTING. Your gravity is inferior. Improve it. ([ADVANCED GASLIGHTING] may enact physical change on the universe. Like before, this change is temporary, and still requires a difficult roll.)
Lel

>>5658922
> and then, finally, we can girlboss.

Charlie's real goal

> https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=oDWTg0r2ToU&pp=ygUfYmV0dGVyIG9mZiB0ZWQgYmVzdCBvZiB2ZXJvbmljYQ%3D%3D

Rolled 2 (1d2)

>>5658678
>>5658692
>>5658731
>>5658930
>>5659056
>[1D]

>>5658678
>>5658601 this could be a dynamic IP that switched to 1D, but it's irrelevant so whatever
>[1B]

Called for [1D] and writing. Also, flipping for what Earl's been up to. 1=Nothing 2=Kept you 'safe'

Also, before anybody starts getting crazy ideas, a quick refresher on how Advanced (Advanced) Gaslighting functions. Principally, it's NOT bog-standard reality-warping: rather, it involves you convincing yourself of something so hard that the universe "believes it," and thus it becomes true... temporarily, until the universe "catches on" and it reverts. This means that something like

>My mother is just around the corner
>I am 10 feet tall
>The camp is now a nuclear wasteland

Just isn't going to work, because you can't, in your heart of hearts, convince yourself of completely ridiculous things. But something like...

>Monty is just around the corner
>I am 5'3" without needing heels
>Horse Face's tent has caught on fire (from one of his dumb artifacts, or whatever)

...might not be true, but it's plausible; provided you succeed your roll, you can make yourself believe in it. By extension, you actually might be able to accomplish ridiculous things-- IF you have a legitimate, plausible excuse for why they might work. But that's something I'll have to judge as a QM, and smaller things will always be easier (if still a high DC) to accomplish.

Let me know if you guys have any questions!


>>5658922
kek

>>5659075
Wow, this awoke repressed memories in me. I think I watched a couple episodes of this years and years ago.

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>ADDITION

Okay, you can't say you have much fondness for this eyeball— it hasn't quite dawned yet, the realization of Oh God, my organs were all outside my body, but the rays of it are coming over the horizon. For now you're post-novocaine cold, numb, and possessed of the concept that nothing good has ever come from pissing off things hundreds of thousands of times larger than you are.

And as much as your top-level mind skitters along the particulars— how does one placate a thing hundreds of thousands of times larger than you are— you know within yourself the routine. Whether the red stuff has snaked back into your brain, now, or whether you're feeling the slick hollows in your memory, or whether you're being twisted in one and only one direction, your strings strained and hot with friction; it hardly matters.

When Richard spoke of the surrender-art, it was from the perspective of predator: the hunt, the kill, the battle of wills and wits for dominance, triumph, death conquered, the ego preserved. Richard, reptilian, has never been prey. Can't remember being prey. You— blunt-fingered, soft-skinned, more-flaws-than-whole human— you were born nothing but, and you can't help but wonder about a flipside. Of the surrender-art. Maybe the name's just a poor transliteration, but... shouldn't it be the victim, surrendering, ceding, fading into the evening? Is there no art in knowing when you're beat, a candle-flame to the interloper's sun? Is there no perverse knifesedge attraction in losing your control, in allowing fate to whip and eddy you about? Stultum est timere quod vitare non potes.

You are not thinking these things. You are not thinking these things, possibly. They're just burbling to your surface, like a tarpit, in lazy gasps. What did Pat say on trances— on letting the manse take you? You became as a character in a stage-play, flat, unknowing; you ceased to exist, and something acted your part. She meant to scare you with this, because she was scared. You're not so sure. A character in a play— is that such an awful thing to be? So long as it's the main character.

You are being raised in half-inches in front of the playwright. Who better to take you? To clean you and edit you? To patch your irregularities and your plot holes, to feed you new lines, to put you in very top billing— you are certainly not thinking these things. (Your Aunt Ruby did not approve of plays.) What you are doing is flexing your shoulders and your neck back, your knees up. You splay your fingers.

(1/3)

The eyeball knows this and knows you, knew, from the beginning, what thought process had to wind through you; it could have tipped your Potemkin defenses over with a flick, but it is in no hurry. It has never been in a particular hurry. Thus it waits for the thinking to wind to completion and for the human limbs to twitch before it claims you, casually, as a whale shark claims a mouth of plankton. There is a Charlotte Fawkins and then there is not. There is you and then there is whiteness, and in your utter absence your body remains, twisting, raising in jerks, and inside it is a renovation. A home-improvement project. Among your flaws (it has been determined) is a repellant anti-gravitas, a fundamental lack of density, and this is being corrected— your bones thickened, your birdlike hollow spaces filled, you compacted and efficientized everywhere, until you are the same size and the same shape but reality's fabric sags palpably around you. You will know it.

>[GAINED: Advanced Advanced Gaslighting]

There is not a Charlotte Fawkins and then there is, disoriented, leaden, your rope fraying: microscopic strands are pinging off it, tickling your cheek. You say something you will not repeat and look down at the steady eye, and the eye— it had seen this coming— the eye widens microscopically, and its gravity on you loosens, and the next tug drags you up ten feet. You are disembodied in the dirt, the way you were supposed to be. Another ten, up and up, steadily— Richard has found the groove— until you find a solidity and, yes, a denseness, and with a final wild drag your eyes flutter open.

Richard is sweat-soaked and nose-bleeding and propped against the wall for leverage. His mouth is partway open, and he's breathing out of it. You take your palms out of the dirt and tuck them into your lap. "...Richard?"

Huff-huff-huff, goes Richard, but his still-pond eyes do fix on you. He is making no effort to stem the nosebleed.

"...Do you need a handkerchief?"

No. He shook his head barely, and now he picks up his hand and brings the monogrammed M.R.F. handkerchief to his nose. The blood is red. The blood is red on the balls of his palms, too, and as you plot how it got there you realize that there's actually quite a lot of blood on the floor. And the walls. More than a nosebleed could support. And you realize that Earl was there when you sat down, and now there's blood spatters, and blood puddles, and chunks of flesh-like material (you don't want to assume), and an arm-like object (you don't want to look at it), and now that you look at it there's no Earl, either.

(2/3)

Huff-huff-huff-huff, Richard goes, but he does cast his eyes out the door. You rise to your feet, needing to prop yourself with your hands to do so— something's happened to your balance— and creep over, and look outside, and see bodies, and Earl. Earl is bloody with not-his-blood, as best you can tell, and is a little distance away; his massive back is turned to you.

Your retch tastes a little bit like cocoa.

>[-2 ID: 6/14]

>[1] Great. Great. Go over to him and get him and you out of this area as fast as you humanly can. Attempt to locate Wayne.
>>[A] Chastise Earl for gratutitous murder.
>>[B] Thank Earl for... protecting you. You assume.
>>[C] Don't acknowledge it.

>[2] Approach him? Are you kidding? You're not planning on getting disemboweled. Let him go wherever he's going to go, and follow at some distance until you feel comfortable. (Plus, this gives Richard time to recover his verbal abilities.)
>>[A] Tell Richard about the eyeball.
>>[B] Tell Richard about the Herald.
>>[C] Get Richard's suggestions for next steps. Um, you are still on a heist, theoretically.
>>[C] Tell Richard he needs to work on his arm strength.
>>[D] Preemptively inform Richard that this latest misadventure was in no way your fault!
>>[E] Hug Richard?
>>[F] Write-in.

>[3] Write-in.

>>5659285
> Thank Earl for his very useful reservoir of gratuitous murder, but maybe next time he could be a bit less messy about it.

> Pat Richard gingerly on the shoulder and ignore any questions or concerned human with intent.

>>5659101
>I am 5'3" without needing heels
shit, we should have improved our height

>>5659285
>2A, B
I can back the ginger shoulder pat

>>5659456
With our luck it'll just make everyone else taller as well at the same time.

Rolled 1 (1d2)

>>5659403
>>5659456
Gotta love a slow day. In the interest of moving things along, I'll flip between telling Richard anything or not (1=tell 2=no), then have you head Earl off and go from there. Writing.


>>5659456
>>5659571
kek

>>5660104
>> Thank Earl for his very useful reservoir of gratuitous murder, but maybe next time he could be a bit less messy about it.
>Tell Richard about the Herald

Le belated vote

>Status report

You know Earl said he'd recognize you as a friend, and wouldn't hurt you, and you know he did, in fact, recognize you as a friend, and thus far he hasn't hurt you— but there were five or six skimmers outside here, and now there's only him. It's possible that some of them fled, of course. It's also possible that some of the bodies, muddied with gore, are not actually deceased. If Earl only sliced them open, or bit them a little bit, and they didn't lose all their blood (before it gelled), or too many limbs, or their head, the water could heal them. Like Arledge, see. But you're not keen on prodding them to verify, and if they're not dead they'd be playing dead, and you doubt any of them would be happy with you; similarly, though you'd like to believe Earl's bloodlust is reserved for perceived enemies, you'd rather not have your neck torn off your shoulders. You don't think Richard can fix that one.

So maybe it's best you put some space between you and Earl, just for a minute— not abandoning him, just giving him room to cool down. Shake off the murder haze. Plus, Richard clearly also needs a minute to cool down, so he's welcome. Is he still inside?

Ah. Yes. You pick your way over various flesh-esque objects and duck back into the ruins— once a house? a shop? an office? If you had the time and any semblance of interest, you could sit there and chip off mud-layers and find out, but all you care about is having 4 walls. Well, three-and-a-half walls. Richard has sat himself against the half.

From a dominance perspective, you really ought to stay standing, but you have the awkward feeling that Richard nosebled himself attempting to save your life. (For the third time today.) That perhaps you ought to express a measure of gratitude, by the standards of proper social conduct, and asserting your dominance could be taken as... well... crass. Especially given the "father" thing.

Also, your balance remains strange, or your center of gravity, or something, and when you move to sit even a little you plummet straight down instead. Richard, half-invisible behind the handkerchief, quirks his eyebrows.

"Ow," you say. "...Hello."

Huff-huff-huff, Richard says, but there's a crackle in your head. «Hello, primrose. My little escapist.»

He's as inflectionless as he used to be, like the voice is being piped through an unseen snake and out again. The handkerchief is spotted red. Is he angry at you?

«Should I be angry at you.» His head tilts.

...No?

«Very well. I'm not angry at you.»
«I am pleased you're not gibbering. I thought this was a realistic outcome.»

(1/4)

A realistic outcome of... does he already know what happened? You feel exposed.

«I made an educated guess, Charlie.» Richard's eyes crinkle. «I hope you'll allow me to know if that guess was correct.»

An educated guess based on reading your mind? Wait, can't he just, er, do that? Read your mind. Is there any advantage to you sitting here, laboring to retell it all coherently and fancily and flatteringly, when he could get it all done with—

«Only your personal preference. I thought you might like to narrate it in your own way.»

People just got murdered outside, or at least— positive thinking— horribly mutilated. There was likely screaming. Loud screaming.

«I take your point. Your commitment to efficiency is admirable, albeit unexpected.»
«If you would come over, I will gladly commingle.»

With Richard in your head all buttoned-up and lucid, it's a little shock every time you actually look back at him— slumped like a ragdoll, his wheezing has only marginally slowed. Sweat runs along the lines of his face. He's keeping his chin tilted back for the nosebleed, so you can see the pink rimming the bottom of his eyeballs. You creep up and stoop down.

"Mh," Richard says from his mouth, and sits up as best he can. He tries to remove the handkerchief, thinks better of it, tries to switch hands, tries to—

"Can you give me one?" you say, and Richard clenches his left fist and opens it and reveals a fresh, if slightly damp, handkerchief. You take it and say Thanks and he inclines his head, though the creases of his brow reveal puzzlement. "You can do it now," you say.

He coughs roughly, then extends a thumb, placing it square in the middle of your forehead. It's hotter than your skin by a good margin, and also slightly damp, and it makes your brain rustle slightly. That's the best way you can describe it.

Rather than waiting around, searching for better descriptors, you take your clean handkerchief and dab carefully at Richard's face, de-shining his cheeks and his temples, scraping his slickened hair off his forehead, prying his hand away from his nose and rubbing off the crusted track of blood for him. Until your handkerchief is disgusting and he looks more like regular. All this time he keeps his thumb to your forehead, keeps his eyes bored through your forehead, and breathes, from time to time, the following:

(2/4)

"At least it held."
"Extra-reality."
"Oh, no. Oh, Charlie."
"The bomb shelter?"
"That can't—"
"The same mug."
"When the time comes for it?"
"It exists."
"Chassis!"
[Nothing, just a spreading look of— you're trying not to use the word "beatific"— of awe, you guess, or wonder, though it feels faintly sacreligious to use those terms in combination with Richard, where incisive curiosity generally replaces anything in wonder's vicinity— though maybe he would have been more incisive if you hadn't killed him. Instead you're holding a handkerchief and staring into his newly dried, wide-open face, waiting for his thumb to come off your forehead, but the corners of his lips just keep on creeping up and up, and his breathing has slowed, and he looks through you into a future you can't glean.]

Eventually you say "Richard?", and your tone dislodges him, though not the expression. "Yes," he says, "Yes."

You look askance at his thumb. "Did you get all of it?"

"Oh, certainly," he says serenely. "Yes, Charlie."

You didn't get spat up happy. Not even a little bit. What the hell did he see? "Do you want to, um... share...? The good news?"

"The good news?" He adjusts his gaze back on you, and you frown: his eyes have grown sharp and clear, flinty, crystalline, when the rest of the face stays slack and soft. It looks like he has someone else's eyes, or someone else is using them for windows. "We are going to show those bastards. We are going to rub it in their fucking faces, Charlotte Fawkins. We are going to make them beg—"

Then he stops, abruptly, some essential cord cut; he goes blank, face and eyes and all. Posture airless, handkerchief a limp white flag, and when you say "Richard?" again he doesn't respond. His eyes are open, and he's breathing. "Richard?" You jostle his shoulder, gingerly, and he lolls and twitches.

It's taxing for me to appear like this for sustained stretches... That's probably all it is. He's overtaxed himself, between the earlier bail-outs and now this— what, this hand-over-hand rope-pulling? Was that what he did? He's not exactly fit. You just need to let him recharge, is all, go take a lay-down in the comfortable recesses in your skull, and then he'll be back in time for the next great escape. Yeah. Yeah. Positive thinking. You bet that if you look away, like so—

—then he'll be gone, and et voila, he is gone, with no mark on the ground or half-wall to show he was ever there. Your handkerchief is gone, too. Good! You'll muddle on without him, not that you ever needed him, really, and you can tell him all about your astonishing exploits the second he's back. Just telling him about them, though. You're laying off the thumb-on-forehead stuff for now.

(3/4)

File: earl - @polistini.png (2.17 MB, 1200x2600)

2.17 MB PNG

You peek out the doorway and see Earl loitering: he's motionless in the center of the carnage, except for his head, which swivels smoothly back and forth. His nostrils flare. Can he smell things? Is that part of the whole package, enhanced senses? You'll have to ask later. For now, he seems appropriately non-murderous, so you take a few steps toward him—

And he swivels his whole bulk around to see you, and lights up, you mean completely and fully lights up, like a dog at the sound of a door: he bears down upon you and would've scooped you up if your frenzied waving hadn't scared him off. "KID!" he says.

"...That's me!"

"WOKE UP!"

"Yup! I— I woke up— I'm safe— you're bloody." Really bloody. His face and hands and arms and all down his front. You're beginning to wonder if there's multiple reasons Earl took off his shirt. "You killed people?"

"PRO—" He registers the finger over your lips. "Pro...tect... from..."

Ah. You did tell him to protect you. "Er, yes. Good job!" (He beams: half his face is tooth.) "I was protected, I guess." They probably wouldn't have hurt you, even. Just ask you some questions and kick you out. "Just, next time— less kill? Less blood? Blood, um, messy?"

You're not sure he comprehends: he's still just beaming, and his chest is bucking like he's holding laughter in. You sigh and direct him to follow you.

Before the skimmers arrived, the two of you had made it to the approximate floor of the dig-out— the big excavated square of the ancient city. Underneath here is more city, but most of it's still encased in mud, with only a handful of natural crevices and unnatural mineshafts allowing access. Wayne is certainly down there. Felicia could be anywhere, but if she hasn't been attracted by the (presumable) screaming, she's probably been repelled by it. And the legendary "seal"— well, things are always down, aren't they? They're buried. If it were lying around in a random mud hut, Wayne could've got it all by himself.

Trouble is, you're looking down one of these mineshaft-type things, and it's pretty much a straight shot down. Way down. It was carved with more prayer than shovels, you're guessing, it's that deep and that square. You are ropeless, and Earl is (if it has to be said) ropeless.

What to do?

(Choices next.)

>[1] Okay, so you know you literally just used your EARTH POWERS, and those resulted in the eyeball situation, etc., but listen: what are the odds of that happening again? Now that you 1) are prepared, and 2) are infuseth with even more power, probably? See if you can't get you and Earl down safe. [Roll.]

>[2] Flex your new muscle. [Advanced Advanced Gaslighting. All options will require rolls, but may have different DCs.]
>>[A] Convince yourself that your hasty ascent was incomplete: part of you was left behind, conveniently deep underground, maybe in Seal vicinity? Wink wink?
>>[B] Convince yourself that the Seal isn't underground, after all, or rather that "on the bottom level of the dig" counts as sufficiently underground for it.
>>[C] Convince yourself that the eyeball encounter has left you with unusual structural changes, such as generally shock-absorbent bones.
>>[D] Write-in.

>[3] Earl is tough, yes? Really, really tough? Get him to cradle you and, er, jump. This will probably work?

>[4] Write-in.

>>5660297
>[4] Convince ourselves that there's no way a second use of EARTH POWERS would lead to the same results, now that we know what to avoid, then employ said powers.

>>5660297
3, but with advanced advanced gaslighting because Earl is really, really tough and also the undersea is weak. Besides, shouldn't we be at least somewhat more bouyant under the water? Earl can handle jumping while carrying someone as . . . Concentrated in height and proportionally weighted to that height as us.

>>5660297
I think 2C pairs really well with 3, why not both?

>>5660297
>[2C]
>[3]

>>5660296
dope art!

File: both.jpg (29 KB, 475x300)

29 KB JPG

>>5660518
>>5660698
>[2C] + [3]

>>5660396
>[3] + [2]

>>5660304
>[1] + [2]

Called for [2C] + [3]-- I presume you're just going to Gaslight yourself, while letting Earl take care of his own business. Considering that you were genuinely physically affected (>>5659283), the change would be internal (i.e. you can't obviously disprove it), and it all just happened, this scenario is super plausible. Good job! I still need dice, though; you're still screwing with reality here.

>Please roll me 3 1d100s + 20 (+10 Bones Thickened, +10 Downward) vs. DC 80 (+30 Advanced Advanced Gaslighting) to flex your muscle!

Spend 1 ID for +10 to all rolls? You are at 6/14 ID.
>[1] Y
>[2] N
>>5660396
> someone as . . . Concentrated in height and proportionally weighted to that height as us
kek

>>5660698
Thanks, I agree! This is the artist's comms page (very reasonable pricing): https://docs.google.com/document/d/1lkmMhpbe1hcXlcrPW_kGqzcGIqjYbFrtkMQFKqOPRtM/edit

Rolled 21 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>5660807
Spendy

>>5660808
F U C K

>>5660810
Jesus, anon, I thought you rolled a 1! You've still got time for a Success (or Mitigated Success).

Rolled 83 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>5660807
Or a full success if I roll a 17 and remember that rule right

No spendy btw

Not relevant anyway since I'm about to roll a nat 100 and get a crit success.

Rolled 32 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

Rolled 69 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>5660807
>[1] Y
Watch THIS

>>5660954
>>5660845
>>5660808
Drowned dice, never change.

Rolled 71, 18, 60 = 149 (3d100)

>>5660808
>>5660845
>>5660954
>41, 103, 52 vs. DC 60 -- Mitigated Success

I'll be charitable and go with No Spendy, since >>5660954 did not specify. Rolling for secret reasons DC 65 and writing.


>>5660845
>Not relevant anyway since I'm about to roll a nat 100 and get a crit success.
If only! (We're just about due for some sort of crit-- it's been, let's see, 8 threads since the last one? I guess this is payback for getting 4 critfails in 2 threads way back when.)

>Or a full success if I roll a 17 and remember that rule right
You do remember that rule right, but anon (>>5660808) did not roll a 17, so you still could've only gotten a Success at maximum. (I think we're in agreement on this?)

>>5660955
Alas, 32 seconds late...

>Jump!

If you were a fish, you'd have no trouble with this mineshaft: you could swim down it, or else sink, gracefully, like a dropped feather. That's supposed to be Felicia's whole purpose, you think, the graceful descents, and ascents, and getting into places far out of reach; that's what makes fish such notorious burglars, and criminals-in-general, according to what you've heard secondhand. Rarely ever firsthand, as they keep to themselves out there in the Fen, and up in the cold anoxic wastes, and in great numbers near the Edges, especially the easterly one. According to what you've heard.

It's possible that this incestuous sort-of cloistering is what breeds such awful attitude problems among their type, e.g. Felicia, the complete bitch, who really ought to be here to help with the jump. Who should have set up a rope, if not slowed your descent personally. At your most charitable, she's been waylaid by some horror below, and is too incompetent to escape it. At your least, she's simply abandoned you and poor Earl— has set about reappropriating 200-year-old flatware and picture-frames and things. Far above you can hear muted shouts and shuffles (that'd be on account of the screaming), and to your side Earl is constitutionally incapable of not haw-haw-hawing in the base of his throat, and below you the mineshaft breathes. Down, down, down, always.

You watch it for longer than is sensible, sunk into a crouch, and are only roused when the shouts get less muted— get downright intelligible, and you look up and see the silhouettes of a couple dozen people clustered around the dig's rim. They're holding glorbs, lots of them, or have glorbs mounted on strips around their heads. They may or may not be holding weaponry, but you're leaning very, very strongly towards 'may'.

This kicks your lizard-brain into action, startling you upwards, and Earl startles too: he has tracked blood here, you realize, damn damn damn, and your instincts say RUN / HIDE / JUMP into the safe and shielding darkness, the earth's warm heart (it's possible you're still discombobulated from the eyeball thing), and before the higher-order thinking stops you short you sort of twitch in that direction. Twitch right on up to the crumbling edge and think of yourself gored at the bottom and twitch back. You're starting to get a little unbalanced, aren't you? Erratic? (Discombobulated.) It's funny to recognize that and not be able to do anything, really, except be grateful you haven't had any murder urges yet. Though that may be because nobody's around, and you can't murder Earl, can you? Right? Oh God.

(1/5?)

Oh God. You're fine. You are fine, and it's perfectly natural to be a little screwy after Richard went so horrible and blank, and after you saw 3-6 dead bodies, and mostly after having a... a... an eyeball-type experience, of some kind, which you think you might've not fully understood, or even processed. At least not processed in the thinking bit. You have a bad feeling that your lizard brain processed it just fine. You also have the bad feeling that you might not have come back exactly the same as you were.

Other bad feelings: that you're still on the edge of the mineshaft, and that you might have to go with your first instinct. The jumping. Even if you had or could find or conjure up a rope, it'd be an obvious tell that a human was involved, once the skimmers found it— plus, all that'd take time, to say nothing of the slow climb down. The jumping. You appraise Earl's canted feet. Could he take the fall? Or brace his way down, carrying you? You think he has the wingspan for it. At the same time, do you trust him to hold you carefully, steadily, the long way down?

If only Richard were here. But you don't need him— and do you trust him to be careful and steady? He's more erratic than you are, these days, between the manias and the stupors. No. You don't need him, and you don't need Earl, and you will jump down this bottomless pit alone! All alone. In the dark.

Your major obstacle is that you don't want to die. To circumvent this, you could, of course, implement safeguards against dying (e.g. rope); alternatively, you could realize that safeguards are unneeded (i.e. positive thinking). You prefer the latter, and set about reviewing some options: could it be that the mineshaft is actually very short, and you're in no danger? Could it be that, if you wait long enough without jumping, Wayne will emerge from it with the Seal? Could it be that your bones...

There's a ring of truth to that. That your bones (and indeed your flesh) have been somewhat altered, owing to the eyeball-type experience? Made sturdier? Weightier? And yet miraculously shock-absorbent? Your balance has been off, hasn't it? On account of the bones! Almost certainly on account of them. You hadn't pinpointed it until just now, owing to the invisibility of said bones, but it makes perfect sense. What, why would an eyeball care about your bones? Well, why would a snake care about your hand muscles? You already admitted to yourself you'd barely understood it, so you can chalk it up to that, easy. It could just be a useful gift, like the venom and all that. Yeah. So you—

(2/5)

File: something complicated wit(...).jpg (30 KB, 428x604)

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(It's a complex balance between you, the bulk of yourself, buying in to this wholeheartedly, not lying, not deceiving, just buying into something unproven— and is that a crime? Between that and you, a hovering splinter-self, aware you're— not lying, not deceiving, but putting on a thing, doing a little song and dance. Acting. For an unseen audience, for a purpose you can only feel in your gut, but acting all the same; you [this splinter] are exhorting yourself to believe harder and better, and you [the bulk] are believing it more and more, the thing about the bones. You know and you don't, you're aware and you're not, and in your gut there's a- a- feeling, a twisting, heavy feeling, but not like you're twisting. Like you're staying perfectly, exactly still, and everything's wrapping tightly around you. Spiraling into your drain. The bulk of you doesn't even register this feeling.)

—and it's just obvious, the bones thing, and you'd wager Richard didn't mention it because he was jealous. That somebody (an eyeball, no less) swooped in on his body-screwery turf. Well, it "sucks to suck," as you have heard it occasionally said, and you will include your successful mineshaft-jumping prominently in your retelling of anecdotes.

With that all settled, you debrief Earl ("Going down there! I'll go first! Follow me!"), crack your neck and your shoulders, peer into the mineshaft— think better of that, shut your eyes, and undertake a giddy little run and hop off the edge. It is completely possible you do a flip, which helps you to differentiate this fall from the one with sky and sea and the splash and gurgle of your suitcase. This one isn't that one: this is fun! Probably fun. If you ignore how your body feels about the whole thing.

You're excellent at ignoring, though, and your confidence in the bone idea is pristine. Consequently you're unafraid, if a tad nauseous, and are even able to twist your head upward: Earl is indeed following! He's sliding down, sort of, slowing himself with his clawlike hands and feet— a cleverer method than you expected, but there is, after all, a normal man somewhere in there. (Disturbingly enough.) You're so concentrated on this sight, and so blissfully disinterested in the ground rushing to meet you, that you're surprised when it hits, and moreso when you slightly bounce. Really. You came a half-inch off the packed earth and back down, back stinging but not broken. "Heh," you say, lying there, "heh-heh— heh-heh-heh—"

(3/5)

File: transcendence.jpg (63 KB, 564x846)

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And you may have continued in this vein if there wasn't a softening of the ground under you, and if you weren't so pleased with yourself you might have sensed a dragging-down at your navel, like a hook cast through it; altogether you're startled to be pulled slightly out-of-body, and only after a beat do you kick and scrabble against it. You're highly lucky the hook itself wasn't powerful, and some apposite bracing of your hands and feet slows you to a halt.

Unfortunately, you've halted maybe three feet underground, consciousness-wise, judging by the weight of your body above. (More weight than you expected. Must be the bones.) You are not panicking. Panic happens in that body. You are wondering moderately if you'll ever get on with the heist, or if you're just doomed to be trapped down here, one way or another, while stupid Wayne steals the glory. You are also wondering if time moves differently like this, because you haven't felt Earl land yet. You are hoping time moves differently. If you wake up to Earl sobbing over your vacant body, or vanished, or eating your face like an opportunistic cat, you are not going to like that very much.

Right now you are sensing some tugs at the "hook," but you are pretty well stuck, and the angler gives up quickly. Now something else. Vibrations up the line, which you parse improbably into words:

[Hello?]
[Who are you? Are you Charlie Fawkins?]

Oh, no. It's him.

[It is, isn't it? It really is.]
[I would call it a coincidence if it wasn't transparently by design. This is wonderful.]
[You're the one who passed through?]

Who what? You're not answering any of his stupid—

[Through the entrance. Sealed for centuries, buried way down here, but you just— well— you shot right through. Scared the red hell out of us.]
[Came back up too fast to chat, but we weren't just going to let that slide, kiddo. Did you see It?]

See what?

(4/5)

File: underground.jpg (67 KB, 700x1003)

67 KB JPG

[I think so. And I think you'd feel better if you talked that out with some friends in the know. It's a support group for a reason.]
[Just a lot to live with on your own, even if you're a bright kid.]
[Also— bear with the selfishness— I think the last time went badly, and I'm still trying to puzzle that out. I think it was the initial— the ritual. Which is intended to be harmless, by the way. Garvin informed us you wanted the complete package, I think he called it, but clearly there was a miscommunication, and I really do apologize. That wasn't the way I like to interface with people.]
[Especially Charlie Fawkins, for Pete's sake. Your father would have my head.]

Your father's friend Henry has disembodied you. This is in your book two strikes.

[No disembodiment intended. I was attempting to haul you in, so this could be happening, eh, in situ. And at the scene of the crime, if you will.]
[You are still very much invited, as you are always. You just need to let me get you there. Would you?]

Your body—

[Don't even worry about that, kiddo. We've got methods.]

>[1] Uhh... well, your passionate resentment of Henry is tempered by your current out-of-bodyness, and Richard was no damn help with the eyeball, and he said "sealed," which— you don't *know* it's related to your heist object, but you don't not know. Ask for a hot second to reassure Earl (again), but let yourself be reeled in.
>>[A] Tell Earl to wait for you and not murder anybody.
>>[B] Tell Earl to go find Wayne (or Felicia) and hang out with them. If his senses are somehow enhanced, he should be capable of this.
>>[C] Attempt to convince Henry to grab Earl along, too. If such a thing is possible. [Roll.]
>>[C] Tell Earl something else? (Write-in.)

>[2] Sorry, what? What? You want to let a ***cult leader*** extricate your ***self** from your ***body*** and lure it to his ***underground encampment***? No no no no. Snap the God-damned line and get on with the heisting.

>[3] Write-in.

>>5661149
>[2] Sorry, what? What? You want to let a ***cult leader*** extricate your ***self** from your ***body*** and lure it to his ***underground encampment***? No no no no. Snap the God-damned line and get on with the heisting.

>>5661149
>[2] Sorry, what? What? You want to let a ***cult leader*** extricate your ***self** from your ***body*** and lure it to his ***underground encampment***? No no no no. Snap the God-damned line and get on with the heisting.

We're busy right now. He can book an appointment with us through Monty at the bar if he really needs to see us.

>>5661149
>[1] Uhh... well, your passionate resentment of Henry is tempered by your current out-of-bodyness, and Richard was no damn help with the eyeball, and he said "sealed," which— you don't *know* it's related to your heist object, but you don't not know. Ask for a hot second to reassure Earl (again), but let yourself be reeled in.
>[C] Tell Earl something else? (Write-in.)
Tell Earl that if things get to weird or hot to murder at his own discretion.

>>5661149
>1
>A

o man almost forgot to vote

>>5661149
>[1] Uhh... well, your passionate resentment of Henry is tempered by your current out-of-bodyness, and Richard was no damn help with the eyeball, and he said "sealed," which— you don't *know* it's related to your heist object, but you don't not know. Ask for a hot second to reassure Earl (again), but let yourself be reeled in.

>Tell Earl that if things get to weird or hot to murder at his own discretion.

>>5661149
>>[1] Uhh... well, your passionate resentment of Henry is tempered by your current out-of-bodyness, and Richard was no damn help with the eyeball, and he said "sealed," which— you don't *know* it's related to your heist object, but you don't not know. Ask for a hot second to reassure Earl (again), but let yourself be reeled in.
>>Tell Earl that if things get to weird or hot to murder at his own discretion.

>>5661487
>>5661718
>>5661724
>[1C]

>>5661708
>[1A]

>>5661150
>>5661177 (checked)
>[2]

Called for [1C] and writing.

>>5661177
>He can book an appointment with us through Monty at the bar
Jacques?

>>5661788
Nah, why would we give him instructions to actually meet us instead of making him Monty's problem.

>>5661794
Ah, the "at the bar" confused me. It's irrelevant at this point, but it's more likely you'd be establishing a point of contact through (ugh) Horse Face, since he's the one engaged with the cult to begin with. Monty knows nothing about it-- that you know of-- and you're not on very good terms with him, so it's unlikely he'd want to play messenger boy.

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>Join the club

You have left panic behind in your body; similarly you've abandoned fear and dread and the furnace-core of your anger towards Henry, even if he has disembodied you. He sounds sincere about the apology, which could be a result of his evil cultish charisma, but could also not be. He did let you leave freely after the last ill-fated "meeting." And he was your father's... to the best of your knowledge, your father's friend, and you feel that has to count for something. When you're all removed like this, you're able to count it for something.

You're not so removed, though, that you've forgotten the Earl in the room. What if you had a companion? you direct down the line. Could you, er, go warn him? Before mysteriously passing out and/or vanishing?

[That wouldn't be a problem at all. We're not in a time crunch.]
[I'll leave some slack so you can stick your head up.]

Sure enough, the weak pull stops being a pull at all, and you impel yourself with hardly any effort into your body's wet clay and sit up, gasping. Your head swims. There is still something palpably attached near your navel, but when you look you see nothing. Earl lands with a massive thunk beside you.

He had landed on all fours, and he remains crouched on all fours as you sit up— he may sense that the tunnel's too short to accommodate him fully. (You recall his back complaints.) He is grinning. You feel the furnace-heat begin to kick back in (the amount of ooshy-gooshy condescending BS...) and rattle off instructions before you're able to change your mind. "Earl. Earl. Buddy. I'm, um— I'm going back to sleep. Sleep time. Can you wait? Wait for me? I'm going to, um, talk with some people." You hope it's just talking. "I'll come back, just like last time. Please wait. And don't, um, kill anybody, unless you're— if you're in really big danger, then that's okay. You can kill them if they're planning to kill you. Do you get it?"

Your voice keeps tilting into a high, babyish register when you speak to him, which you find in equal parts disturbing and inexorable. His tendency to cock his head at your voice doesn't help one bit. "Yeah!"

"Can you repeat that back to me?"

He assumes a mask of concentration. "Wait... hurt me... I hurt!"

This was almost a full sentence. You fidget with the hilt of The Sword. "Um, yes! Good job. I'll be back soon." You kneel next to him, as not to fall over, and attempt to—

[All done? You seem done. Sitting back down.]
[That's perfect, really. Hold still.]

(1/3?)

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You are back in your body, and therefore you get the full somatic blast of heat and fear and panic as your ankle is grabbed— you mean grabbed, as in a literal hand has punched out from the dirt under you, and wrapped its square fingernails around your boot, and is pulling you forcibly under— like a nightmare! Exactly like a nightmare, and Earl's grin dies at your pale and strangled expression. He begins a whimper. You're too shocked almost to react, and the navel-string(?) has drawn taut once more, and between the hand and it your whole body's gone in seconds.

You don't plow through dirt, not exactly; it's like it collapses in on itself, or you collapse in on yourself, and either way there's void where dirt should be, and you sail through that and in one more second are tugged— your legs dangle— are tugged, and drop into somebody's arms, and are lowered deftly to your feet.

You swallow down your lodged scream. The Man in Red, short and black-eyed and coppery, brushes his dirtied left hand off on his slacks. Little fangs protrude from either side of his smile. "Easy does it."

You take a deep breath, ignore him, and scan the room. It is perfectly circular and perfectly shining-white— expensive marble, is your assessment, with no dark veins, and only two thin seams for a hidden door. This holds true for all the walls (er, wall) and most of the ceiling, excepting some spidery cracks and a big missing chunk just above you. The floor is also white, but in the dead center of it there's another inset circle, six feet across, made from matte black stone. The black circle is engraved with a complex labyrinthy-spiraly pattern, set again in white, and it hurts your eyes a smidge to look at it.

So you look elsewhere. The room is illuminated with real heavy-duty glorbs, the white-bright kind, also expensive to buy or to make, here trapped in special reflective lanterns. You have before coveted both those glorbs and those lanterns, but have declined to purchase them on account of your minimalism. On the floor between the lanterns, casting long warped shadows on the curved wall, are two individuals in red. One of them you dimly recognize from... from... the Nothing? It's one of the regulars from the Better Than Nothing, though you'd be damned before you remembered the name. Limp long hair, recessed eye-sockets. Uhh. Whatsherface. The other one, slim and angled, you don't recognize at all. They don't make furtive cultish faces at you when you look, but rather smile politely.

(2/3)

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"I'm afraid we're reduced in numbers tonight," Henry says. "Actually, we should have one more, but— he's not back yet?" A head shake from Whatsherface. "Just us, then."

"Uh-huh," you say.

"Still skeptical, aren't you?" His smile is unwavering. "We all start skeptical. I started skeptical, believe me, until I caught wind of your father— well, you don't want me regaling you. More important things on the docket. Friends, this is Charlie, my niece— unofficially! Very unofficially." He's addressing the other two. "Do you still go by Charlie?" Addressing you, soliciously.

"Uh," you stutter. (The 'niece' removed any capacity for reasoned thought. Like a crossbow bolt to the temple.) "N— no."

"Charlotte! I'll remember that," says Henry, and swishes past you, and goes and sits down near the eyewatering black circle. He spreads his legs out. The other two cultists are saying 'Hello' and 'Nice to meet you.' "Now, I think we better cut to the quick. I'm sure you agree, given the—" He raises a hand. "—skepticism. Would you like to share with us what you witnessed with regards to what was under there?" The hand is pointing to the black circle.

"Why should I?" you say.

"Because we— because I, mainly," he amends, "but also these good friends here, more and more every day— we understand." His eyes dance like a flame. "You're not alone, Charlotte. I promise."

>[A1] If Richard were helpful one bit, you wouldn't have to do this. Spill the beans about your eyeball-type experience.
>[A2] You are not spilling one single thing until you get some damn answers. Capiche?
>[A3] You are not spilling one single thing, ever. It wasn't even that bad. It was just a really big eyeball, plus a lizard, and you don't need to talk about that with strangers. Or worse-than-strangers.
>[A4] Write-in.

>[B] Get some damn answers. (If enough of these are selected, they may be split into multiple updates.)
>>[1] Where the hell are you?
>>[2] What's that circle in the floor?
>>[3] What are they doing here?
>>[4] Did Henry just pull you through, like, a couple hundred feet of mud?
>>[5] Why are they acting like normal people? It's scary.
>>[6] Do they know that their god makes people want to murder other people? For no reason?
>>[7] Why do they even bother with the support group thing? They can just say cult.
>>[8] Does Henry know anything about, um, murder rituals?
>>[9] Does Henry know anything about, uhh, worm-resurrection rituals?
>>[10] Write-in.

>>5661964
>[A2] You are not spilling one single thing until you get some damn answers. Capiche?
>[B] Get some damn answers.
>>[1] Where the hell are you?
>>[2] What's that circle in the floor?
>>[3] What are they doing here?
>>[6] Do they know that their god makes people want to murder other people? For no reason?
>>[8] Does Henry know anything about, um, murder rituals?
>>[9] Does Henry know anything about, uhh, worm-resurrection rituals?

>>5661829
When has throwing too problems at each other everade things worse?

Besides, you're assuming we would want Henry's message to reach us.

>>5661992
>>5661964
These are all good questions and I support them.

Also
> Why does he get to call us his niece?
> Why is his cult hiding? Like specifically and accurately, not just some deflection about "people not understanding" or "technically illegal" or other vague things.
> What does he want from us and our explanation that he ripped out soul from our body during a moment of weakness instead of contacting us in a normal way like dropping by or sending a letter.

>>5661964
>A2
trade info for info
>B1, 2, 3, 6, 8

>>5661964
>[A2]
>[B]
>>[1]
>>[3]
>>[4]
>>[8]
>>[9]

>>5661992
>>5662206
>>5662229
>[A2]

>>5661992
>>5662006
>>5662206
>>5662229
>[B1], [B3], [B8]

>>5661992
>>5662006
>>5662206
>[B2], [B6]

>>5661992
>>5662006
>>5662229
>[B9]

>>5662229
>[B4]

>>5662006
>Write-ins

Called for [A2], [B1], [B2], [B3], [B6], [B8], [B9], and the write-ins. This will definitely be spread over multiple updates. Writing.

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>Tit for tat

It's true that, on the whole, you don't know very much about cults. What you do know, however, is unflattering— having come from your Aunt Ruby, who listed them among the things Young Ladies should under no circumstances dabble with, and your prized novels, where they tended to skulk underground, wear beastly robes, and sacrifice Young Ladies on altars to demons. So far you've seen evidence of two-thirds of these, and you are eyeing the dark belt Henry has threaded through his slacks, and the leather triangles poking out of the belt, and the knife handles poking out of the triangles. They are tortoiseshell.

Which is not to say you couldn't defeat him in single combat, should he attempt any sacrifice-esque moves. And you could certainly defeat the goons, Whatsherface and the other one, who don't look especially physically augmented. If you got real offended, you have total faith you could torch their whole operation, literally or otherwise— which is also what happened to cults in most of those novels. You're just saying that you're wary, is all, of pretty words from pointy-toothed men.

Also, you're not sure you comprehended enough of the "eyeball incident," so to speak, to be dramatically emotionally affected— at least not at the present time. So the offer of companionship, etc., is not moving, or at least not more moving than the pressing concerns of where the hell are you, how did he do the thing with his hand like that, are you trapped here now unless you painfully recollect the stupid thing that happened to you, etc..

It's the last of these considerations that drives you to attempt a bargain, rather than channel your spite into silence. "Um, yes, obviously. Not alone. Since there's three of you, and one of me, and—"

Okay, so there's a little bit of spite, but's unclear whether Henry registers it: all he does in response is widen his posture. To a less bookish individual, this might read unconsciously as a invitation to "relax," or "open up," but you are aware of the poisonous tactics of cult leaders/faux uncles and fold your arms. "Maybe I'll tell you if you answer my questions."

"Sharp as a tack," comments Whatsherface, possibly in irony; the other one's eyes have drifted back to the black circle, where they remain fixed. Henry is placid. "We offer many answers. That's much of the beauty of it."

You pause (you would've preferred it if he'd expressed some frustration or disappointment, but you have to work with what you've got). "Okay, then. What do you want from me?"

"From you? Nothing."

"Which is why you disembodied me," you say. "And before that you kidnapped me. And before that you moved to my exact location—"

Henry makes a gesture of contrition. "Errors and coincidences. It has nothing to do with—"

"So you disembodied me for no reason," you say.

(1/4)

"No. No. I sense your meaning is— you believe you were invited here because there's something you can provide to us. Is that correct? I sense it is." He read your scowl. "And your reaction is logical, because that would be coercion."

"Extortion," suggests Whatsherface.

"That too, yes. Coercion, extortion, armed kidnapping— but the fact is, kiddo, what we want from you is nothing. This is not a transaction of any sort."

You wish you didn't recognize Henry's accent: plausibly top-level, but with enough suspicious fricatives to tip him off as middle. Maybe upper-middle. You never know what differs the other ones— is one nasal yap supposed to rate above the rest? One r-less swish, one flattened drone? It's easier to assume everybody's lesser than you are, at least, and go from there. With Henry, you can tell he is— but your father associated with him, and he's at least making an effort, so you deign him with a snort.

"That doesn't mean there's no motive. It's just that the motive is purely selfish, and I'll make no attempt to disguise that. You'd see right through any attempt to disguise it. The pure and simple truth— and my friends can back this up completely— the truth is that I haven't seen you in nearly a decade. You were still a little girl, the last time I saw you. And I haven't seen your father for the same length of time, and I won't pretend to you we didn't have disagreements. We had a great number of disagreements. But he was my very close friend, of a very long time, and I doubt I will ever see him again." Henry has laced his fingers. "I didn't dare to expect that his daughter would fall from the sky, which would have been providential on its own, but that you're a ways down the Road— on your own, without his guidance— I believe it was meant to occur. And I believe it would be a smear on me to ignore the flashing blaring signs and not follow this wherever it may lead us. All this separate from my selfish nostalgia, which is admittedly an enormous factor."

"You sounded like a cute kid," Whatsherface says, again possibly in irony.

You can't unpack all that while the eyeball situation is still on the docket. You can't. You need to stick to particulars. "And yet you can't send me a letter, or—"

"I would if I thought you'd read it. And I would if Garvin would deliver it, but he claims you'd, quote, rip anything you got from him into little bits, then potentially report him to the head of camp. Who is reputedly in a black mood."

"So instead you disembody—"

"I didn't think you'd respond to much in the way of polite entreaty at all. Incorrectly, but I hope you can understand... I would rather cause some temporary distress than let the ordained moment slip past us both. If you hadn't resisted, it would've been resolved quickly."

(2/4)

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Sounds like GS, but you don't have the tools to push him. More particulars. "So you say I'm your quote-endquote 'niece' because—"

"Unofficially," Henry says mildly. "I make no claim to blood relation, not that I believe anybody would be fooled— but that is the way I saw you. I, eh, don't have any children." For a moment he breaks your gaze. "But your father and I did take you out on day trips, and things. Got you out of that moldering house. Don't you remember?"

You say nothing.

"It has been a long time," Henry says, and his perpetual smile sags at the corners.

For some reason your fury's overboiled, is steaming away in gasps, leaving you with a wet face and an empty pot. This is unacceptable, leaving you exposed to all manner of cultish manipulations, and you need to change the subject immediately. "Where are we?"

"You going to do all the talking, Henry?" Whatsherface says. Henry waves her ahead distantly. "Sheesh. It's a labyrinth. It's a— a— you know, back in ye olden days, some folks in red took 'The Spiral Road' pretty literally. Get it? Built these things all over the place underground. Under cities and towns, usually. Most of them are collapsed by now, or they're under a mile of silt from the Flood, but this one got dug out all convenient-like for us. Practically got a straight shot on it from HQ."

HQ? But your inchoate question is shot down by Henry, who casts an unmistakable warning look at Whatsherface. You shift. "And you're here why? Just... hanging out? Sacrificing any— any, um—"

"Guard duty," says Whatsherface.

"Yes. No sacrificing, unless you mean our sleep," Henry says. Whatsherface snickers. "The long and the short of it is, I received a premonition that the central chamber would be under threat. We're ensuring this doesn't come to pass."

This is dubiously benign. "Under threat why?"

"Premonitions don't often come with particulars, but one easy guess is that somebody's after this." He points his foot at the black circle, which you won't be fooled into looking at again. "I can guess your follow-up question."

You don't let him have your follow-up question.

"This is a plug for a hole in the world, which is meant... do you want to answer this one, McCann?"

McCann ("the other one") has either been meditating or falling asleep, because here he startles. "Uh. Yeah. World doesn't go down forever, right? It's not just infinite rock and stuff, it— you know, it cuts off. If you dug for years and years, with a really fucking good shovel, you could come out the other end of it. And there you'd see a really fucking big snake, because—"

"That's plenty," Henry says. "This stone covers a tiny hole through the remainder of the entirety of the world, speaking vertically, and it's plugged because unpleasant things leak out when it isn't. With the plug, however, it's a useful focus-point for commingling and similar things. So you can see how we'd rather it not be destroyed."

(3/4)

You shift your weight. "So you mean it's a kind of, uh, seal."

"Something like that, yes." Henry is unwitting.

"So how'd you drown?" interjects Whatsherface— which is small talk. It's ordinary small talk, right up there with "where are you from?", and it has always scared the living hell out of you. Owing that your reason is not a normal reason.

Since it's small talk, you could brush it off. Except that Henry has brightened a little bit, looks highly interested: "Oh, God, your poor parents. I hope it wasn't gruesome?"

McCall has lapsed back into concentration/slumber.

>[A1] Give your packaged answer: you were tossed off the edge by cruel and mendacious peers of yours, deeply jealous of yourself, your talent, and your claim to royalty. (Or heroism? Maybe you need to update this.)
>[A2] Given the company... tell the truth. It was, um, snake-related.
>[A3] Allude that it is actually gruesome, and deeply traumatizing, and you'd prefer if they both shut up about it right now.
>[A4] Write-in.

>[B] Add additional questions onto the question stack? You'll have a chance to inform them about the heist (or not) after you're through with the questioning. (Write-in. Optional.)

>>5662760
>[A3] Allude that it is actually gruesome, and deeply traumatizing, and you'd prefer if they both shut up about it right now.

>>5662760
>[A2] Given the company... tell the truth. It was, um, snake-related.
It would be nice to tell the truth for once. Also to talk to someone who's aware of snakes.

>>5662760
>[A4] Write-in.

> We were betrayed by someone we implicitly trusted, tricked with lies about fate and destiny and our father.

Then lead into

>[A3] Allude that it is actually gruesome, and deeply traumatizing, and you'd prefer if they both shut up about it right now.

> Pointedly stare at Henry while saying this.

Oddly enough it would probably make him actually feel somewhat better to put a reason to Charlie's intense dislike of him, but I don't see Charlie rationalizing that far ahead.

Still though. I stand by the baseline for interactions being "Who does this guy think he is to just try to swan into my life now and act like I'm just my dad's daughter/replacement and that he's some sort of parental figure. Freaking cultists probably up to something.

>>5662760
>[B] Add additional questions onto the question stack?

Go on about the snake at the end of the hole and why we would see it.

>>5662760
>A2
bond over snake trauma

>>5662760
>>5663275
+1

Rolled 1 (1d2)

>>5663126
>>5663277
>[A2]

>>5663328
>>5663275
>[A4] + [A3]

>>5662792
>[A3]

Flipping between [A2] and [A4]+[A3] and writing. I don't feel comfortable lumping the [A3] vote in with the [A4]+[A3], since the write-in has interpersonal implications [A3] alone doesn't.

Also, I'll add >>5663276 to the question stack. We'll see if I get through all of them in this update or not.


>>5663275
>I don't see Charlie rationalizing that far ahead.
I don't think it's based in reason at all, kek. It's pretty painful and awkward to tell this guy who clearly knew both you and your father that you have 0 memory of either him OR your father, most likely because said father was gruesomely snakeified, then lost all *his* memories, then spent 3 years emotionally abusing you, then got killed accidentally, then came back in father mode, but not exactly, and so on...

>Who does this guy think he is to just try to swan into my life now and act like I'm just my dad's daughter/replacement and that he's some sort of parental figure. Freaking cultists probably up to something.
I think this is an accurate assessment no matter what wins, albeit complicated by shame and grief and various other things Charlotte has no intention/capability of addressing (or acknowledging).

>>5663489
I mean, Charlie exists in a more or less constant state of emotional exhaustion. She doesn't owe Henry a spot in her life just because he wants to relive the past that she doesn't even remember.

But that's something that I'm sure can be expressed through sullen sarcasm and biting sarcasm. Maybe actual biting if he gets too pushy.

Fair warning, folks, this is likely to be a shorter-than-average update. I have an early morning.

>>5663618
>I mean, Charlie exists in a more or less constant state of emotional exhaustion.
No argument.

>She doesn't owe Henry a spot in her life just because he wants to relive the past that she doesn't even remember.
I agree! And I hope it doesn't seem like the narrative is pushing a particular kind of relationship; Henry's viewpoint is Henry's only (and he openly admits it's selfish). It's not likely you'll never see him again, but you have no obligation to be friendly.

>Maybe actual biting if he gets too pushy.
kek

>Pure & honest

It wasn't gruesome at all. It was a pleasant early morning, with a light breeze and a tinge of pink on the horizon. Your portmanteau was heavy but neatly packed, your outfit was proper but (you thought) with an air of roguishness about it, and the note you left by your bed was in your best handwriting, promising you'd be back within the month. You can't remember ever going to sleep that previous night, thrumming as you were with anticipation— the whole thing's a haze now, how you wound up at the hole in the Pillar's high fence. You mainly recall your complete feeling of assurance. That, yes, it was a long way down. That, yes, water tended towards the fatal. (Drunks nodding off in rain-puddles, that kind of thing.) But you knew the grand secret, had held it in confidence for several months, had spun it up in your mind into a fantasy of gallant adventure and gratifying comeuppance and ultimate, inevitable victory— had received a considerable amount of help in spinning this up— and your confidence more than outshone any trepidations. Positive thinking. Positive thinking. Positive thinking.

A moment of doubt during the fall, yes, but more than eased when you hit the water, and Richard curled close around you, and told you to Breathe It In and Relax Your Body, and that it'd all be okay, everything would be okay. You were safe with him. It'd be over so very, very soon.

After that, your memory fuzzes, which before you'd chalked up to blacking out and waking up on the seafloor. Which isn't even wrong. You do black out, and you do wake up on the seafloor, but it's years after that. With no eye and sour Richard. With a sword arm and an alcohol tolerance. With a father dead before you were born. With no uncle-type figure whatsoever. A whole other person, spat from nowhere.

It's not something you've digested, really, so much as compartmentalized. Packed away in a box in the ol' mind attic, much like your recollections of the drowning and pre-drowning. Until Whatsherface had to go on up there with a box cutter. You stand rigidly.

Henry sucks his lips in. "Leave it be. I'm sorry I asked. It's better I don't know, it's better you don't—"

"It was a snake," you say. "I mean, I jumped, but I wasn't trying to kill myself— I was told to. A snake told me to."

When you're up there in the attic already, it's hard not to open all the boxes. Whatsherface's rouged lips have formed an 'O'. McCamm or whatever his name was has opened his eyes. Henry has changed very little, expression-wise, but has leaned forward; the move looks almost accidental, like a strong wind blew him there. "In... in a dream? Or a vision?"

"No," you say. "I mean a real snake. I found him in— in my attic. In a box." Ironies. "And he started talking to me, for... for a while. For months. And convinced me to..."

(1/2)

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"...A 'real' snake's a misnomer. You mean to say..." Henry's fingers are twisting in on themselves. "...a literal snake? Located in your physical attic, in your house, above the water? And it spoke to you at length?"

You tense. "I'm telling the—"

"I don't mean to doubt you," Henry says, unconvincingly. "This is just an unusual, eh... was it a large snake?"

You hold your hands out to either side of you.

"That's not big enough," McWhatever says. "They have to get fucking big before they talk, pretty sure. Room-length. Unless she means mimicry—"

"I don't mean mimicry." The pot's back on the boil: you are beginning to remember why the last meeting with Henry ended up the way did. "I mean he talked. Like a normal person talks."

"If you don't want to talk about why you did the ol' somersault," Whatsherface says, "you can just say—"

"Quiet," Henry says, and she does. He has placed his fingertips flat down on the marble. "Charlotte. You are telling the truth as you know it to be?"

You should've yanked his stupid line so hard it gave him a hernia. "Yes! What else would I be—?!"

He raises a hand. "Then you're owed our trust. That's the end of it."

Whatsherface and McWhatever look at several interesting points on the ceiling. You brace yourself against the wall. "I will admit," Henry continues, "that your description of your talking snake doesn't make a lot of sense, given their physiology. I do not—" He raises a hand to halt your argument. "—I do not think we can say, however, that it's altogether false. We should take the facts as we were given. You found a snake-like creature in your attic. Spontaneously?"

"I guess," you say. "I wasn't looking for a..."

"Spontaneously. And it began to speak to you, and it told you truths you couldn't have known, and it convinced you to drown yourself. Resulting, after what I'm sure was a long and circuitous journey, in you coming right here."

You're not sure if you like the sound of this, actually.

"Taking those facts as sacrosanct, the logical conclusion is that your 'snake' was not in actuality a snake, but something taking snake-shape. An emissary. A creation of It, directly sent to provide knowledge and guidance, and to set you off in a direction of surely critical purpose, though we may not yet know what that is."

Okay, knowledge and guidance, fine. (Mean guidance.) On a path of critical purpose... well, Richard wanted you to do something with the Crown, even if he never explained it. It still doesn't sit totally right with you. "He said he was a snake."

"That might be easier to accept," Henry says, "than it being a creature of God. Just a thought."

>[1] Responses? Reactions? Further questions for the question pile? (Write-in. Optional.)
>[2] Continue.

>>5663678
> "That might be easier to accept," Henry says, "than it being a creature of God. Just a thought."

> What? No, that's not hard to accept. We know it's a servant of a bigger Snake god. We've talked. We've also met other Gods. One was all timey wimey and your "friend" Horseface was responsible for that one and it was a real pain to clean up after so if they're trying to bring another one of those here then they should fucking not.

> Honestly it's not like Richard is the only talking snake we've met. Their cult isn't really knowledgeable, are they. Not really a disappointment, after all cults aren't really known for reason or sense. But we're still a little disappointed.

>>5663678
>Do creatures of God have office worker culture complete with rivalries, because what we have does.

>>5663780
>>5663678
Sorry, I said "not really a disappointment" when it should have been "should not really be a disappointment"

>>5663780
>>5663963
Reasonable counterpoints. Writing.

>>5664339
Lol Henry and the cultists building it up to be this whole experience of a thing and Charlie is just no-selling it.

>Continued

Richard: cruel, bitter, petty, snobbish, snide. Secretive and manipulative and anal-retentive. Intense and obsessive. A sloppy drunk. A terrible hugger. According to his fellow snakes ("snakes"?), a recluse and a fly-by-night and a complete eccentric. Him— divine?

And all this before you stabbed him, which you really don't think is supposed to happen to divine emissaries. And— and— didn't you discuss this with Richard personally, back after that hypothetical god/current incident? You did. You're sure you did. And he said that he wasn't an emissary of any kind, that the Wyrm hadn't even laid eyes on him before, that if certain goals of theirs were aligned it was by complete and total coincidence. Or something along those lines. Meaning that Henry is wrong, and more than wrong he's stupid, and you're sorry you ever let yourself come to this dumb too-bright room. Even if the Seal might be in the floor there, you're sorry you came. You hate the Seal. It's too big, and it hurts your eyes to look at.

>[+1 ID: 7/14]

Righteous indignance is a considerable improvement over the murk you'd swum in before, and you straighten yourself out accordingly. "Um, it's not harder to— it's not that much harder to accept, considering that I hadn't even seen a snake before in person, and I didn't think they talked— so— plus, that doesn't explain why he wouldn't tell me later? After I talked to the god, and— the pagan one," you clarify. "Looked like a man-fish. With a big beak, and four arms, and... whatever. Doesn't matter. So I've swallowed the whole god idea, and there's no damn reason for him to keep it secret now, so that makes no sense. Plus, I've met other snakes who talk, and they're his size, ish—" Except for that one giant one, but you're eliding that. "—and apparently they know each other, and all work together, so I think you just don't know anything about snakes. I think you're making stuff up about snakes, because you're embarrassed you don't know, when you ought to know everything about snakes, being a sort-of snake-cen— snake-centric, um, organization, and you're supposed to harbor all these chthonic secrets, and so far you're just looking stupid— what was that about the really really big snake, by the way? Why would I be seeing some big snake?"

You've straightened; everybody else has either slumped or pulled themselves inward. The room smells damp. Henry is biting his inner lip. "You have spoken with a dead god?"

You privately note his non-response to your brilliant counterargument. "It wasn't my idea. Blame Horse Face. And it didn't really happen, so whatever. About the snake?"

McWhatever opens his mouth, but Henry twitches a finger and he closes it back up. "I think it'd be best if we discussed that after you divulge what you experienced," Henry says. "As to not influence your direct perspective."

(1/5?)

Deeply suspicious. Definitely a cult-type maneuver. Now you're going to subject him to harder questions, just to spite him. "We wouldn't want that, would we. Don't want to influence anybody's perspectives. Which is why you're all so famously open to the public, and well-known, and well-liked, and you walk around in the daylight in normal-colored clothing, and you send letters to people instead of kidnapping them, and you don't ever sacrifice even one young lady, and—"

"Not to cut you off," Henry says, "but this is an accusation of disingenuousness? You believe open dealings should be reserved for aboveground organizations. Am I in the area of your point?"

He sounds weary. He's evidently dropped the 'kiddo.' "Maybe," you say officiously. "Maybe I just think you're all doing a lot of skulking, for such nice people. And burying alive. And maybe, if you didn't have anything to hide, you wouldn't be hiding? Maybe? I just—"

"The burial isn't representative of day-to-day operations." (Praise It, Whatsherface says loudly, to nobody. It echoes a little against the ceiling.) "We were informed you wanted the 'whole kit and caboodle,' so to speak. You would like to know why we, as a tradition, are marginalized?"

"Sure," you say. "If you tell the truth. I don't want to hear that you're just poor and sad and misunderstood, because I happen to know there's a large component of murder, plus various other—"

"I have no intention of patronizing you." Henry's wall-shadow in the lanternlight looks like a spider, limbs all crooked. "That is a large component, yes, in the marginalization. I'll refrain from asking how you're aware."

"Your god likes murder. It goes and puts murder thoughts in innocent people's—"

"One thing at a time." His dark eyes have met yours. "...Some of this might warrant a more involved conversation. Returning to the topic, I will also note that there is a significant element of misunderstanding, at least in our case. Hear me out?"

You rub your thumb against the wall's marble, and think of your manse, and Gil holed up in it. Completely safe, untouched by any eyeball deconstruction— surely? Positive thinking. You don't say anything.

"Very well." (He sounds just like Richard when he says that— 'Very well.' 'No intention.' 'Disingenuousness.' He's totally stiffened up. Is it indicative of a pernicious snakeish influence? ...Or were your father and Henry educated in the same place, or trained in the same speech-molding vocation? You realize suddenly that you have no idea.) "The basic answer is that understanding of the Wyrm inspires no one set philosophy. There is no central authority handing down religious decree, unless you count It, and It does not communicate in traditionally comprehensible ways. It does not distribute printed leaflets."

(2/5?)

Whatsherface snickers for no reason. (An inside joke?) Henry carries on without acknowledging her. "It communicates in signals and omens, and these are ripe for a thousand different interpretations. Some Wyrm splinter-sects read the signals as an excuse or opportunity to inflict violence. Often terrible violence. Out of fatalism, out of appeasement or self-preservation, as a surrender to baser drives or misanthropy; the excuse varies. This is what makes the news, and the rumors, and the atmosphere around us."

"But not you," you say. "You're nice."

"I will be frank: I subscribed to a variant of these philosophies for some time." He rests his palm on the hilts of his knives. "Along with your father, though we disagreed on particulars. In the intervening years, though, I have adopted a wholly different school of thinking, and that is what we now rest on. We are a support group. We take care of one another, and we seek serenity and understanding and the slim possibility of salvation. That is, I believe, all that can be done. We do not hurt anybody."

"I would've been out of here if I saw any murder," semi-ironizes Whatsherface. (McWhatever is definitely asleep again.) "So don't worry about it."

"The rest of my friends will testify to that effect," Henry says. "The trouble is, given the history, convincing the public of this. To say nothing of the Wind Court, or vigilante magicians, or bloodier sects, or so on. We have dogged enemies. And so we let interested individuals come to us."

"Except when you bury them alive," you say.

Finally! A twinge of irritation on Henry, who shifts his legs and nearly topples a lantern. "Which you cleared in record time, and which— if you hadn't— you would've survived in indefinitely. The earth is sustaining. You were also being monitored from moment-to-moment, if you don't recall your interception—"

"Don't piss him off," Whatsherface wheedles. "Come on. You've been treated with a whole lot of—"

"Shut up," you say. "I did clear that in record time. Thank you. The Wind Court hates you because of the magyck? And the violence, I guess. Makes sense. So would you happen to know about... magyck violence? Violent magyck? For example, what would happen if you killed somebody in a ritual-type situation, and kind of— mixed their blood with dirt, and ate that? Would that do anything? Hypothetically. Would that summon any sort of divine murder gak, or..."

"I don't know if I'm comfortable sharing specific details of rites or their documented results," Hery says, "with people who haven't demonstrated any real adherence to— or interest in— the faith. Despite their advanced proficiencies, which I must accept as something beyond my right to understand."

"Look. Now you've made him passive-aggressive." Whatsherface, whom you're considering registering as a hated individual. "That's fucked up, girl. McCann, she's made Henry—"

"What?" McCann (that's the name) says, head still perpendicular to chest.

(3/5?)

You fold your arms. "I haven't made anybody— if somebody was being passive-aggressive, they'd be doing it for stupid reasons, since I've clearly been demonstrating interest. Huge amounts of interest. I've been sitting here, after you stole my body, politely asking questions, and— can you tell me if you have any sort of, um, resurrection ritual? Like, from the dead? But not people, I mean animals— you don't have to tell me how it works? Just yes or no? Then I can research it on my own, and..."

Henry doesn't react to the chatter behind him, or to your question. Just keeps his eyes trained on you in creepy cult-leadery fashion. "I will lay some of the blame on Martin, who failed in his duty to teach you anything. That's obvious enough."

"Is that a no?" you say.

"That being said, I don't think anything's bound to be accomplished here. We can call it an improvement over last time; we are taught nothing if not patience." Henry's eyes trace the black circle's pattern, now, then flick back up to you. "I believe we'll be drawn together again, whether you will it or not. You are always welcome with—"

Henry's 'us' is obscured by a crash-boom that sends the lanterns rattling— the circle walls haven't moved, is your first relieved reaction, you're safe in here. For now, because your second reaction is that the noise sounded like a stone wall being destroyed/toppled in some capacity. Possibly a labyrinthine stone wall. Which is one way to navigate it. Wayne was under you, Felicia was AWOL... God-blessed.

The cultists are springing to their feet, having come to the same limited conclusion. "Where the fuck is Lai?" McCann says. Henry is rolling his shoulders. The damned seal spirals away.

(Choices next.)

>[1] You should probably, er, inform Henry and co. that there's a one-to-three-man heist crew after that seal. (...Though you have no idea how they plan to get it out of the ground. Earl?)
>>[A] But insist that you want nothing more to do with it. You warned them, and you didn't have to do that much; they can do their own guarding from here.
>>[B] And take up potential arms against Wayne and Felicia (though you draw the line at Earl). Betrayal! It doesn't count as wrong if the people you're betraying are weird and mean, right?
>>[C] And attempt to intercept said crew before they make it to the chamber, and bluff / argue them out of continuing onward.
>>[D] Write-in.

>[2] You should NOT inform Henry and co. that you know who's after the seal. You and Earl are getting paid to steal that thing! Pretend to be all concerned until Wayne (& possible company) show up, then execute the backstab and help with the theft.

>[3] You should NOT inform them: you should get out of here as fast as God-damned possible, find Earl, and scram. If Wayne gets ganked, fantastic. If Henry does, fantastic. But you're not picking sides— the seal is now capital-letters Not Your Problem.

>[4] Write-in.

>call the cult dumbfucks (barely veiled)
>[run through charlotte mental filter]
>call the cult dumbfucks
>???
>profit

>>5664481
1C. I mean, as much of a prick as Henry was he apparently was a friend of our fathers so while I'm all for insecurely lashing out and tearing his self esteem and heart to shreds by exhibiting just how hard he dropped the ball on someone he thinks of as a niece after our dads snaky death, outright ruining his shit is probably a little too far.

Also the fact that we're stealing a plug that stops THINGS from coming through a hole in the world sounds bad. Like "someone is going to get screwed and if you look in mirror it's gonna be you' kind of bad.

We should intercept the crew and let them know this shit is too hot to be touched, at least without knowing more about possible fallout from stealing it.

>>5664481
>1C

We're pretty good at bluff / arguing.

>>5664504
When did Henry drown and come down here? He might not have been able to help it.

>>5664827
Wow that sounds like a great excuse and a total lack of a reason to treat him like he isn't a stranger.

>>5664504
>>5664827
>1C
Tfw 3/5ths of the voterbase has up and vanished. Writing.

>>5664827
>>5664921
I know >>5664921 is LARPing, but Henry sure is behaving like he thinks Martin/your father is still alive.

>>5664481
>>5665102
1C
mandatory very late vote

Rolled 2 (1d4)

Oh, real quick. Rolling to see if Wayne and Felicia went and got Earl anyhow. 1-2 no, 3 they found him but he refused to budge, 4 he's here

>>5665103
kek

>So uh there's just one thing

You could not tell them. You could let them gather themselves up and go, while you stayed or slunk out. Or if they plan to stay in here, you could slide back along the wall, hand on Sword, and strike from behind when Wayne shows his stupid face (or mask). They won't be expecting that, Henry especially— he'd never think his precious 'niece,' his Charlie Fawkins, would do such a terrible thing. Wouldn't even realize she's been up and replaced by some 6-month-old imposter. An imposter superior in many ways, naturally, including in ruthlessness and cunning, and you will stand over his twitching body and laugh, and maybe you'll mix his crimson blood in with some dirt and swallow it, and—

Who are you kidding? You haven't done anything wrong in your life, excepting the day-before-yesterday, and the memory of that's like a stone in your gut. No way you can backstab Henry, who's only attempting in his awful creepy way to be nice to you. Which is of course likely a machination. But he's attempting, and your limited exposure to Wayne hasn't endeared you to the man, and your less-limited exposure to Felicia definitely hasn't, so it's not like you've got loyalty to either of them. Maybe to Earl, but he's not even going to remember this. So.

But it's not like you can rightfully turn around and literally backstab Wayne and Felicia, seeing as how they haven't, er, done anything to you. Maybe if you knew for a fact Wayne was a bona-fide villain. But he could just be clueless, and the mask could be from the mask factory, and... and you should go talk to them. Make them listen to you. Avert catastrophe. Easy.

You clear your throat. "Henry—"

He's got a knife out, is wiping the blade with his shirt. It's almost as hard to look at the tortoiseshell as it is the seal. "No more time to chat."

"Um, it's important. I know who's coming." You rock on your heels. "There's, uh— there's two of them. Or three, if they got Earl, but I don't think they... um, call it two. They're thieves. One's a fish, and one's a weird guy. They're both armed, I think, and the guy says he has magyck—"

You see Henry's eyes in the reflection of the blade. "A magician."

"Um, no. Magyck. With a— with a 'y'. I think. Don't worry about it. That's who's coming here." The marble is cold against your fingers. "Um, I was part of their... crew. But I didn't know what the seal even was, or what it was for, or that it was, um, that big... I don't know how they plan to steal it. I don't know if they know it's that big, even. I can try to go talk to them, so you don't have to kill anybody, and ruin your, um, pacifistish stuff. Okay?"

(1/3)

You are conscious of several more sets of eyes. "Picked a good one, Henry," Whatsherface says. Whatever McCann was going to say is interrupted by a feral yawn. Henry doesn't turn around. "That would be kind of you. Thank you, Charlotte."

That's it? It must be more machinations. Damnit. "Um... yes. So how do I leave this—?"

At Henry's gesture, Whatsherface slides over and hooks her finger into some hidden mechanism. The seams in the wall grind open, revealing a darkened passageway. "You may take a lantern," Henry says. "If you like."

"I'm fine," you say, and hasten out before he hatches any more plots.

The passageway is wide enough to let you spread one arm out fully, and it's also stone; something darker, though, not marble. (You guess ancient cultists weren't made of money.) It runs in a wide, gentle curve, without any branches or offshoots you can see— thank God. Your footsteps resound down it.

Crash-bang. Louder than before. You hasten further. The passageway hooks around, and you skid down it.

Crash-BANG. And a voice, a man's voice— nothing you can make out exactly, but they have to be close. On the other side of this wall, even. You stop. Wait.

[?????] the man says again, and, though you're tensed for it, you still startle backwards when the wall in front of you flings itself outward: the whole wall, a ten-foot slab of stone, leaping from its foundations and slamming itself against the opposite wall and crumbling into rectangular blocks. The noise is predictable, the cloud of debris obscene— you have to throw your arm up to shield from sharp chips of rubble.

"Don't see why you're bothering," Felicia's saying. "I'm telling you, I think it only goes the one way around—"

"Nonsense. Foolishness. Nothing at all will stand in my way, not when it is so vulnerable to dismantlement— ah. The extraneity rears her face. Where have you put the dullard?"

So speaks the Gold-Masked Person— is your first thought, but that Person's voice didn't sound like anybody, while this Person sounds like Wayne all muffled. Same mask and sinister cloak, though. You brush stone-dust (actually a thin grime, since it's mixed with the water) off yourself as he pulls the mask off and tosses his head. "Well?"

"He's waiting for me," you say.

(2/3)

"Can you get 'im down here? Do you know who's supposed to be bashing up walls? Take a fucking guess." Felicia keeps her mask on, though you don't know what the point of it is— it doesn't disguise the fishness even a little bit, what with the fins and the gills and the sort of puke-green color of her, plus all of them look the same. "Instead you're making Wayne use up all 'is magic words, all 'cause 'e doesn't want to do some walking— where the fuck have you been, by the way? You like going off on your own, don't you. Keeping your own secrets. When we're all on a job—"

"Silence." Wayne kind of swooshes his cloak. "Explain yourself, extraneity."

>All options will require rolls. Most of them are likely to be difficult (you're distrusted, and Wayne is incredibly smug), but some may be more difficult than others.

>[1] Argue.
>>[A] Tell them what you know: the seal is preventing some nasty magyck stuff from leaking out, and it's for their direct benefit that they don't mess with it. Also, it's being guarded by dangerous people who outnumber them. You don't know what Wayne wants the seal so bad for, but it's not worth it.
>>[B] As above, but attempt to insinuate that it's a set-up— you don't know who Wayne heard about the seal from, but clearly he got bad information. That maybe him and Felicia are being *tricked* into stealing it!
>>[C] Write-in.

>[2] Bluff.
>>[A] Tell them that you've just scoped out the labyrinth, and the seal isn't here. It's already been stolen!
>>[B] Tell them that you've already scoped out the labyrinth, and you have expertly determined that the "seal" located herein is a fake!
>>[C] Tell them that, by destroying the labyrinth with Law, they've activated a sort of ancient defense system, and they need to get out of here RIGHT NOW before giant boulders start rolling down corridors. And so on.
>>[D] Write-in.

>[3] Gaslight. (What do you attempt to make true? Remember, you have to be deluding yourself into it. Write-in.) [Advanced Advanced Gaslighting.]

>[4] Write-in.

>>5665153
>1B

Also point out that they already knew we were coming.

Oh, what a coincidence, this is just like one of our stories and if there's one thing for sure, whoever steals the macguffin for the bad guy ends up as a loose end that gets tied.


>3

Well, we just pwned Henry and crew verbally, and frankly horrific things from outside time and space are kind of our wheelhouse. And the surrounding 100 areas as well. So obviously we are going to be convincing since if us, toucher of what probably should not have been touched (definitely if we consider other people's opinions) is saying that touching this seal is a really bad idea then clearly it is our *expert* advice.

> If anyone backtalks just ask them "What (spoiler)rings(/spoiler) snakes you got bitch?" Then spam r1

>>5665153
>1B
They really wanna usher in doomsday?

>>5664921
Why are you so determined to hate the guy?

>>5665162
>So obviously we are going to be convincing
Advanced Gaslighting needs a little more juice than just "I am convincing." If all you want is to be unusually persuasive, you can accomplish that with spending ID.

>>5665594
I want Charlie to convince herself that through personal experience she is an expert in a) eldritch fuckery and b) being screwed over and that they will believe her that this seems is a double-whammy situation.

>>5665548
> Why are you so determined to hate the guy?

Because he keeps acting like he cares, but he doesn't know us and isn't putting in the work to get to know us so the paternal approach he takes comes off as both false and condescending.

Also Charlie's daddy issues. Hey, not like I voted to actually screw him over with stealing the seal. Explicitly against it in fact.

But dude soul ganked us to talk about himself again and we should . . . What, call him Uncle Henry and ask if he can replace our dead dad as he seems so eager to do? Instead of resenting him for not replacing our dead dad when we actually needed someone to? Pretty much the only person I see Charlie giving the relationship he assumes he has the right to is our Aunt who at least gave a fuck and put the work in to show it even if we didn't enjoy it or appreciate it enough at the time.

Maybe Henry could develop a real relationship with us, but he ain't putting the work or time into it.

>>5665648
You don't need gaslighting for that, though-- Charlotte is an ACCOMPLISHED YOUNG LADY and highly positive thinker and is already convinced that she's an expert in many things. If you're trying to literally make her an expert (i.e. putting new knowledge into her brain), that's probably not going to work-- Advanced Gaslighting needs to be plausible, and it's really hard to convince yourself that you know facts that you're aware you actually don't know.

>>5665654
> he doesn't know us and isn't putting in the work to get to know us
>Maybe Henry could develop a real relationship with us, but he ain't putting the work or time into it.
I mean, from his perspective, he does know you/have a real relationship with you.

>>5665654
>Maybe Henry could develop a real relationship with us, but he ain't putting the work or time into it.
He is though? He's getting in touch with us and being friendly despite the constant belligerence. He's putting both work and time into the relationship.

>dude soul ganked us to talk about himself again
He's not talking about himself, he's talking about the cult, which we asked him about, and what happened with our whole drowning incident - getting to know us.

I'm just not sure what you expect from him here. All signs point to him drowning before our dad died. How could he step up and be a foster dad when he's underwater and unaware our dad is even dead? He's literally the nicest person to us in the entire quest with the possible exception of new Richard.

>>5665680
Plus this, it's not his fault our memories are all goofed and we can't remember him or dad pre drowning.

>>5665680
> From his perspective

Yeah but Charlie ain't got that.

>>5665686
> Being rational about things like the past, family, and letting people in

I mean, that just ain't Charlie IMO.

Also it's fun reading about her kicking his heart in the dick.

Besides, your position seems to rely a lot on what supposedly happened to make him absent from our life after Charlie's dad died, which he has been short on details about.

>>5665695
>Besides, your position seems to rely a lot on what supposedly happened to make him absent from our life after Charlie's dad died, which he has been short on details about.
The main motive behind my position is that again, with the possible exception of new Richard, he's been so much nicer and more tolerant of us than every other cast member. People who want to associate with us are rare enough, why drive one off like this?
Other than for the lulz of course.

>>5665162
>1B

File: wayne and felicia.png (451 KB, 764x708)

451 KB PNG

>>5665162
>>5665548
>>5665933
>[1B]
Called. I need rolls. There's two different DCs for convincing Felicia and Wayne separately; the same rolls will be used for each, so I still only need 3d100.

>Please roll me 3 1d100s - 10 (-5 Lying-Adjacent, -5 Stole Earl) vs. DCs 35 (-20 Felicia: Paranoiac, +5 Felicia: Old Suspicions) and 70 (-5 Wayne: Magyck, +5 Wayne: Self-Assured, +10 Wayne: Extraneity, +10 Wayne: Dedicated To The Cause)

Would you like to spend anything?
>[1] Spend 1 ID for +10 to all rolls. (You are at 7/14 ID.)
>[2] Spend 1 SV to autosucceed. (You are at 2/? SV.)
>[3] No spendy.

Rolled 71 - 10 (1d100 - 10)

>>5665969

No to ID
No to SV
nice painting

Rolled 91 - 10 (1d100 - 10)

>>5665969
spend ID and also spend SV
+10 on the autosuccess

Rolled 24 + 10 (1d100 + 10)

>>5665969
No spendy

Rolled 82, 30, 3, 48, 93, 22 = 278 (6d100)

>>5665972
>>5666003
>>5666026
>61, 81, 14 vs. DC 35 -- Success
>61, 81, 35 vs. DC 70 -- Mitigated Success
>No spendy

Oho. Very interesting. Rolling for... reasons. DC 60, take lowest result

>>5666003
>+10 on the autosuccess
You're likely memeing, but for future reference, spending SV would override any spending of ID.

>>5666087
>Mitigated Success, Mitigated Success
And that's a Mitigated Success for that one. Writing.

File: sinister cloak.jfif.jpg (66 KB, 1000x1300)

66 KB JPG

>Explain yourself

Why is this the sort of man who gets his own cloak, while you, ten times the heroine he could ever hope to be, are forced to adventure with a cold and unprotected backside? If you asked Henry, you're sure he'd say it's somehow meant to be— like, that maybe the ultimate destiny of the world rests on Wayne having a cloak and you having none. Which is of course bunkum, and utter slavering cultish nonsense. You deserve a cloak. Wayne has evinced zero signs of deserving a cloak. Therefore, if you knocked him out and stole the damn thing for yourself, you'd be changing the world for the better, practically. And isn't that the definition of heroism? Of goodness and justice?

...Um, which is not to say that you will knock out Wayne and steal his cloak. Despite its positive cosmic implications, you do have a bad feeling it'd be seen as "unjustified" or even "wrong," and you haven't done anything wrong in your life, except that one thing. Also, there's one of you and two of him and Felicia, which isn't to say you couldn't take them in a fight. Of course you could. It'd just be closer than you'd like, and you might get blood on your new clothes, and you wouldn't have enough money to purchase new ones, since Wayne wouldn't be paying you anymore. So a direct approach is right out. But if you explained exactly what you knew about the seal, and Wayne didn't listen to you, and swished right into the cultists, and got stabbed with multiple knives, and you came and got his cloak off his dead body... would that be a crime? All you would've done was tell the truth, as any pure-hearted young lady might do.

Well, most of the truth. The truth massaged a tiny bit, and enhanced with your own theories. Which isn't a crime either, and only serves to provide a narrative throughline, for ease of understanding. How thoughtful of you! How intelligent! You throw your shoulders back, to assume a stance of dominance, and begin. "Certainly I will explain. It's true, yes, that Earl and I ventured off on our lonesomes— but it was out of no conspiratorial purpose. Nay! As a matter of fact, I sought only to investigate the provenance of our so-called target, being as I am also a detective. Did you know that? Detective? I've solved at least one major..." Felicia and Wayne do not appear receptive. "Well, I am, on top of my other notable talents. But anyways. So I infiltrated downward, locating at once the seal, which I knew would be stored at the center of this sinister labyrinth, which are known to be built under ancient cities, by the cult of the Wyrm god... did you know that? Either of you?"

(1/3)

Felicia mumbles something suspiciously similar to "Fucking muties." Wayne, now reclined atop one of the big stone blocks, flips his wrists outward. "My storehouse of knowledge is nigh-unlimited."

"That doesn't answer the— okay." Just imagine Henry stabbing him. "I'll assume you didn't. Anyhow, I penetrated the central seal-room, whereupon I encountered— I tell you the truth— I encountered a number of real live cultists, who were quite surprised to see me, I assure you. However, my winsome countenance and immaculate conscience soon won them over, and they took me in as— as their own daughter, practically speaking, and warned me of the dreaded secret of the labyrinth: that the seal was no mere ornament, but a sole defense against the mind-wrenching terrors of the deepest earths. And that to break this seal, or to steal it, would inflict these terrors upon its violator! Bam!"

You lunge and flourish outward, in hopeful imitation of said horrors. Felicia actually flinches a little bit. "I knew it. I knew this place 'ad the worst fucking juju I'd ever— I felt it. I told Wayne, even, but the—" (Unintelligible fish word.) "—just kept fucking blasting— it's just my luck, really, to be nabbed to pinch some fucking—"

"Luck?" You chuckle knowingly. "You think 'twas mere luck? You do not suppose that poor Wayne was not mislead... or worse, that the watchful cultists were not planted there? That some malefactor has no hand in such a deed? That you and me and even Wayne— nay, especially Wayne— have not been set up? Do you know of any personage who might do such a thing, Wayne?"

From his protracted silence, Wayne does know such a personage. "We have encountered no piests thus far. We are meant to believe they are lurking only in a solitary—"

"Better for ambushing," you say. "I saw all of them. At least one of them has four or five well-maintained knives, which I believe are laced with his very own deadly venom, and the abilities of the others are surely equally prodigious. Plus, even if you killed them, the seal would— they said it would melt your eyeballs out of your skull, trying to move it. But not forwards melting. I mean they'd melt back into your sockets, sort of, and run through your sinuses, and mostly out your nose, but also down your throat a little bit, so you'd taste your own eyeball slime." You're not lying, per se. You're extrapolating from what you were told. "And, if that weren't enough, it'd make your heart swell up so big it broke all your ribs, plus crumpled your lungs in so you couldn't breath. And people could hear your heartbeat from two rooms away. And it'd turn your hair green. And then you'd be all filled up with evil spirits, and— and so on. They told me all these things, and they're proper cultists, so I really do believe them. Personally."

Wayne, to your delight, has turned a greener shade of brown. "I was malinformed of such..."

"Horrors?"

(2/3)

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He waves a hand, rising to his feet. "Perhaps this seal should be untargeted. For such a time until the dangers are truly eliminated, and my powers have recharged to their height. Lamentably, however, I cannot return from this excursion empty-handed. No, not empty-handed at all. No, I think I shall— let me see—"

>[-2 ID: 5/14]

You have to reconstruct what happens after the fact, it happens so fast. It may be something like this: Wayne rose to his feet, and reached a hand into his sinister cloak, withdrawing a sinister black-coated pistol; Felicia, acting on primitive fish reflexes, wrenched to the side; the pistol CRACKed; Felicia howled in a primitive fish tongue; Wayne shoved forward and with his other hand plunged a dagger into her side. A shiny, whiteish, clearish dagger, from your tiny glimpse. Otherwise you have been standing there, ears searing. Felicia is not as dead as she could've been, but it's not looking too great. Fish blood is also red. As an afterthought, almost, Wayne rustles his cloak and—

—and withdraws a third arm, count 'em, this one with an identical pistol. The third arm gestures expressively with it. "Do not interfere, extraneity. This is business more important than you are."

Felicia is continuing to howl, and it's ringing down the whole length of the passageway.

>[1] You do not especially like Felicia, but you are pretty sure you are witnessing straight-up murder here. And Wayne's attention isn't on you, despite the gun. You should probably interfere, like, right now.
>>[A] Tackle him! Bite him! (You have venom now!!) [Roll.]
>>[B] Charge him! Stab him! (You have a flaming sword!!) [Roll.]
>>[C] So normally murder urges are a thing to be avoided. Normally. But this feels like special circumstances. Stop lidding it and see what happens. [-1 SV]
>>[D] Write-in.

>[2] Back off a sufficient distance (outside Wayne's line of fire), then start calling for help. You don't know if the cultists will respond to Felicia's screams— it could be a trap— but they should recognize yours, and come for backup. Hopefully in time!

>[3] Oh, God! Okay! The seal sounds safe for now, so maybe you better... uhhhh... leave! As fast as possible! Make a break for it!!

>[4] Write-in.

>>5666214
>>5666214
1
> Command the gun to OPEN, specifically the part where the bellets are kept. Maybe they'll fall out?

We can still do that, right?

>>5666221
>>5666214
Can we command ALL the guns to do this? Because if not then do so for the gun pointed at us and then BRING THE HEAT with our sword.

>>5666214
>[1] You do not especially like Felicia, but you are pretty sure you are witnessing straight-up murder here. And Wayne's attention isn't on you, despite the gun. You should probably interfere, like, right now.

>>[D]Command WAYNE to OPEN

>>5666221
>We can still do that, right?
Yup! Good call!

>>5666223
>>5666227
>Can we command ALL the guns to do this?
>Command WAYNE
That being said, without the Crown, you don't have enough control to pick direct targets-- Richard compared it once to tossing a bomb, I believe. The best you can do is [OPEN] "forward" and hope it hits what you want it to hit. It's likely to cause a distraction no matter what, though!

>>5666535
Well let's try to aim to avoid Felicia then.

>>5666214
>1C

Party time!

>>5666214
>>1C

Rolled 2 (1d2)

>>5666221
>>5666227
>[1D]

>>5666631
>>5666863
>[1C]

Flipping.

>>5666606
You can give it a shot if it wins, yeah. Also, more clarification on the [OPEN] targeting, in case anybody's curious-- previously you've tended to use it in situations where you're only looking at one main big thing (like giant snake!Richard) or one thing total (like a wall). Here you're looking at two similar-sized moving objects, plus a low ceiling and close walls, so there's a lot more potential options.

>>5666956
Welp. Looks like people chose to put on the mask.

Rolled 2, 6 = 8 (2d8)

>>5666956
>[1C]

The !fun! option. Writing.

Also rolling for how Earl does:
1: Taken
2: Badly Injured
3-4: Injured
5-6: Sleeping It Off
7-8: Awake & Alert

And for his body count:
1: Oh God
2: Whole Lot
3-4: Several
5-6: Unlucky Fella
7-8: Not A Soul



>>5666982
Relax! It'll be fine................

>>5666631
Y'all's ain't allowed to complain about my perspective of Henry if you're going to be voting for the options that make Charlie even more of an unlikeable bitch lol.

>>5666991
Bruh I ain't worried about having !fun!

More than willing to learn into it.

>>5667050
Lean, not learn lol

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> I AM THE BRIGHTNESS AND THE BLOOD AND THE HEAT; THE SUN IS INSIDE OF ME!

This is not a possibility you accounted for, when you calculated out the cloak thing. That Wayne would go ahead and justify himself being stabbed repeatedly. That was nice of him. Your ears have decided that the passageway's full of bugs, or something, from the buzzing.

Yes, that was nice of him. Really nice of him. Because now there's no ethical qualms to cling to. Wayne is a murderer— he is, right now, before your eyes, murdering somebody. With no warning and apparently no compunctions about it. Wayne, you think, is probably evil. That's the definition of an evil person. Isn't it? The world would be a better place with you in Wayne's cloak, and Wayne dead on the ground oozing eyeball from his nose.

Plus Wayne throttled by his own spine; Wayne's cavities packed with worms; Wayne flung and broken into rectangles; Wayne's limbs pulled off one by one, like a bug's, starting with the withered hideous third one; and would it be wrong of you? Would it keep you up at night? No! Your sleep would be dreamless, and your body warm and heavy, just as it is now. So extremely warm, and so extremely heavy, as if your own heart had swollen out through your skin. The buzzing has deepened to a sort-of roar. You seem to be glowing from your chest, but Wayne hasn't noticed. His gun is as matte-black as it was in previous? A powder-coating? [Or the glow is a Richard. Not real. In your head only.]

Or the glow isn't real— a limited statement from a limited human mind in an extravagantly limited human body. A sad, limp truism. The human mind sees not-real as a bounding-area, a container to stuff the thing into and seal with container-tape and store away in a high storage place forever. A dismissal. This is one of many defects of the limited human mind. The unbounded— the expansive— the world-shaping— to them, the not-real is but a possibility-state. The nothing before a something is. And you, HERALD, can draw the strings toward you, can loop them in your fingers, can sign the contract in blazing cursive...

[Okay. That isn't your heart swollen through your skin.]

What happens to something sufficiently dense?

[Your last semi-conscious thought is something like: Well Wayne wanted to see the magyck.]

You ignite.

...
...
...
...
...

-

>What kind of voice do you hear?

>[1] Pitchy, halting, pinched. Strangely hollow, as if bouncing down a tiled storm-sewer.
>[2] Deep, rich, malted. A cultured accent. But with a strain to it.
>[3] Sharp, strident, fluting. Almost excessively cultured.
>[4] Low, mild, moderated. Wavers a bit in the high pitches.

>>5667052
> Soft and demure in juxtaposition to the authority behind your words. The image of the proper lady of your proud bloodline. Carrying a bloody sword and a soft grin.

Can we have the voice of a terrifying and cruel Dolly Parton, like it sounds so pleasant until you hear the words themselves and realize oh no.

>>5667052
Otherwise

> 3

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>>5667052
Supporting >>5667055

>>5667047
Hey, my reasoning is that if things do go really wrong, Henry and his crew, supposedly experienced in these matters, are very close to throw us a lifeline. So it's a very good and justified opportunity to use up more SV. Also I'm not sure how doing this factors into us being an unlikeable bitch, we're trying to save a life here.

>>5667052
>>5667055
Poggers write in though, I'll back.

>>5667055
>>5667079
>>5667296
Folks, there's no write-in option. The choices I gave you aren't random.

>>5667353
In that case
>4

>>5667353
Then
>3

>>5667669
>Giving in to the murder urges changes Charlie. She's less likely to see people as, well, people and not just things.
Permanently? I didn't get that impression from what we've seen so far.

>the rest
Bro it sounds like you've given into the murder urges already

File: the herald clothed.png (142 KB, 543x552)

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>>5667455
>>5667669
>[3]

>>5667395
>[4]

Called for [3] and writing.

>>5667669
>>5667788
I'll refrain from commenting on prospective future personality changes, but at the moment, the main lingering effect from "giving in to the murder urges" appears to be crippling guilt and/or depression.

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>[???]

"Charlotte Fawkins!"

Your Aunt Ruby does not have to speak the words git-your-smart-ass-back-here to make her meaning highly apparent. You consider the possibility of not having heard her, then the probability of recieving a whooping, and abashedly emerge from the hedges.

"What in all goodness are you doing in there?" says your Aunt Ruby. Long experience has taught you that this question should not be answered. (There were monsters in the hedges.) "Is that a stick?"

You are not tall enough to reach the mantel. You let the stick fall from your grip. There are more where it came from.

Your Aunt Ruby does not willingly show approval. She inclines her head slightly. "I suppose [XXXXXXXXXXX] has been filling your poor little head again."

Your Aunt Ruby and [XXXXX] disagree often, and loudly, usually when they think you're asleep in bed. When really you're in the wall with a candle and a book— an excursion you don't take too often, since your Aunt Ruby complains about how fast the candles go, and several times they've blown out and you've been in utter void-darkness and have to creep back the way you came, worried you may step on a nail or an unseen trapdoor and fall and break your poor little neck, exactly what your Aunt Ruby told you would happen, and the humiliation of her being right would be worse than dying in the dark in a tunnel from a broken neck. Thus you always swear off crawling in the walls every time the candle blows out, plus every time you make a noise and your Aunt Ruby blames the rats in this old falling-down dump of a house, but you always return to it a week or so later.

But there are no walls to escape into outside, hot under the summer sun and your Aunt Ruby's penetrating stare. "I shall have words with him," she says brusquely, "again. Perhaps this time we can come to the common good. You are but a child; you emulate what you are taught, and you must be taught properly. I cannot fathom why this is so difficult to understand."

You dislike it when your Aunt Ruby calls you a child, because there's always an undertone of git-your-smart-ass to it, no matter the context. What you've mainly absorbed is that there will be more loud disagreements downstairs tonight, and you should go to sleep when you're expected to. You will hope [XXXXX] has not been drinking, which always increases the loudness considerably.

"Still, there are things you should know by now. It is unladylike to be gangling about in the hedges, Charlotte Fawkins. You could get dirty." Your Aunt Ruby pushes her spectacles up her nose. "At least you aren't wearing your good clothing."

Your good clothing isn't any good to play in the hedges with, anyhow.

"But the SUN!" she continues. (This is usual. You are waiting patiently for her to leave.) "It is the dead of the afternoon, foolish girl. You will get yourself burnt. Where did you leave your parasol?"

(1/4?)

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Your Aunt Ruby is holding her own parasol up high, even though she's half-shaded under the porch already. You indicate that you have no idea where you left your parasol.

Her frown deepens. "I see. And I suppose you've applied a great deal of SUN-cream."

You blink at her.

"After we have discussed the difficulties of your complexion, Charlotte Fawkins? That you are unblessed— from [XXXXXXXXXXXXX] side, notably— with a highly fair complexion, rendering you unable to hold a tan? Do you remember last year's SUNBURN? You would like to subject yourself to that PAIN again? You would like ALL YOUR SKIN TO PEEL OFF? That is the consequence of playing outside without taking precautions."

You hadn't minded all the skin of your back peeling off: you had pretended you were a snake. You are now recalling the rest of that scenario, however.

"You," your Aunt Ruby says, "will follow me inside, and we will apply the proper cream, and then I will supervise your playing on the lawn. Where I can see you. And in return I will make you a lemonade. Do you understand?"

You indicate that you do.

"Then come with me, Charlotte Fawkins, and cool down."

...
...
...
...

-

>[1/14 ID]

You feel as though you've been flung against the opposite side of the passageway and broken into rectangular pieces. And then those pieces were doused in cold water, or something. You're not in the best state for metaphors.

Maybe you should try a literal spin, then: you seem to be cold-sweaty. Very cold-sweaty. You're in no actual pain, but your muscles aren't happy with you. You're laying on your back somewhere soft.

"There she is," goes Richard's voice above you, and you squinch open your eyes. He is in a crouch, but rather higher above you than a crouch would indicate; you are in a divot in the ground. The soft thing is soil. Richard looks tired and a little bit sad, or maybe just all tired, considering that it's Richard. He reaches down and brushes some dirt off your forehead.

When he's done with that, you sit up. You are somewhere dim and damp-smelling. (Still underground, then.) Some kind of chamber longer than it is wide. Big white curving struts holding the whole thing up. There's other dirt-divots next to yours, with the noses and toes of people in them. All the people standing up are in red. Great.

"There you are!" says Henry, who— you are starting to put things together— has kidnapped you again. Like he can't help himself. He was across the chamber, bent over a different divot, but heard you or sensed you or something and is now jogging over. He's had time to put the full cult robes on. How long has it been? "Welcome. Are you well?"

"What?" you say. (Richard has turned his head to look, but is expressing no opinion.)

"You feel... in order? Internally?"

Achy, but you might be achy more often than you aren't, so that hardly counts. "...Yeah?"

(2/4)

"As I thought," he says cheerily, but you detect obvious relief. "Sleep is the great equalizer, Charlotte. Even the great Wyrm sleeps— many might say that's all It does. Are you able to stand?"

You attempt, sag, cast a scornful eye at Henry's proffered hand, and allow Richard to silently hoist you to your feet. "Obviously?"

"I'm glad to see it. I'd offer to have you rest yourself— I'm sure you have a number of questions— but I'm afraid there's a matter of some urgency, and we need to prioritize. Over here."

He leads you to where he was— the divot on the opposite side— and waves away some lingering cultists. "Do you know this man?"

You can only look briefly down before you have to turn your head. Richard slides his hand around yours. "Yeah."

It's Earl, less bulky than he used to be, fairly mangled. That's all you got. You clear your throat. "Did I... um..."

"You weren't responsible." Henry's hands are steepled. "We located him like this. From what I understand, the locals were out on a manhunt... somebody brought a shotgun. Maybe multiple somebodies. They find all sorts of things out in the mud, I hear."

"Oh God," you say.

"He's alive. The concoction he was on soaked much of the critical damage. The water's been trying to knit the rest. We've been doing our best, but none of us are, er, trained as doctors. He's lost a great deal of blood."

Richard squeezes your hand.

"At the moment, we believe he's stable, but it was touch-and-go for a few hours."

"So you dug him a grave?" you say roughly.

"What's that?"

"He's in the damn—" You kick the mounded edge of the divot.

"No! No. The earth is good for him— and for you, and the various other, er, casualties. Non-fatal casualties. Also, candidly, we don't have anything in the vein of a medical bay... perhaps this is a signal about that." Henry taps the tips of his fingers together. "Regardless. I wanted you to come over as soon as you could— not because he's injured, but because of the shoulder."

You refrain from looking. "What?"

"He's suffered injury in many places, but we think his right shoulder was shot directly. Or multiple times. It's been..." Henry's tapping increases in velocity. "...pulped, more-or-less. Now mostly bone shards and tendons. We don't think it'll heal on its own, seawater or no."

You think of Monty. "So you need to... amputate it?"

"That's an option. We believe there's others. But I'd rather not make decisions about this man's own body without him here to say what he thinks, and he won't be waking up for a good long while yet. In large part due to the shoulder. Thus the dilemma."

"Ah," you say.

"Thus, you. You know this man? You're his friend?"

(3/4)

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His what? You stare until Richard squeezes your hand. "I— I guess so?"

"Then you're the best-qualified person we have, I'm afraid. We'd like your input on next steps. What you think he would want for himself."

You look, just a little bit. Earl's eyes are closed. The divot is double-wide, and he looks small compared to it. He's practically cocooned in the pink-white of gelled blood, but the shoulder in question juts.

Richard presses three cylinders into your hand, and you look to see: three syringes; two red, one clear.

>[1] Propose Earl be injected with the 50% concentration. As far as you know, this would re-drug him, making him +20% beastlier than previously, whatever that looks like. Since his whole body would be getting... uh... altered, goes your thinking, maybe it'd fix everything else in the bargain? [Roll for outcome.]
>[2] Propose Earl be injected with his own blood. He lost it, right? So it'd be good to get it back? There's not very much in the syringe, but maybe it'd sort-of stimulate the healing process? [Roll for outcome.]
>[3] Agree to one of Henry's other ideas: invoking the Wyrm to repair Earl's shoulder. He thinks it'll work, but— Henry says— it's not going to come out the same shoulder. It's bound to be 'improved.'
>[4] Agree to one of Henry's other ideas: replacing Earl's shoulder with inanimate material, like earth or stone. This'll work, he claims, and it'll function as a shoulder— he just doesn't know how Earl would feel about that, exactly.
>[5] A different method? (Write-in.)


This is the result of this roll: >>5666991

>>5667893
>[1], but first gaslight the universe that it will work.

>>5667893
let's start with 2. low risk and we can always escalate ton1 or 3 afterwards.

ideally 2 would be enough to gey Earl conscious and rational enough that if the shoulder doesn't heal he can still make an informed decision on how to proceed.

i worry that re-drugging him could have even worse long term effects as that's gotta be hard on the body, and the energy needed to fuel it could make things worse. Better to play it safe with the blood first.

>>5667998
Don't we need Earl's blood to get him to revert from his combat transform? If we use it up before...

>>5668005
Nah, we can gaslight him into detransforming.

Besides, how did he detransform without it in the first place? Obvvy not a hard requirement.

Also we still have the prosthetic option which we would be in control of and not be, you know, gambling with a friend's life using a drug with drastic effects whose mechanism of action we barely understand.

If he's really upset about the prosthetic option, if it comes to it, we can always gaslight him into being more okay with it. Maybe hook him up with Monty, start an eldritch prosthetics support group.

In fact, we could probably see if there are people in camp who need prosthetics that we could help out. Build some good will. Being a healer is a pretty powerful juju to get people to help you out and honestly it probably pays better than stealing.

>>5667893
Also could we go into Earl's manse and maybe talk with him about things? He seems stable enough for now.

Or do a "body follows the mind" thing and get him to heal himself with the power of CONVICTION and advanced gaslighting?

>>5667893
Ayo Bathic, you read books? Like, free books online? Want a recommendation for a book I think you would like on Royal Road?

>>5667893
>2
IIRC, Earl's own blood just speeds up the de-transformation, it isn't necessary.

>>5668013
>>5668068
>Besides, how did he detransform without it in the first place? Obvvy not a hard requirement.
>IIRC, Earl's own blood just speeds up the de-transformation, it isn't necessary.
These are correct.

>>5668022
>Ayo Bathic, you read books?
Yeah.

>Like, free books online?
Rarely. I'm pretty picky.

>Want a recommendation for a book I think you would like on Royal Road?
Sure, why not? Nothing to lose.

Rolled 51, 38, 22 = 111 (3d100)

>>5667998
>>5668068
>[2]

>>5667898
>[1]

Called for [2]. Rolling for outcome, DC 85: this option is low risk/low reward, so no crits.

>>5668363
>Failure
Nothing bad happens, but nothing great, either. Expect a short update. Writing.

>Autologous blood therapy

The syringes clack together in your palm. What had Earl said about them? That he'd trust your judgement? I won't be mad at ya, kid. Whatever you've got to do.

Except he meant that about putting him to use, not about getting hurt- he didn't say anything about getting hurt. Maybe he'd never gotten properly hurt before on a job. Or maybe he just thought you'd be there to protect him. Damnit. Damnit. So what do you do? Let Henry invade him with suspicious cult junk? (What if it's the same as yours?) Shoot him up with horrible pagan water-drugs, like you did with Arledge? You don't want to do that to him. Do the- what was it- the 50% dose, then the water? So he can go back to being ginormous and dumb? At least he was happy. And conscious.

But none of it's good, and you don't know him all that well, and he's been nice to you for no reason, and if he wakes up and sees whatever horrible thing you did to him (plus the horrible other thing you were probably indirectly responsible for) he might not be nice any longer. Of course, if you do nothing, he might be nice and dead. Which you don't want. You don't want him to die. But Henry said he was stable, for now, so...

"I have his blood," you say.

"What's that?" says Henry, whose his eyebrows go up when you display the large syringe. "Do you make a habit of carrying around..."

"No," you say. "He gave it to me. To help him, um, come down off the stuff. That he was on." They have to know about it, surely. The size of the divot. "...How did you get him here?"

"He was in bad shape, but upright. Once the last of the assailants were chased off, he was convinced, with difficulty, to come with us. He kept insisting on 'waiting'— I suspect for you, given he cooperated when you were presented to him. You had lost consciousness by this point."

Which would explain the hole in your memory. Er, the newest hole. Yes. "...I figured."

Henry nods. "We may thank God that he was safely inside by the time he began to wean off his analgesics... the water has a mild effect, but 'mild' doesn't always cut it. It's good he isn't awake, I'll put it that way, but we are never permitted to rest forever. Thus the urgency of the..."

You display the syringe a little harder. "I have his blood?"

"Er, yes. I don't know if that's in a quantity for any meaningful rite, but I suppose we could make do..."

"Or we could just put it in his body? Where it's supposed to go?"

Henry looks confused. "I don't know that it'd do much for the shoulder, but— I'm willing to be surprised. It's unlikely to harm anything, in any case."

"Right," you say. (That's the idea.) "Could you...?"

After sufficient waggling, Henry takes the syringe and crouches down. You keep your eyes well away until he stands again, syringe empty. "Is it doing anything?"

(1/2)

"I can't say I see any change, but I would give it some time, Charlotte. I wouldn't want to damage him further. Would you like to sit down? Or lay back down? After what you put yourself through—"

"I'm fine," you say: Richard is holding you up. You don't really want to know what you put yourself through. "How long has it been?"

"It's midmorning. 8 hours? I'm afraid I don't know the precise—"

Midmorning. So everybody will have woken up. So Gil would've woken up, and found you missing, and— and— what about your Gil? In your manse? Oh God! Surely you didn't—

Richard places a hand on your forehead, slides it up to your hairline. "He's still in there."

In— in what state?

"Difficult to say. Active. I suspect he's concerned, if nothing else. It'd be kind of you to check in."

Kind, yes. Yes. But that's one Gil, and the other is God-knows-where, God-knows-how-far-away— is he still at Earl's? Earl didn't come back, either. Are he and Pat and Madrigal trekking back to camp without you? You didn't tell him where you were going, just that you were on a heist. Does he think you're dead? Kidnapped? (You were kidnapped.) Is he mad at you? You're mad at you. And at Henry, who's caused all this stupid trouble—

"You couldn't have known the bulk of it, primrose," Richard's saying, at the same time as Henry's re-steepled his fingers: "Is everything alright?"

No. It's not. But you don't even know where to start.

(Choices next.)

You'll get a chance to re-select something for Earl before you leave, no matter your choice of [A].
>[A1] Damn everything else: you need to get out of here as fast as possible. Make this very, very, very clear to Henry.
>[A2] You need to get out of here, but will a few extra minutes change anything? An hour, tops? Linger long enough to get your questions answered, at the very least.
>[A3] You're clinging on for now, but you're in bad shape and you know it. What if something happened to you while traveling back? Then you really would be dead, and Gil really would be wailing and beating his breast and so on, and it'd be terrible for everybody. Take enough time to recuperate. [Regain ID.]
>[A4] Write-in?

([A2] and [A3] only.)
>[B1] Retreat and go find the Gil stuck in your manse. Make sure he's okay and not too freaked out. Take a look at the mechanical whatsit he was working on. Maybe get his input on things. Feel a little bit normal.
>[B2] Henry seems to have forgotten his irritation at you, which is great, because you weren't done asking him questions. Actually, you might have even more questions, now. Ask them. (What do you want to ask? Write-in. You can try re-asking things from the previous interrogation, if you like.)
>[B3] You're probably in the secret cult hideout, aren't you? They probably won't tell you where it's actually located, but take a look around and try to figure it out yourself. Maybe see who's in the other divots.
>[B4] Damn Henry! There's other people in red milling around, trying to look like they're not all taking peeks at you, and you haven't ever talked to any of them. See what *they* think of this whole cult business. (Optional: what do you want to ask them specifically? Write-in.)
>[B5] Write-in.

>>5668479
>[A2] You need to get out of here, but will a few extra minutes change anything? An hour, tops? Linger long enough to get your questions answered, at the very least.
>[B1] Retreat and go find the Gil stuck in your manse. Make sure he's okay and not too freaked out. Take a look at the mechanical whatsit he was working on. Maybe get his input on things. Feel a little bit normal.

>>5668479
>[A3] You're clinging on for now, but you're in bad shape and you know it. What if something happened to you while traveling back? Then you really would be dead, and Gil really would be wailing and beating his breast and so on, and it'd be terrible for everybody. Take enough time to recuperate. [Regain ID.]
Yeah don't want to do much at 1 ID except rest.

>B1
Seems like a good recovery option. Nothing important at 1 ID.

No update tonight-- just got back. Vote remains open (which is great, because we're currently tied).

Rolled 2 (1d2)

>>5668554
>>5669158
Flipping between [A2] and [A3] and writing.

>Long haul

"I—" you say, and feel Richard's arm across your back, and feel suddenly grossly worn out. "I need to lie down."

"Ah!" Henry is polite enough to hold back his 'told you so.' "Understandable. Well, we have where you came from, of course, but I'm sure I could ask to use one of our good friend's cots, at least for—"

"The ground's fine." Richard can knock you out anywhere.

"Spoken like your father's daughter, kiddo. Take as long as you need. We'll keep monitoring your friend— of course wake you up if something changes—" He's walking you back over to your grave. You mean the divot. "—we'll get everything in order— would you like us to keep quiet while you're resting?"

Is anybody being loud? You guess there's light conversation between some of the other cultists. You shrug listlessly.

"I'll let them know. Safe travels, Charlotte." You stare into the divot as Henry bustles off, presumably to tell everybody else to shut up. Richard, who has released you and stepped down into the divot, offers you a hand. "Watch your step, Charlie."

You watch your step, lay yourself down, and let your breath rise and fall. You are a tad bit concerned that you'll close your eyes and plummet and you'll be right there back at the eyeball. Or falling into the eyeball, with no rope. Did you ever thank Richard for the rope? Properly? You guess you don't want to give him the wrong idea. You guess he probably already knows. Even if he won't tell you anything useful anymore.

Like this: he's just crouching there again, feet turned out, looking like a big old fishhawk. Not even doing anything but watching you. He's gotten so weird, and it's all your— not your fault. He was the one who made you to that to him— gave you the knife, gave you the instructions. Maybe he wanted it, secretly. Deep down. Couldn't even admit it to himself, that he wanted to be nice to you, or to die, or something. Maybe both. Maybe it was really one of those "sacred transformations" the blessing was going on about, and you did the right thing by catalyzing it. Maybe this was supposed to happen all along, was part of God's plan, or whatever. Maybe. But he's acting so weird, and vanishing all the time, and you don't even know if he can hear you right now, but he's showing no signs if he is. Just watching. Big bird of prey. The dirt is comfortable, as far as dirt goes, and your heart beats on steadily, and your eyelids are sagging, and it wouldn't do any harm if you just—

Lottie?

There was something whitish there. When you shut your eyes. And a real faint voice. Are you hallucinating? ...Are you being hijacked?!

"It's never wise to jump to conclusions," Richard remarks to the middle distance.

(1/2)

File: thread 28 gil.png (2.22 MB, 2497x1245)

2.22 MB PNG

Ha ha. So he's not worried. So you're not being hijacked, or maybe he's the one doing the— you shut your eyes for a better look.

Lottie! Is that you? I-I—

A whitish button-up. Suspenders. Gil? You open them reflexively and wait: no voice. No Gil, either. When you shut again—

Yeah! Just stay there, and, um... uh... can you hear me?

Behind your eyelids is the usual blackness, plus Gil, blurry and headless. Well, conventionally headless. With that bowl thing screwed in where the head should be. You could still be hallucinating.

I-i-if you can hear me, just, um, stay there, and I'll... can you feel this?

Oh. Yes. Oh, God, you do actually— um— that is a feeling, way down somewhere in you. The Gil in your eyelids has gotten larger.

Um, I-I-I hope so. Sorry in advance if this doesn't work, or if it messes you up... uh... I'll give it 3, 2—

"—1— Lottie?"

You have been yanked, the same gut-wrench of Henry's fishhook, except all around you is blackness and right in front of you, bowl-headed, not-blurry, is Gil, and you can feel his half-gloved hands in your hands, and when you try to open your eyes they won't open. They're as open as they get. Gil smells oily and you don't know if it's sweat (you're not discussing the sweat) or the dark stains down his shirtfront or both. He's removing his hands and sounding relieved, though he still says "Did that work?"

"Uhh." You feel your face. "Are we inside my eyeballs?"

"Are we?" The beetles in Gil's bowl start swirling back and forth, like there's anything to see but black. He's backpedaled to an appropriate distance. "I-I-I-I don't... um... there was just a lot of stuff happening, and I got worried, but I-I had no idea how to contact you, so I— I tried—"

"Invading my eyeballs?"

"Um, I-I-I don't know what I did... exactly... I thought it might wind up with me in your dreams, but I-I guess you weren't asleep, so, um—"

"Huh." You wet your lips. "I don't know if that would've been better."

"Sorry... um, but you're okay? You're doing okay?"

Sort of? Not really? "Better than I was. Are you okay?"

"Um, yeah. I-I-I— I mean, I was able to hole up in my own manse for the worst of it, so I... I-I got a lot of work done, actually. On the siphon prototypes, on rebuilding, um, my manse— it's not done, but it's going a lot faster than I thought it would. I-I think because I'm not real, I..." He hesitates. "Are you sure you're doing okay? Sorry, I-I-I don't mean to pry, but, um..."

(2/3 jk)

You didn't notice it before, since you'd always seen it come out of the skin, and it wasn't until now that you realized that Gil— this Gil— is in the manse body. The fake one. Made of rocks and wires and things. So of course the blue light's not coming out of the skin, but leaking from all the cracks in his joints. It's something you can't unsee once you see, and you're seeing a whole lot of it: from all his joints.

Gil doesn't say anything about the blessing. It's not clear if he's noticed you noticing it. But he does say "...two days in a row, Lottie, that's..."

You clasp your hands.

>[1] Tell Gil that it's technically not two days in a row, since it was really early morning when you did the heist. So you didn't get possessed and/or murder anybody yesterday. (You did possess somebody else, but he doesn't know that.)
>[2] Tell him you're just trying to expunge all the red stuff the best way you can, since he didn't get rid of all of it.
>[3] Tell him you can't control it very well. It's good at giving you horrible thoughts. And urges.
>[4] Tell him there was an eyeball and it did some really really weird stuff to you.
>[5] Tell him you're sorry.
>[6] Make him get off his high horse and just zap you with the blessing. Since clearly he wants to.
>[7] Write-in.

>>5670415
>>[3] Tell him you can't control it very well. It's good at giving you horrible thoughts. And urges.
>[4] Tell him there was an eyeball and it did some really really weird stuff to you.
>[5] Tell him you're sorry.

>>5670415
>>[3] Tell him you can't control it very well. It's good at giving you horrible thoughts. And urges.
>>[4] Tell him there was an eyeball and it did some really really weird stuff to you.
>>[5] Tell him you're sorry.

>>5668089
> https://practicalguidetoevil.wordpress.com/

Fully completed series. Excellent writing. The protagonist isn't really the smartest, or the strongest, and never really "wins" so much as "doesn't lose" but hey what can you expect when you're the villain.

Turns out it's no longer on RR. But the Protagonist is rather similar in temperament to Charlotte and there's even a sort of but not really Father figure with BIG snek energy.

Like. Thematically eerily similar and I very badly want to discuss that with someone but it will absolutely ruin parts of the book.

>>5670610
>>5670473
>>5670415

CONSENSUS

>>5668089
https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Literature/APracticalGuideToEvil

Do NOT click the spoilers. Genuinely one of the best parts of the novels are unexpected results as a large portion of the narrative is cheating against established tropes given factual power by the Heavens themselves.

>>5670636
In fact I would recommend not reading the tropes even as exploring them in-setting is more fun.

But the review portion is really good.

>>5670627
>>5670636
>>5670640
Intriguing. I've bookmarked it and will check out the first few chapters, at least-- can't make promises about continuing from there, but we'll see how it goes.

>But the Protagonist is rather similar in temperament to Charlotte
>Protagonist is 16
kek but probably accurate... having giant chunks cut out of your life does a number on your maturity

>I very badly want to discuss that with someone
Lel. If I do end up reading it, I'll let you know when I finish.

>>5670632
I'll assume this is a +1 to [3] [4] [5], but feel free to correct me if I'm wrong.

>>5670641
Nope, that is correct.

And let me say, it's interesting reading about someone whose unable to overpower or outthink her enemies.

I'm hesitant to say she doesn't outsmart them, but it's rarely because her plans are intelligent or well thought out. More that they're lateral solutions to problems or rely on playing the players, not the game.

Or being a monumentally stupid or costly (O BOTH!) choice that nobody sees coming.

To be fair, far stronger villains with more intelligence have gone against heroes and failed because, ya know, fate and all but the Protag DOES feel it's unfair for her non-heroic opponents to ALSO be stronger and smarter than her.

> Both their names are similar too!

Oh! I can discuss the vignettes are the start of each chapter! They're fantastic. Favourites are definitely from Dread Emperor Irritant, the oddly successful whose plans consisted of getting so many Heroic Bands after him they defeated each other with their conflicting narratives. Or who, when faced with a famine, immediately started a war and then lost it so they occupiers would have to feed them (after all, they're Good or at least the heroes leading them are).

Or Dread Emperor Traitorous, a beloved figure of the Legions not because he was successful but because he had style. To quote one goblin explaining it "He managed to betray a guy named The Betrayer, you got to admire that" and his favourite past time of leading rebellions against himself.

Conversely, when Dread Empress Triumphant is mentioned, easily the most successful Dread Empress of Praesian history, it is accompanied with the words "may she never return" because there is a genuine fear that she might even 1000 years later. A delightful reminder that even the "bad guys" are terrified by the thought of genuinely successful Dread Emperors/Emperess.

Look. What I'm getting at is tha this is a work of DEEPEST LORE. Did I mention it takes place on a backwater continent between minor powers and that we never actually have any interactions directly with a major power in the setting? Aside from a mention of the Goblin Matriarchs receiving a red letter from the Gnomes which is when they want you to stop researching gunpowder or get America'd from the sky's.

For US readers, that means being bombed back to the stone age.

Do you like political theory and economic lessons being snuck in under the guise of obstacles for the protagonists to overcome or be shackled by? Like, was Chapter House Dune your favourite of the Dune series? Because it's mine. It's not as heavy on the exposition around it, but it's often a factor that logistics win wars (sans having a hero with a convenient narrative around) and that winning the war is just the first step towards actually benefitting from it.

>>5670641
“There’s no surer sign you’re being played than being certain you’ve grasped your opponent’s intent.”
– Dread Emperor Benevolent

“The Kharsum word for war is derived from the one used for a full cookpot. That tells you everything you need to know about how the Clans think of Creation.”
– Extract from “Horrors and Wonders”, famed travelogue of Anabas the Ashuran

“Sometimes you can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs, executing the hens who laid them on trumped up charges and setting the most rebellious henhouse on fire as an example to the others.”
– Dread Empress Maleficent II

Big Charlie energy in the next one

"It admittedly took me a few years to make my peace with the fact that Lady Foundling’s take on diplomacy is essentially to bring a bottle of cheap wine and a sword to the table, then remind the interlocutor that while the wine might be awful it is still arguably better than being stabbed.”
-Extract from the personal memoirs of Lady Aisha Bishara

Did I mention the setting has multiple vibrant alcohol cultures around wines, rums, and beers? Seriously, deepest lore.

Big Richard energy in this one

"See, this is exactly the kind of trouble I’d be avoiding by mind controlling the entire world. You fools are making my point for me, can’t you see?”
– Dread Emperor Imperious, shortly before being torn apart by an Ater mob

"Ruling is not unlike gardening, if all the weeds were heavily armed and plotting your demise.”
– Dread Empress Prudence the First, the ‘Frequently Vanquished’

"One hundred and two: defeat is inevitable, yet it can be just as useful as a victory. Fate assures you at least one loss, so make sure it’s the right kind.”
– “Two Hundred Heroic Axioms”, author unknown

"Seventeen: always agree when offered to share in the rule of the world by a villain. The three to four heartbeats of sheer surprise that will earn you are a golden opportunity to kill them before it comes to a monologue.”
– ‘Two Hundred Heroic Axioms’, author unknown

Note that monologues are the cause of death for a majority of villains in setting.

"Fool me once and it’d best be fatal, for my reply certainly will be.”
– Dread Emperor Vindictive II

These aren't even my favorite vignettes, I just randomly pulled them. But I feel they give you a sense of what the setting is all about.

>>5670641
Also I would say the similarity is mainly the burning core of rage at the world for being bullshit and other people insisting on being selfish or petty about things instead of fixing the problem.

Just that Charlie thinks she's a hero while Catherine knows she's a villain.

Neither one can see something wrong and not act to fix it though. Also a disinterest in power for its own sake. And a willingness to self mutilate in order to get the power to fix things. Also losing eyes. And being shorter than everyone and resentful about it.

Even their social status are hilariously paradoxical. Charlie is a former nobility who retains that as her identity despite being a commoner now, whereas Cat is common as guttermuck and despite gaining noble titles she doesn't let her rivals/opponents forget it which really throws them off their game when they try to insult her for it.

Anyways. I feel like I'm reaching the point of spamming the board now so I'll stop.

>>5670415
>1
>4
>5

>>5670667
>>5670679
>>5670693
Alright, I've given it a look: read the prologue and first two chapters, then skipped ahead and glanced through a few more random chapters (since I know full well what a black mark early writing can be, kek). The po-faced noun-heavy medieval/high fantasy setting isn't doing a whole lot for me, along with the YA teenage girl protagonist, and the writing is competent but not inspiring enough (imo) to overcome my prejudices with either. I don't think I'll be powering through the whole thing-- I told you I was picky!

That being said, I appreciate your obvious enthusiasm, and it's super interesting hearing about how Redux compares and contrasts with other works. I do quite like the epigraphs, also.

Mostly I just want to reread Black Company Quest now...


>>5670693
>Also I would say the similarity is mainly the burning core of rage at the world for being bullshit and other people insisting on being selfish or petty about things instead of fixing the problem.
Hmm. I don't know that I'd describe Charlotte like that... especially since she's usually the one being selfish and/or petty :^)

>Neither one can see something wrong and not act to fix it though. Also a disinterest in power for its own sake. And a willingness to self mutilate in order to get the power to fix things. Also losing eyes. And being shorter than everyone and resentful about it.
These are all great, though.

>Anyways. I feel like I'm reaching the point of spamming the board now so I'll stop.
It's all good.

>>5670473
>>5670610
>>5670632
>[3], [4], [5]

>>5670713
>[1], [4], [5]

Called for [3]+[4]+[5] and writing.

>>5670772
Well I feel the same way about mystery novels myself, or worse novels where the MC is made smart by making everyone else dumb. So I get it.

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>Well um as it transpires

"You don't know anything happened," you say. "You've been all stuck in here, doing your dumb renovations, and you couldn't even get in contact with me, is what you said, so all you're doing is assuming very- very uncharitable things, which is not the kind of behavior I expect from—"

It's hard to put a bead on Gil, since he has no facial expression to speak of. Somehow that makes it all so much worse. Like one of those inkblot tests, you can go ahead and read whatever you fear most into him: disgust? Disdain? Pity? He doesn't even say anything, just clasps his own hands. Maybe mocking you. Probably mocking you.

"—from... from..." You swallow. "It's not my fault! Geez! Do you think I like it? Do you think it's fun when I go and— and— it's like it eats me, Gil, like it eats my whole brain, and I just start thinking horrible... and I start wanting to... I don't want to kill people! I don't even want to kill bad people, really, I just— I mean, it'd be okay if I threw them in the dungeon, or the snake pit, but I don't have a snake pit, yet, and it's not like I start thinking about killing people in normal ways, it's always strangling them with my bare hands, or melting their eyeballs, and I know you wouldn't get it, because your fancy magyck just makes you all weird and huggy..."

You stop for breath. Gil has pressed his hands to his neck. "...You killed somebody?"

"I don't know! I can't remember... I think I did. And he was really annoying and I think he was a proper villain, maybe, since he was trying to murder somebody else, I mean actually murder, but that doesn't mean I..." Your lip is wobbling, and you stop again. Contain yourself, Lottie. Gil's right: two days in a row of crying in front of your retainer is two too many.

"So you saved somebody's life?"

"I don't know! Gil, I told you, I can't remember— maybe she's also dead. And he had three arms. That was really weird. Maybe more than three..."

"So you were trying to save somebody's life?" Gil isn't understanding. "That's... I-I-I thought you went crazy again! Or you drank more blood water, or... you just killed some guy? I-in defense of somebody else? That sounds like a normal hero thing..."

"I did go crazy! I— and it's the morning, and Earl's really hurt, and I messed everything all up again, and now I'm stuck with the stupid cult, and I still don't know what was the deal with the eyeball, and—"

"Hey, slow down." Gil unclasps his hands. "One thing at a time. The eyeball? You mean your—"

(1/3?)

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"No, the eyeball. I was just on the heist, doing the normal thing with my earth powers, sensing vibrations, and then something sucked me into this— this circly— the seal?" Now that you're talking it out, it makes more sense. "Does that mean I went under the world? And there was this eyeball, Gil, bigger than—" You thrust your arms out. "—than anything you can think of, like a whole ocean of eyeball, and it noticed me, and it kind of dissected me, like I was in little tiny bits, then I was in my parlor talking to this big white lizard, and I drank lizard cocoa, then I— then the eyeball put me back together, and it did something to me, made me different, but I don't know how, and then Richard tugged me back up— oh my God, I was in bits. Gil, I was in— I don't think it was just making me think that. I think I was. And then it put me back, like nothing..."

Gil is actually, completely headless now: the bowl's tucked under his arm, and its beetle occupants are crawling out and onto him. "So you... you were using, um, magic. I guess. And then you got sucked i-into something, and you saw a gigantic eyeball, which... um... dissected you. And did something to you. Something bad?"

"I made my bones shock-absorbent," you say helplessly.

"...Um... what color was the eyeball? Was i-i-it yellow?"

"You—" You cover your mouth. "You've seen it?"

".....Um, I-I-I-I don't know. There was an eyeball in your head... in your dream? When I made the wrong turn? And then yesterday, when you went crazy, and I... um, I-I don't know if you remember that. The beach was all white?"

You don't know why he expects you to remember your dreams in any great detail. But a white beach sounds familiar. You kneeling in the sand. A knife. The lizard-thing? You saw it there? You don't remember any eyeball, but...

"Yeah. Um. Lottie, I-I-I really should be the last one to say this, but..." Gil churns. "...do you think you maybe saw a god? Unless there's something else that can, uh, disintegrate people for real, and put them back together for real? Because I can't— uh— I-I can't think of anything."

You say nothing.

"Lottie?"

You really, really wish Gil would put his head back on.

"Um, I-I'm just throwing that out there, it could totally be wrong— Lottie, it could be wrong— oh, god, don't cry! Please don't! I-I-I-I didn't—"

There are a lot of beetles smacking into you. Pink and yellow and green ones. Crawling up to and around your shoulders. You are trying not to cry, as per orders, but your self-control has proven to be lacking. "Sorry," you say wetly.

(2/3?)

"What? I-I-I-I'm sorry! I-I didn't mean to— I'm probably wrong, okay? I-I-I'm always wrong. I-It's not a god— that was a stupid thing to say. Really stupid. The fishman wasn't anything like an eyeball, and I-I should just shut up, and..."

He's barely in his body anymore— is either clinging to you or spiraling widely in the air. His omnipresent BUZZZZZZing is not helping you calm down. "I should shut up!" you say. "I'm— I'm— how didn't I— oh, God! Oh, God, Gil, I'm stupid! How could I not—"

"You're not stupid, I-I'm—!"

And it could've gone on like that, you systematically working each other into hysterics, until one of you snapped or fainted or started sobbing. Probably would've. And it probably would've been you, sobbing, and completely destroying any meager respect Gil had built up for you, and maybe Richard has some kind of alarm bell set up for respect-destroying situations. Or for you beginning to leak snot. Because he steps out from you behind you and surveys the situation neutrally and clasps his hands, maybe out of some conspiracy with Gil. To mock your own previous (in retrospect humiliating) hand-clasping. "My, what's the matter here?" he says.

You are red-faced and Gil is atomized and jittering and neither of you really have responses prepared, in your case because the scope of the problem is too large to contain in any explanation you can think of. Like something's just wrong with your entire life, maybe, or you.

Anyhow Richard (despite his lies) can definitely read your mind, so his question is stupid and pointless. And he doesn't even pretend that it's not stupid and pointless, because he comes over to you and looks kindly into your bloodshot good eye and your dead wet bad eye and presses the ball of his palm to your forehead. "Breathe," he says.

You hate following instructions from Richard but aren't in the mood to hold your breath deliberately, so you breathe, and the fever and the tension go out from you. Gil's buzzing seems altogether less obnoxious. Your situation seems altogether less dire. As Richard ruffles your hair, you wipe your nose, feeling altogether extremely silly.

>[+1 ID: 2/14]

"Parasympathetic," he says obscurely, and swipes his hand through your shoulder beetles. He examines his new palmful. "Do try not to work her up, Mr. Wallace. She's fragile."

"...Sorry..." Gil says, from over his shoulder. "I-I-I wasn't trying to—"

"I know. You're both children. She's had a complicated day. I would refrain from complicated topics until she's had some room, is all. Do you know your way out of the antechamber?"

"The what?"

Richard twirls his finger upward. "Our present location?"

(3/4 jk)

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"I-I-I didn't know it had a name... um... I can take a stab at it? If I..." Beetles fly off you, diving down Gil's neck. He shakes his wrists out, then finds a box of matches in his pocket.

"Would you like a light?" Richard says.

Gil wavers. "Sure...?"

The match is lit by Richard's snake-shaped lighter, the flame's glow showing through the webs of Richard's fingers. Gil takes it and holds it up hesitantly— "I think your manse would be optimal," Richard says— then waves the match around, back and forth, back and forth. In its little trail, the blackness peels and drops away, leaving a criss-cross of color— of pink, mainly, and some green, widening until Gil blows the match out and sticks his arm through and rips a whole door-sized hole out, revealing a hillside at dawn.

You go through it. Gil's manse is dewy and cool and smells how early summer smells. Weeds crunch under your feet. You don't see any changes from last time, until you see the hammock at the top of the hill, then the other hill— the one with half a building on it. Ah. You don't know if Gil looks anxious (well, his beetles do) because it's his manse or because Richard told him off or because it's Gil.

>Engage in normal non-complicated activity? (Pick up to 2.)
>[1] Make Gil show you around the place. Aggressively compliment his design choices.
>[2] Make Gil show you his siphon prototype. Pretend to be interested in the boring technical details. Tell him he did a good job.
>[3] Get drunk. Is it healthy that you do this almost every day? Or ladylike? According to your Aunt Ruby, no. But your Aunt Ruby never had to deal with the stuff *you* have to deal with every single day, so she can go suck eggs. (Also... you haven't gotten drunk with Gil since you met him, unless you count fake mind-splinter darts-loser Gil, and you don't. So there's that.)
>[4] Beeline for the hammock and take a damn nap.
>[5] Some other activity? (Write-in.)

>>5671170
>[2] Make Gil show you his siphon prototype. Pretend to be interested in the boring technical details. Tell him he did a good job.
>[4] Beeline for the hammock and take a damn nap.

>>5671170
>2
>4